Time seemed to slow.
With her senses sharpened by pain and adrenaline, Ellana could see the map of her tower room laid out like any other battlefield — cover, corners and improvised weapons. In an instant she had a list of tactics; where to go and what to use. Dodge and weave. How to get the upper hand on an attacker that had managed to surprise her.
All strategies that would fail.
When her body caught up and she began to move it became terribly, absolutely, apparent that she was going to be too slow to rely on any of her usual tactics.
There would be too much weight thrown into a step, or her dexterity hampered by the way she rolled her body in stages. Even just by bolting upright to grab at the wound the knife made, she was betraying herself. Breathless and heavy. Every move she made telegraphed her intent to her enemy.
Combat with her centre of gravity so changed was an entirely different experience. She'd trained since she'd become pregnant, but not enough. Nowhere near enough. Too much time was wasted with practice dummies and poses instead of sparring and it had left her soft.
Soft, slow, with no armour, no weapons, and no time to get them without leaving herself vulnerable.
If she didn't find an advantage to leverage she would lose this fight. And if her attacker managed to flank her, she'd be dead even sooner.
Think faster, she bid herself, small steps. Prioritize.
First, she needed to get the knife out of her shoulder and staunch the bleeding.
Next, she needed to mark her attacker so they could not disappear into the shadows again.
She had only a second to size up the assassin. They'd revealed themselves when they threw the knife, standing by the balcony doors left slightly ajar. The main door to her room was still closed; she could hear it by the way the shattered cup echoed when it struck the floor. That meant they'd come in from outside. Almost certainly by scaling the outer wall. There was a good chance they were acting alone. If another came with them, they'd not made it onto the balcony yet.
The attacker was about her height, thinly built, wearing simple armour made of dark leathers optimized for movement. Good for stealth and speed — poor for protection. She counted three weapons: one currently in her shoulder, and another two knives sheathed on their belt. Probably a spare in their boot if they were smart, but no staff or bow. Unusual for Venatori. She wasn't as good at deflecting thrown weapons but she had enough practice to know the tricks. She'd have to be fast or find a good shield.
Gratefully she was granted the time to, as they'd hesitated a moment after they struck. Not because they missed their target, but because the throw had been reflexive: triggered when she called out. They'd not expected her to be awake. It left an opening.
Ellana wrapped her hand around the knife's handle and grit her teeth. In one swift movement she tore it out of her shoulder and flung it back at the assailant. Painting a spray of blood on the duvet as it spun. It was a calculated risk: she was betting if they'd thought to kill her by quick and silent coup de grâce they weren't prepared for a real fight.
They dodged, but not fast enough, and the knife skimmed an arm as they reached for their second weapon. While the thrown one struck deep in the bookshelf behind them, the other was dropped to the floor. Blood dripped from the cut.
Marked.
That flinch granted her another opportunity and she seized it by rolling sideways out of bed and onto the floor, knocking the bedside table down with her to act as a barrier. If she had any chance of turning this around it would be in utilizing the room itself. The one advantage she had: familiar terrain.
The attacker was already off and running by the time she'd positioned herself behind it, veering wide rather than charging in. Looking for cover. With two out of three knives left behind — one in the shelf, another on the floor — they were already low on options. As much in need of time to strategize as she was. She lost sight of them when they stopped hard on the runner rug, slid it over the stone floor, and landed somewhere near the wardrobe.
Ellana grabbed for her own dagger — enchanted with fire and warm to touch — from out the upturned bedside table, then crawled on hands and knees around the side of the bed. At the corner she darted her head out, just for a second, to scan the room.
Nothing.
Either they were in full cover behind the furniture or they'd managed to disappear again.
"Shit," she whispered.
The bleeding in her shoulder was becoming a problem. Now soaked through her nightdress, it ran down her arm and onto the floor. Pooling in the red-streaked handprints she left behind on the tiles as she crawled.
She risked another glance around the room: still nothing. No movement, no shimmering, and no shadows. If she could get around the other side of the bed she could run for the side room, with the ladder, and climb into the loft. Gain the higher ground. But she'd be dangerously exposed before she made it, and with no eye on the attacker it was too big a risk. She'd have to lure them out first.
Priorities.
The shoulder wound stung — a sharp reminder.
She flipped the knife around and held the burning blade against her wound, cauterizing it. The smell of scalded flesh made her stomach turn; but worse, the pain drew a cry she failed to stifle. It was immediately followed by the sound of footsteps running in her direction.
She counted them: one, two, three, four — crossing the room — then a leap. The momentum carried them over the bed, and if well-planned would land them on the other side on top of her. If the last knife was in hand she'd be done in by that blow no matter where it struck.
Dodge and weave.
Ellana timed a roll for the instant before they appeared in the air. It worked — another miss. Instead of her, the knife hit the stone with enough force to crack it, and Ellana followed the assassin's missed strike with a sure one. Plunging her fire-hot blade into the back of their leg.
They roared.
She roared.
It was a woman — unmistakable — though whatever curse she'd invoked in her fury was also lost to it. That was followed by a scream of pain as the wound instantly seared closed. If she was lucky she'd hit well enough to hamstring her. A messy, but effective tactic — it would slow her down. But the assassin was too quick to recover, spinning on her knees to counter the attack with a sharp jab, and she knew she'd missed her chance.
An iron-studded fist came flying at Ellana's nose. She dodged. The swing went wide. There was enough power thrown into it that the woman spun, and was forced to catch herself on the floor as she twisted round.
Poorly trained for Venatori — she wasn't nearly as elegant as her brethren. Young, brash, or both.
In the time it took her to right herself Ellana managed to leap to her feet, clasp her hands together, and come down hard on the back of the woman's neck with joined fists. The blow took her down, though not out, and she crumpled to the floor. Stunned just long enough for Ellana to grab the last knife from her loosened fist and fling it toward the staircase to get rid of it. After, she took off running around the bed. Passing by the desk to swipe a heavy candelabra off its top.
The door to the side room flew open when she heaved a shoulder against it — no time to bother with the latch — and she quickly spun, kicked it shut behind her, then jumped onto the ladder. With her pace slowed by the weapon she only made it half-way up before her attacker caught up and grabbed her by the ankles. Ellana wrapped one arm around a rung to anchor herself, and with the other smashed the candlestick holder against the woman's head. It hit hard enough to send her flying sideways, against the wall, leaving a streak of blood behind as she slid to the floor.
Ellana did not stay long enough to see if the blow succeeded in knocking her out. Having her legs freed was enough.
She made it to the top in two quick upward leaps and ran for the corner of the loft, finding cover behind a stack of wooden beams stored for repairs. The candelabra gripped tight in her hands. By the time she turned around to glance back at the ladder, the woman was already climbing off of it.
"Pissing hell," Ellana swore, quietly, "what are you made of?" And she ducked behind the stack of wood. Bracing herself for another round of blows.
Through a gap in the beams she had eyes on her approach, barely a shadow against the moonlight filtering in through the curtain sheers. As she moved her body listed to one side, just a little. Her gait uneven. A half-step, a stumble, too heavy on her right foot. The attacks hadn't been for nothing — she was showing some wear.
When she was just a few paces away Ellana leaped. Loosed a warrior's cry and swung the candelabra with both arms. She hit her square in the chest. The assassin reeled backward, tripped over her feet, and went down. Landing hard on her back. There was a crunch of glass on impact, then the strong, earthy, scent of shattered tonics.
Ellana whispered a prayer of thanks for the favour. With the vials destroyed it meant she couldn't grab a second dose of whatever it was that had kept her going. This stamina could not possibly be unaided, and any tonic she'd taken would be wearing off soon.
It had to be wearing off soon.
But just in case it didn't she dared not waste a second on hope. Dropping the candlestick, she tackled her before she could get back up. Pinned her arms to the floor by dropping her knees on top of them. Then made to stab her again with the enchanted dagger, this time in the chest, but didn't get the chance before she broke free and rolled them both. For such a scrawny thing she was uncommonly strong, and managed to flip Ellana onto her back with barely any effort. A thin stiletto already grasped in a hand, raised, and aimed at her throat.
Shit — she'd been right about a hidden weapon.
Ellana wrapped both hands around her attacker's wrist. Fighting back with all she had as the knife's needle tip hovered perilously above her neck. In a contest of strength Ellana would lose, she knew this. Felt it in the quiver that started in her arms and worked its way down into her chest as they fought for inches. Any move she dared would just cede ground to her attacker, and then it would only take a single surge of strength to finish the job. She'd not last much longer.
I will not fucking die to a glory-seeker after all I've gone through.
She grit her teeth, and prayed for time.
But in the end it wasn't her fight that saved her… it was her position.
Seated on Ellana's hips while she held her down, the assassin finally got the opportunity to take a closer look at her target. To notice what she'd failed to when this began. The mask covering her face had come loose in the struggle, now hanging off her collar, revealing a mean frown and clenched teeth that slowly slackened as her gaze flicked from the Inquisitor's face, downward, then back again.
And for just a second her resolve wavered.
"You're…"
An opening.
Ellana grunted, "Your information is out of date!" and scrabbled for her dropped knife. When her fingers closed around the hilt she roared — and jammed it deep between two ribs.
The woman crumpled and dropped her weapon — but kept her knees locked. The ferocity with which she fought burned only hotter for every blow taken, but the injuries were starting to slow her down. Desperation would make her sloppy.
Ellana pulled back the bloodied dagger for another strike, but it never landed. In one hand the woman pinned her arm to the floor at the wrist, causing her to drop the weapon, while with the other she gripped Ellana's throat tight.
Squeezed.
In a familiar accent, "No matter," she said, and grit her teeth.
Orlesian?
Not Venatori, then.
Blood dripped from one corner of her mouth, and when she turned her head to spit it upon the floor the tip of a pointed ear was visible beneath her hair. Elf — she should have known it by her eyes shining in the dark, but had been too occupied trying to stay one step ahead of the battle to take notice.
The assassin coughed. Wheezed. Breath barely more than whistling and shiver as it left her lungs. A death rattle: she knew it too. It was written on her face in solemn determination but bloodlust would push her to the last heartbeat. The grip on Ellana's throat tightened.
"Are you so leashed that you even serve the humans in their beds like a common whore? Do they call for you when they leave their women at home?" Disgust and rage dripped from every word. Ellana clawed uselessly at the stranglehold, her nails tearing on the silver studs that lined the back of her leather gloves. "Another bastard born of men who lie with dogs. I will spare them a regrettable existence, born to a savage and her slavers."
Fuck — the merchant.
It was the way she spit the word 'savage' that made her. She'd heard that voice before.
Fucking politics. Fucking prejudice. Fucking territory wars in places she had no authority to change. Yet for their stagnation was blamed regardless, by virtue of their shared blood. Being the first of her kind to rise to power bore her fewer favours than enemies.
Ellana choked, "You really think another in my place would care more for the plight of our people?" remembering her words in the market days ago.
"Our people? You are their bitch — not my people," she spat in return. "A false idol growing fat on the scraps they throw you. While you bask in gold and fineries, elves burn in alienages. Are punished for crimes they did not commit. Or are bought and sold like chattel. Were you honourable you would intervene but instead you dance for them. A novelty. A plaything. What do you even care of the plight to your own people? Do you know how they suffer, Lavellan? What conspiracies are invented to build a pyre for your brothers and sisters?"
That wasn't right. She'd received a letter not a year back. They were fine.
Weren't they?
"So quick to turn your back — now you lie on it instead. You offer nothing but false hope, and when they're done amusing themselves with you they'll throw you away like all their other whores and we'll have nothing to show for it."
It was getting harder to think. She was running out of air — and when she spoke it was barely above a whisper. "There won't be alienages, there won't even be cities if you kill me." Darkness began to creep into the periphery of her vision, and sound dull to a high-pitched whine. "The scope of Corypheus' power is greater than you know!"
"All the more reason a pawn should not be tasked to fight him." She gave a humourless chuckle, and flashed a blood-stained smile. "Release us from this empty promise and greet your end. What is it your people say? 'Dread Wolf take you'?"
It was the last thing she heard before everything went black.
She could feel her pulse slowing.
Blind, deaf, and fading, Ellana drew on the one trick she had left. In the dark she scrabbled for her target, all claws and clumsy swings, struggling to stay alive long enough to find something. When her fingers brushed across the sharp edge of the woman's jaw she dug her nails in. Felt the skin break and bleed beneath them. Then with all the life she had left within her — and a memory of Corypheus at Haven in the forefront of her mind — she reached for a force she'd pulled from the Veil only twice before.
Burn!
At first it wasn't clear if the gambit had succeeded. She could not even be sure that she was still alive. Floating, uncertain, in the limbo between consciousness and death and struggling to find enough air to take a single breath.
There was a rushing feeling that travelled from her chest, up her arm, culminating in… something.
Then she felt flesh melting in her hand.
Smelled the char. Hair and leather burning — like her body had at camp. Tasted bile and blood in her throat as the grip upon it started to loosen. She gasped.
There was no heat, yet she felt the flames. In her palm. Between her fingers. Power drawn from the scars borne upon her skin by her own inexperience. Incompetence. Reforged into a weapon that could tear through another's.
This would not be a show of sparks — it would be hellfire.
Sound returned before sight, and so the first thing she heard was the screams. Then the gurgling as what was left of the woman's throat turned to liquid; and finally, ash.
There was an explosion so blinding the scene was seared upon the backs of her eyelids in painful detail. The shadow of her attacker looming over her surrounded by a brilliant halo of light brighter than the sun.
But when she could open her eyes, blinking clear the spots and stars, she saw only flame.
In her desperation she'd called upon the Anchor's power, and with it ripped a tear in the Veil from which she pulled a river of mana. Gathering, coiling, and finally casting it out in the form of a fireball so large it consumed not just her enemy but the entire room beyond her.
Before her was a hole in the world, and a towering inferno — a testament to the power of her unbridled fury.
Fire bloomed upon the wall as if grown from it. Racing up the wooden supports and onto the ceiling. Raining burning debris down as it spread. Sparks caught an old tapestry that had been stored with an edge hanging over the loft's railing, and from there the fire jumped onto the bed's canopy. Then the shades tied to the posts. Half the room had gone up in seconds.
What was left of her attacker was quickly disappearing under a column of flame. Flesh blackened and face twisted in the same haunting expression of agony worn by the victims of the Conclave's explosion. With the ripple of green hanging above her it was hard not to draw the comparison. Little was left of her beyond the remains of leather armour, cracked and curled, and the metal buttons worn on the clothes beneath. A hard shove unseated the corpse from her hips, where it landed near the ladder and exploded into sparks.
Freed, Ellana aimed a hand at the tear and called again upon the Anchor's power to close it. Sealing it shut before demons of Rage and Terror could come through and take form of her anger.
Somehow she had been left unscathed by the blaze — but not for long. Falling embers caught upon the hem of her nightdress, scorching holes in the thin fabric and spreading fast. She tried to smother it with her hands but burned herself in the process. Then scrambled backward, clumsy on hands and feet, as if she could escape her clothes on fire by outrunning them. In her panic she'd forgotten every lesson taught to her of channelling, buffers, and energy. Not that they'd have saved her now: this was well beyond the ability of one mage to control.
As the blaze stretched along wood beams, curtains, and hangings on the walls, she resorted to throwing out a singed palm and making demands of it. Summoning ice, and water, and thoughts of runed staves in snowy glens. Dorian's guidance. Practicing until her feet went numb from cold.
Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it!
It wasn't working.
So instead she stared at the raging fire, paralyzed by fear, and thought of her friends asleep in their beds. Of how long it might take for the blaze to reach them.
The sound of pounding on the door tore her from the stupor.
Metal on wood.
Guards?
Someone called out, though she could not hear what was said. Too far, but their voice sounded urgent. The fight had caused enough commotion to draw the attention of a patrol. Or maybe someone passing by had smelled the smoke and come for her.
She tried to scream — "Fire!" — but it came out a hoarse whisper. Smoke, shock, and the injuries suffered by being choked half to death had stolen her voice. Instead she stood — unsteady on shaking legs — and took a running leap over the railing. No time to be careful. It was not a graceful landing, and was punctuated by a spike of pain shot through her leg — her ankle twisted. A second later the door to her room burst open, and two sets of heavy, pounding, footsteps followed up the stairs.
An armoured guard came into view. "Inquisitor!" she cried. Hand out to help her, before her eyes drifted to the loft. Then to the bed, in flames. For a moment she stood frozen and horror-struck, the offered hand slowly falling, as the gravity of the scene sank in.
Ellana stood, shifting her weight to the uninjured leg, but swayed for the effort. The adrenaline was wearing off and exhaustion setting in. She was bleeding both from the re-opened shoulder wound as well as several smaller cuts on her neck, hands, and legs. Injuries she hadn't noticed receiving during the scuffle.
"Get help," she ordered. The woman's eyes snapped back to hers. "I was attacked. They're dead, but we need to get the fire under control."
The guard nodded. Behind her, the second reached the landing. A young man, too new to have seen much in the line of duty, for he wore his fear plainly on his face. Lost in the majesty of the fire, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, he had yet to even notice the Inquisitor stood among them.
Belatedly, and in the same instant as the first guard, Ellana realized a swath of her gown was burnt away from knees to middle. She was nude beneath, but modesty hardly seemed important before the damning curve of her silhouette.
There was a look of blatant surprise. Then steeled determination. The guard acted quickly: stepping between her partner and the Inquisitor to block his view of her once he tore his eyes from the inferno. She barked an order, "Go grab a sheet from the hall — now! Quickly!"
He startled, a little dazed, but did as he was told. Immediately disappearing back down the steps and out the door.
The guard spun back and extended a hand. "Come with me, Herald. I need to take you to the clinic."
Ellana took the assist, but nixed the suggestion. "No — I need to speak to Leliana immediately."
"You're injured. At least—"
She cut the air with a sharp gesture. "I'll be fine for now. Get Leliana".
Behind her the canopy over the bed collapsed, and a spray of sparks erupted onto the floor. Skittering in all directions. The fire had spread to the wardrobe, travelling along the carpet toward the desk full of tonics, notes and letters. All her work.
Ellana swore, and made a run for it, but the guard stopped her with a tight grip on her arm. Yelled, "You cannot stay here," to be heard above the blaze. "The wall may come down if the supports burn away. It's not safe!"
She started to protest, "I need—" but lost the rest to a coughing fit. The room was rapidly filling with smoke. Visibility had become so poor there was no longer even a clear path to the desk.
It was gone already.
"Fenedhis, alright, let's go."
The young man reappeared at the door, and the female guard was quick to intercept him before he made it back up the stairs. "Here!" She beckoned with her free hand, and he tossed the sheet up. A moth-eaten dust cover for an unfinished project on the stair, but it would do fine. She caught it easily, turned, and flung it around Ellana's shoulders to style it like a long cloak. Held shut in the front to cover her. Though her steeled expression betrayed nothing there was care in her hands as she tugged it into place: this was to preserve her privacy more than her modesty.
To the younger guard she shouted, "Go fetch Madam de Fer if she isn't on her way already. We need mages to control the blaze!"
"Yes, ser!"
He ran, and they were right on his heels this time. Down the stairs two at a time while the guard held a raised shield over Ellana's head to protect her from falling debris. A loud crash echoed behind them just as they made it into the great hall; stone and wood coming down. Part of the tower ceiling had collapsed. A moment more and she would have been crushed beneath it.
The Wintersend dinner had ended hours earlier but the hall was still set for feast. Bowls, goblets, and platters full of bones picked clean littered the tables. Staff was still working to clear it all. The enduring scent of wine and meat permeated the room, now mingling with the smoke billowing in from the stair. A few people had lingered since the celebration: one or two passed out with their heads down on a table, the others — drunk — on their feet wearing matching expressions of concern as they gathered in the middle of the room. More were coming in from side doors. From outside. Vivienne was among them, flanked by the young man tasked with finding her.
"Inquisitor!" she cried, picking up her skirts as she ran. She was dressed in bedclothes, but arrived too quick to have been roused from sleep. "What's—?"
"I will brief everyone when I can," Ellana cut over her. "But right now the priority is the tower fire. I need you to help get it under control."
Vivienne nodded tersely. "Of course," she said. Once abreast of the Inquisitor she laid a firm hand upon her arm and pressed a curative spell into the skin. Mending the scatter of light cuts and burns back together. Her eyes made a quick pass over the rest of her and, once satisfied there were no major injuries she could see, added, "The Undercroft," as she jogged toward the stairs. "It's empty this time of night, and out of harm's way should the fire spread. Go there to await others."
"Right."
Taking the cue, the guard escorting her led Ellana toward it. Behind them the crowd continued to grow, drawn by the commotion. Talking of explosions and fire. Sabotage or Venatori. Some had smelled the smoke and come running, others had gone to awaken their comrades, fearing a larger attack. Some were crying; survivors of Haven that had seen something like this once before. Frantic questions and exclamations of surprise spread through the room in a wave of whispers.
No one noticed the pair disappear into the Undercroft.
"I will have them disperse," offered the guard as they entered. In lieu of a chair, she had Ellana take a seat on the stone banister at the top of the stairs, by a lit brazier. Then rearranged the sheet around her to ensure the cover stayed in place. "Are you sure you would not like me to bring the medic?"
Ellana waved a hand dismissively. "It looks worse than it is — I'll be fine. I just need to speak with my advisors."
"What of the others? Should they come looking, I can have my patrol reassure them of your safety and direct them elsewhere… unless you are comfortable granting them an audience?"
It was a careful question.
"They know."
A nod. "By your order, Inquisitor."
But before she could leave, "Wait—" Ellana called. She turned back with her hand on the door. "What's your name? I'm sorry, I don't know it." Much of the night shift were strangers to her; in their time at Skyhold she'd only come to recognize a few dozen, at best. Guards who patrolled during peak hours, and a few that manned specific stations like the front gate or the hall's entrance.
"Alice, your worship."
She smiled. "Thank you, Alice."
Another nod, and she left.
As it happened no one needed to fetch Leliana, she was already on her way. The door hadn't even been closed ten heartbeats before it opened again to admit her. Eyes dark with quiet fury — she was storming. Unaccompanied for now but with a promise that more were coming.
Before Ellana could say a word, "I've sent word to Cullen and Josephine that you've been moved to safety," she reported. "He already has troops combing the fortress for an accomplice. We suspect they are still nearby, and may have been posing as kitchen staff. Everyone working this evening is being brought into the cellar for questioning. Am I correct in assuming that if you're here the attacker is dead? Was there more than one?"
"Wait," Ellana begged. She held up both hands and watched Leliana's eyes flick between them. A thick layer of soot and blood made her a poor sight, and the burns on her palms didn't help much either. "Yes, she's dead — just the one — but hang on—" Somehow she'd turned up last to her own execution. "What's going on? There are more? Was anyone else attacked? How did you know?"
"Mira," Leliana answered. "She was escorted out of the party early, reportedly too intoxicated to stand. Josephine informed me she'd overindulged, while she maintained that she'd only had a single glass. After being brought to the clinic she managed to slip away and ended up in the kitchens, where she downed an entire pitcher of milk, vomited everywhere, then claimed she'd been poisoned and ordered a guard to find her in her quarters before passing out. The cook dismissed her as drunk but the guard took her seriously. On the way they saw the smoke rising from the back of the fortress, and so sent another guard to alert the Commander and myself of an attack while they ran ahead. Two went to retrieve you while I was waylaid relocating Mira before the scene gathered any more witnesses. There's been no other reports of violence, it looks like you were the only target. And Mira by proxy."
This had already spiralled into something far more complicated than she thought. "Is she going to be alright?"
"The medic advised several days of treatment, but she should be fine. The poison was not deadly. For now she's been moved to the armoury until we find a better place to keep her while she recovers."
There was a thoughtful pause.
Then, "Was it a sedative?" Ellana asked. "What was given to Mira."
Sharp eyes and the tilt of her head signalled the Spymaster's interest. "Yes. A powerful one. Likely slipped into her wine during dinner." She dipped her chin. "Why do you ask?"
"The assassin seemed unprepared for a fight… or at least surprised by it." She reflexively touched the wound in her left shoulder. There was fresh blood on her fingers when she pulled them away. The entire arm was drenched from end to end. Both from her own wounds as well as those she'd inflicted on her attacker. She continued, "I think she had expected me to stay asleep. Get in and out quickly. If she'd succeeded it's unlikely anyone would have found out before morning, which would have given her and any accomplices plenty of time to escape."
Leliana began to reply, but was cut short when the door flew open. Cullen walked in, red-faced and rumpled with only half his armour on, looking like he'd just run a lap around the entire fortress half-dressed. Cassandra was close behind, half-way through asking a question. She did not look much better.
"—if someone tries to leave?"
"I've doubled the guards at the gate and on the walls. No one is getting out without us knowing about it first. The portcullis has been closed and locked until further notice, and the… Maker's Breath!" When he caught sight of the Inquisitor seated on the stone, bloodied and bruised, it stopped him in his tracks. She'd not managed to catch her reflection on the way, but his expression told her that it was nothing short of ghastly.
When the shock wore off he made a few jerky, abortive, attempts to gesture at her injuries. Turned and demanded, "Hasn't anyone gotten her a damn potion yet?" to no one in particular.
Cassandra maneuvered around him — "Let me," — and descended the stone stairs toward the alchemy station. There was a basket of potions brewing there. Not as effective as if they'd reached their full ferment, but better than nothing.
Ellana tried to counter with humour. Flashed a small, crooked, smile. "You should see the other guy."
Despite himself, he returned it. "If this is what your victory looks like I should hope there's not enough left of them to judge."
"Mission accomplished, then."
Cassandra whistled to get his attention, then tossed a bottle across the room. He caught it in his ungloved hand, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and handed it to Ellana. "Here," he urged, and spit the stopper onto the floor. He did not wait for her to finish drinking it before launching into a stream of rapid-fire questions. Not all of them directed at her. "How badly were you injured? Have we learned anything about the attacker? Was it Venatori? You should be in the infirmary. Maker, look at your arm!"
"No," Leliana cut across him. "We need to minimize collateral damage. Any treatment she needs happens here. Moving her anywhere else risks more witnesses, and witnesses ask questions. As it stands there are two who spoke to Mira in the kitchens, and another two that escorted the Inquisitor from the tower: they'll all need to be spoken to regarding what they saw. Aside, most of her injuries appear superficial; she's awake and alert and a few potions should take care of the rest. Once she's in travelling shape I want her out of Skyhold."
"Out of Skyhold?" he repeated, incredulous. "If it's witnesses you're worried about how do you plan on pulling that off with the crowd outside? By mid-day tomorrow half the fortress will be gathered in the training yard to stare at the smoking ruins of the tower. It will take days to get everyone back to work. If we're lucky!"
"Which is why she's leaving before sunrise."
A beat. Then, "Are you joking?"
It was clear she wasn't.
Cassandra rejoined them at the top of the steps. A pouch in one hand held another pair of potions, which she handed off to Ellana along with a bucket of water and a long, coiled, strip of linen taken from the basket of armour cast-offs.
"For the blood," she explained. Then to Leliana, "I can accompany her. A small party would arouse less suspicion than a full attendance of guards, and if made up of those of us who are already privy to sensitive information we'll be better able to ensure she, and the destination, remain uncompromised."
Ellana pulled their attention back to her with a sudden, sharp, breath sucked through clenched teeth. The water was freezing, captured from the glacial falls that flowed around this room, but soothing where the fire had burned through her nightdress. Blood, dirt, sweat, and soot washed away in rivers that pooled on the stone at her feet, slowly revealing the injuries beneath.
She laughed, and it was mirthless. "I don't suppose I get a say in this, do I?"
She knew the answer before it was given, clearly writ upon her Spymaster's face. Resolute; her expression smooth and still as glass.
"No," she stated. It was clear that she would brook no argument. "Until we know how and why this happened we cannot risk you staying here. Mira's ruse was as successful as we could have hoped but if there is another attempt we may not be so lucky. And with all the commotion there will be more eyes than ever. This is precisely the kind of situation her position was created for. She's well-trained, confident, and we will be here to handle the transition. It is no longer safe for you to remain."
Behind her the door burst open, admitting both Solas and a short, blonde, elf Ellana recognized as one of Leliana's agents. Solas paused only briefly in the threshold to take in the scene. Then — looking a shade each furious and horrified — he turned upon the others. "What happened?!"
"I asked him to wait but he refused," offered Charter thinly. "He's gone barrelling into near every room searching for you. Making all sorts of noise."
"It's fine," Leliana replied, but the terse smile made a poor cover of her disapproval. "If you could help Jana in the cellar and wait for me there, please."
Charter ducked her head in acknowledgement and pulled the door closed.
No one had offered him an answer in the twenty seconds since he asked, so Solas began to press the question again. Cullen volunteered, "There was an attempt on the Inquisitor's life. The assassin made it into the tower, but was unsuccessful."
He scoffed, "Clearly!" then yelled, "Were there no guards stationed in the hall? No reports of suspicious movements? Did anyone see them? Who were they and how did they get here? How was this allowed to happen!?" and he gestured emphatically toward Ellana. As if the blood she'd spilled were damning evidence of the soldiers' dereliction of duty.
The accusation was not a fair one. "Solas," she warned. Gently, as it was clear he was shaken. The few times she'd been witness to his fear laid so bare were typically followed by this same righteous anger. Flares of his temper were fleeting and rare but he always burned hottest when it came to her. It wasn't something many saw.
Cullen blinked, a little taken aback by the display. "Of course there were guards! There are soldiers stationed throughout the fortress at all hours. Men and women I trust implicitly. None would knowingly let an attacker through. No one 'allowed' it to happen — we are still learning the details."
"Then how can you be sure?" he snapped.
"He only just got here too, Solas," Ellana said — a little firmer. He bit his cheek and pressed his mouth into a tight line to keep from going on, but did not have the grace to look at all abashed.
She twisted the rag between her hands, wringing out the murky, soiled, water onto the floor before wetting it in the bucket again. Winced when she pressed it to her shoulder. There was so much filth caked onto her skin that it took several passes of just moving it around before she started to come clean.
"It was a single person," she began, to all of them. Taking the time to look at each in turn. "She came in over the balcony, not through the front door. Scaled the wall. She would've had to slip between patrols on the ramparts, which is easier to do at night, and she was skilled with stealth so it's unlikely anyone saw or heard her." She nodded at Leliana. "Mira was poisoned at dinner. A sedative. The attacker clearly intended to dose and kill me while I slept. Fortunately, Mira has considerable experience with poisons and was apparently able to recognize the one used and alert a guard to come check on me.
"In the meantime I fought off the attacker, though in the process the room caught fire. Guards arrived just after I managed to kill her. One pulled me out of the tower before I could suffer worse. I'd intended to stay and try to rescue papers, work — meaningless things. If I had I'd have likely been killed."
To Solas specifically, "I owe the guards my life," she added.
While she talked his gaze flit between her face and shoulder, though whatever his feelings were on the situation beyond concern for her injuries was hard to say. Only once she finished the tale did he finally close the distance between them. Kneeled on the floor in front of her so he could move her hand, and the cloth it held, aside. Get a closer look at the wound.
She winced as his fingers probed the edges. "Were you stabbed?"
"It was thrown," Ellana corrected. "She missed."
Their eyes met and his brow tightened — heavy — with something uneasy. Unspoken.
"Do you know who she represents, if not Venatori?" Leliana cut in. Cullen gave her a questioning look. "Even if she had an accomplice she still attacked alone. It's not typically how the Venatori operate."
"She was not associated with them," Ellana replied. "I'd say, 'I'd bet my life on it' but I suppose I already did that." The attempt at gallows humour rewarded her with the flicker of a smile from her advisors. "For one, she was an elf."
Solas' attention had shifted back to her shoulder, but for that he paused his work. "Not Dalish?"
"No — city. Orlesian. Val Royeaux I think, going by her accent. She'd been posing as an imports merchant in the yard."
Cullen raised a brow. "Did you know her?"
She shook her head. "Not personally, no. But Dorian and I had a run-in with her earlier this week when we visited her stall. She did not recognize me as the Inquisitor, but we did exchange a few words. That was the only reason I knew it was her: she had some very strong opinions on the Inquisitor's handling of Orlais' alienages."
Cassandra frowned. "That is not something the Inquisition has any control over."
"I don't really think that mattered to her. She had plenty to say, and none of it flattering. Ultimately, the goal of this attack was to remove what she believed was a figurehead for the Chantry and allow another — someone with more power or connections — to lead in my place. She spoke of her people needing protection. As an elf, I had failed to represent the interests of my own kind, and for being Dalish that insult was worse. She thought anyone else would be better suited."
"Her concerns are not without merit," Cullen mused. Then, when all eyes turned to him, back-pedalled. Quickly. "I'm not saying I agree! Only that violence against city elves has seen an increase and there isn't much we've been able to do about it. There's been reports nearly every time we are in Orlais, but with so much of our resources spent on Corypheus our hands have been tied. Soldiers intervene where they can, of course, but action is needed on a much larger scale to truly address the problem."
"Could we not send troops for protection?" asked Cassandra.
"How well do you think that would go?" he countered. "Marching into Orlais with a cavalcade of soldiers ready to defend one group of inhabitants against the other?"
"Choosing not to act on this knowledge is endorsement of those responsible," she argued. "Inaction is not neutrality. What if we sent an envoy to represent the Inquisition's interest in assisting with granting protections to vulnerable populations? It would include alienages, but not be exclusive to them."
"Not without risking some of the alliances we depend upon for trade and travel," said Leliana. "Historically, Orlais has not exactly been amenable to that kind of interference. If we tried a less overt approach — possibly. But there are different risks to consider."
Firmly, "If we can do something, we should," said Ellana. "If this woman was motivated enough to travel all the way out here just to die for the cause she might make a martyr of herself. Then others could follow. I'm not as worried about my life as I am determined not to see anyone else throw themselves on the pyre. Additionally, she mentioned my clan by name. Have we had any communication from them? Any reports?"
"None that I am aware of," answered Leliana. "The last letter we received was nearly a year ago, and was personal in nature. But if you are concerned I can send contacts to them."
"Yes, please. It might be bluster, but just in case it isn't we should follow up. Write to Keeper Deshanna, ask her if there has been any threats against the clan. If this is a sentiment spreading because of me I would see them protected from it."
This was typically the part where Solas jumped in; started on subterfuge, factions, and political violence. He might not have terribly strong opinions on the divide between Dalish and city elves, but when it came to the politics of class systems and worship of leaders he could go on.
Instead, he was oddly quiet on this issue. His attention focused entirely on her wounds — cleaning and examining. When he did speak it was only to comment on them. "You are fortunate: a little to the left and it might have severed the tendon. The recovery could have taken weeks."
It already looked better than it was when she arrived, the regeneration potion had seen to that, but Solas still cupped a palm against her skin to administer a healing spell. It prickled, deep, as the muscle fibres knit back together — and when he took his hand away the worst was gone. A thin layer of new skin stretched across the gash.
"This will need sutures to prevent a scar," he added, as an afterthought.
Ellana tested the motion of her arm. Wiggled her fingers. The skin was tight, but it would do for now. "Then it will be something to remember her by. We won't have time for sutures, I'm leaving by morning."
He frowned. "Leaving? Where?"
"Somewhere safe," provided Leliana.
Solas turned and met the Spymaster's gaze. A moment of tense silence passed as he considered the implications of her evasiveness. Then, flatly, "You do not intend for me to accompany her," he said.
It was not a question.
And she owed him no answers — this he knew.
What she gave was as a gesture of respect rather than obligation.
"I intend to utilize a safe house known only by a select group of people. That list is small, and needs to remain so lest we compromise our ability to use it in the future. Her stay there will be temporary: it's not set up as a birth house, so she'll need to move to a secondary location regardless. This is only to keep her safe for the immediate future. A few weeks… maybe more. During which time there's no reason to disclose its existence to anyone else simply by virtue of their romantic attachment."
"Surely an argument can be made of the necessity of an escort," he countered, rising to his feet. "She cannot travel without protection in this state, and especially not after the injury she's suffered this evening."
Leliana remained stoic even as he began to fray. "She will not be alone, but the party that accompanies her will be one made of those capable of maintaining objectivity." Careful emphasis sharpened the words to a fine point. The reasoning was sound, and her confidence in it unwavering… but the blow still stung.
Beside her, Cullen winced. Cast his eyes to the floor and rubbed at the back of his neck in the way he often did when he was uncomfortable. But he did not disagree.
"And this is not something you believe me capable of."
"I'm sorry, Solas," she said, instead of an answer. There was no malice in her words. "You are too close to this. It would be difficult for anyone to separate their duties of guard and partner well enough to adequately perform both. And this situation is uniquely complicated by her state. If I can avoid putting you in a position where you have to maintain that balance, it would be better for both of you."
He held her gaze and tightened his jaw — but said nothing. Swallowing the protests ready on his tongue lest he make her point for her.
She continued, "Ultimately final say of the party comes down to her. I can be overruled, but—" And her eyes slid to Ellana. "—this is a recommendation I would give regardless of who the target was. Beyond the necessity of secrecy, the presence of a romantic partner in a protective mission becomes complicated very easily, and very quickly. I would not suggest it if I believed it unnecessary."
Ellana pressed her fingers to her temples. "No, I know, but—" It was tacit agreement. Solas spun back, lips parted, but she cut him off before he managed a word. "Just give me a minute to think, alright? A lot has happened in the last hour!"
The ghost of a smile curled the corner of Leliana's mouth. Compassion — or pity. It was gone just as quickly. "Unfortunately I can't grant you much. Ideally I'd like you on the road no later than an hour from now. We'll need to gather those you're taking with you, and pack only essentials. Everything else will be waiting for you at the house."
Solas scoffed quietly. Smoothed a hand over his head. It was unlike him to dismiss a threat so readily.
"You disagree with the timeline?" she asked him.
There was no hesitation in his answer. "We have faced threats far greater than this in many of the places we've travelled. Your wounds have not yet had a chance to be properly treated, and you could have days of riding ahead of you. I don't believe we have enough evidence to outweigh the risk of putting you on the road without rest, medicine, or adequate preparation. There's no reason to presume this attack was anything more than a single individual acting on their own interests."
"There's no reason to presume it wasn't, either," Leliana countered darkly. She'd been sympathetic, but it was clear his attitude was beginning to wear on her. "It could end with this attack, or it could be the start of a series of attempts. Better to overreact than under-prepare. If an investigation finds nothing she can be safely moved to the birth house in half the time, at which point you can join her there."
It was clear he was not happy with the answer. Shaking his head, he began to pace. The chill that had fallen over the group had little to do with the night air, and was getting colder by the minute.
Cassandra tried her hand at dispersing it. "You said she was Orlesian…" She looked to Ellana for confirmation, and at her nod turned her attention to Solas. "Did you learn anything at the Winter Palace that might be relevant? Did anyone say anything to you? Bull had mentioned that the servants seemed more hostile toward the Inquisition on this visit than the one previous — did you notice that as well?"
There was the smallest, slightest, pause before he replied.
"No."
In it, Ellana saw something damning.
It was subtle. Oh, so subtle. A twitch in his jaw. The slightest movement of his chin. A quick little breath before he spoke. Cracks in the façade hid in places only she knew where to look; hints of deception in an answer otherwise delivered with the same flawless execution as all the other lies he'd told.
His tells were virtually imperceptible. Practiced. He had a talent for twisting omission with misdirection in a way that allowed him to rely on presumption without ever having to resort to total, bald-faced, fiction. Give just enough of a push for someone to assume, and not correct them. Assure that, in a way, they lied to themselves.
But that wasn't the case this time. This time it was just a lie.
And she was furious for what that meant.
They were all talking — arguing and speculating over how great a threat there was to her. If someone intent to kill her would risk harm to civilians or soldiers. If this could be leveraged by the Venatori. Little pieces of conversation floated by; just a word here and there. Once her heart began to hammer everything else faded to a dull roar. Lost to the storm churning in her breast; a surging tide of quiet anger.
When she could find her voice, "Give me the room," she said in a clipped tone. If she kept herself from boiling over she could play it off like she needed a moment alone with Solas to discuss their options.
She had to repeat it a second time before anyone heard her.
They all stopped. Exchanged glances. Cassandra looked uneasily between all three. Solas looked at her.
"I'm sorry?" Cullen asked.
"Give me the room." A third time. Then she added, "Everyone except you," and trained a hawkish gaze on Solas. He appeared surprised by the order, but the look conveyed no real sincerity — the raised brows and tilted chin were not for her benefit. He knew what she'd seen in him.
There was one moment more of hesitation before, one by one, the others turned and exited into the hall. Leliana last. She held the door open, warning, "Do not tarry long," and waited for Ellana's nod of understanding before she, too, left.
Once alone Ellana leapt to her feet, nearly tripping over the sheet in her rush. Still clutched tight to her waist it made flimsy cover against the icy winds blowing in from the open wall — but it was better than nothing. Her ire kept her warmer.
"What do you know?"
It was not at all surprising that his first answer would be a wholly inadequate one. "About the attack? Less than you do, surely."
"Your network is still active," she bit in return. Pointing an accusing finger at his chest. "You told me of it on the night you told me everything. Spies and soldiers. Then later, with the orb — you have agents. You have informants. You have connections and reports and you fucking know something! I never pressed for more when I should have and that is on me, but you also didn't volunteer it after telling me you would not keep things again. You allowed me to go merrily on my way not thinking about the fact that you are passing information under my nose, because lying by omission comes so fucking naturally to you that it barely registers as an offence!"
A strange little memory pushed its way to the forefront of her mind, giving answer to a question she hadn't known to ask. She winced for the insight it granted her. Swore, "Fenedhis, you keep the messages in your desk. You even have people here, don't you?"
He looked as though he might interject there, but she cut him off. Storming forward in two quick steps. She lifted her chin and held his gaze with eyes that were dark and furious. "I will ask you once more. What—" Every word ground through clenched teeth as if each were a curse. "—do you know?"
For a moment he did nothing. Said nothing. Barely even breathed. His eyes darting between hers, back and forth, as he considered. Then his shoulders sank — defeated.
He pointed a raised hand at the door and cast a spell. A glyph appeared upon its surface, flickered with brilliant light, and as it faded so did the noise that carried in from the hall beyond.
Finally, he said, "I knew only that there were whispers. There was no reason to suspect the information I was passed represented a legitimate threat. In the context it was given it was a power play, nothing more. Exaggerated at best, a complete fabrication at worst."
"I didn't ask for your opinion on it. What were you told?"
"Nothing you don't already know."
Her voice was like ice. "Tell me anyway."
There was another pause, then a deep breath he took through his nose. To centre, or perhaps brace himself. "The same things you reported the assassin said to you: that you were a puppet of the Chantry, that you acted on their interests and furthered their goals, that you were a false idol."
"Did you know there would be an attack?"
"No. Just that there had been a report of those sentiments heard in a Val Royeaux alienage. You must understand, the implication was only that the sentiment existed, not that it had or would have resulted in any movement against you." This was damage control, now. One part minimizing, two parts pleading. "Even with the events of this evening we have no evidence that's become the case. This was a single person, not an organized faction. Additionally, the information was not passed to me by an informant in my trust, but instead by someone looking to leverage an embellished report to gain personal favour. The entire encounter was orchestrated to manipulate me; any information delivered with it loses credibility."
Somehow this only felt like half the story. "What for? Do they know who you are?"
He gave her a hard look. "You are the only one who does."
"Then what would this someone possibly get out of it?"
"Debt is a more valuable trade than blackmail, particularly across political lines. A favour could be called upon in a situation that might have otherwise resulted in capture, or death."
"I'm sorry, 'blackmail'?" That was not a point she was going to let slip away between arguments — he would not have mentioned it unless it was relevant somehow.
But he was also hesitant to expand on it, so she pressed him again. "Solas."
"She was in possession of evidence that could expose our…" There was a pause while he considered the most appropriate term. One hand turning circles in the air. "…entanglement. It was returned, rather than utilized."
"Who is 'she'? What did she have?"
He turned a half-circle and began walking back and forth between her and the door. While he paced he brushed his mouth with a thumb, rubbed at the back of his head, scratched his shoulder and adjusted the tie on one of his sleeves. Tics to relieve nervous energy. "You recall the Marquis — Briala? Formerly the Empress' spymaster, she now serves her own interests since her position in court has been elevated. Though her information trades mostly go through Leliana, this one was brought to me specifically." His eyes caught hers briefly before darting to the floor again, counting his steps. "Your necklace. The one Josephine had made for you. The coincidence is intentional. Should you have used what you found to expose her affair she likely would have done the same to you, but since you returned it she acted in kind."
Ellana touched her fingers to her collarbone. "I thought I'd lost that." She had not seen it in some time. "I don't understand, that had nothing to do with you, why would…" The question trailed off, unfinished, as she turned the timeline and players over in her mind.
If it was Briala it would have to be Halamshiral. If it was Halamshiral it would have been a time they were together there. Somewhere the necklace could have reasonably been lost without her noticing.
There was only one place that stood out as a real possibility.
Quietly, "Fuck," she whispered.
"Indeed," he replied, without humour. "The report of the alienage rumour was not the purpose of the meeting; if there was any merit to it she would have gone to your Spymaster directly. Instead the meet was arranged entirely with the intent to manipulate me. Securing a position as a contact who had chosen not to trade in damaging information when she had the chance to. The real value was in the item — whatever rumours she passed along the way were frivolity."
"Did she see us?"
"That was implied, yes."
"Then does she know this, too?" She gestured to her stomach.
Rather than answer he cast his gaze aside. He looked guilty, instead of frustrated. Cornered.
The speed of his pacing picked up, and her eyes followed him back and forth across the landing.
"You didn't think it was important to tell me any of this? To warn me that someone formerly under Celene's employ, and still loyal to her, knows absolutely everything or that there was the possibility of a threat to me?"
He threw both his hands up. "What would you have done with the information? Ban Orlesian elves from entering Skyhold? Conduct interviews at the gates? It was not a warning, it was gloating — offered only to lend weight to the idea she was being generous. There was no way to track or verify it. Wasting resources and causing needless alarm."
"I don't know what I would have done Solas, but I would have at least had the option to think it over! Somehow I have to wonder if the real reason you chose not to share this was to avoid the embarrassment of admitting you'd been caught."
"It was not relevant!"
"You aren't the judge of that! We've had this argument before, remember? Recently, even!"
"That is beside the point."
"That is exactly the point, Solas. You knew this should have been communicated to me, you knew it wasn't your place to keep it, and yet you did. Leliana is right: you cannot think objectively when it comes to my safety. If we are put in another situation where there is an imminent threat I cannot trust that you won't do something rash under the guise of protecting me."
"Do you truly think I would be so reckless? My mind so clouded by feeling that I would be rendered incapable of acting appropriately in a crisis?"
Pointedly, "You are literally standing here admitting you withheld vital information about the possibility of a radicalized group of Elvish assassins to spare me the risk of becoming frustrated chasing the source," she replied.
He gave her a look. "That is an exaggeration."
"Not much of one!" She threw her arms up, lost to the heat of the argument, and the sheet dropped to the floor. For a moment she'd forgotten all she wore was the burned-up nightdress and a dust cover the guard retrieved from the hall. She cursed softly as she bent to retrieve it, tying it securely around her waist.
The time it took to do so allowed Solas a moment to breathe. To gentle his tone. "Do not ask that I not accompany you out of a need to punish me."
"That's not what this is," Ellana sighed. "You have proven over and over that I cannot trust you will treat me as a leader while you are my lover, but I'm not punishing you for that. I am realizing it's unfair to expect. This is to spare us both unnecessary hardship. And with your experience surely you can understand the need for the locations of safe houses to remain a secret? To limit travel to and from them?"
"Yes, but I did not break up families!"
Her brows knit in an expression of disbelief. "Is that really what you think she's doing?"
A sigh, then, "No," he admitted. And for a moment stopped his pacing. Closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.
The worst of her anger had ebbed. Looking at him now she could only see a man bereaved and desperate. It wasn't about his pride anymore. She asked, "What would you have done in her place? If you were the one giving orders? Let the worried husband come along to add a complication to the operation?"
He turned on a heel; started pacing again. "No, but I am—"
"Different?" she offered.
"Yes!"
Even as the word left his lips he saw it for the lie it was, and his face fell.
If not a lie, then a wish — that his love be worth more than that of another man.
The pacing slowed, then stopped, and he dropped to his knees upon the floor before her. Hands around the back of her legs and his forehead rest upon her thighs. He closed his eyes, and breathed.
She slid her hands over his, and held them. Then, gently, "In the Inquisition you are nothing but a proud man and an expert on the Fade," she said. "Leliana does not know of your origins. Your experience. You're a civilian — not a veteran. You've crafted yourself a splendid disguise, ma vhenan, and she has secrets to keep from common men. She cannot afford to be careless simply to honour your heart. Why would she take that risk?"
The next breath was a shudder. The one after, too. In and out with in careful measure. He squeezed her hands.
"Please."
She wanted to be angry. She wanted to be furious that he would have the audacity to beg on his knees after all of this. She wanted to deny that the quiver in his voice made her eyes sting, and want to change her mind on the whim of her heart.
Instead she said, "Your shirt is on backward."
He frowned. Looked down at himself to verify it, then back up at her. Brows knit in confusion.
"When you thought something might have happened to me you were in such a hurry to leave, to find me, that you threw on your clothes and did not check your appearance. You ran in and out of rooms like that — barely-dressed and frantic… were you just looking for a friend?" She smiled, but it was a half-hearted thing. "I don't think it's an oversight you would've made if it were anyone else."
He said nothing in reply.
He couldn't.
So she said it instead. "Bull and Sera have the necessary experience, and Cassandra has been both unwaveringly loyal and has shown she is more than willing to stand against me if the situation calls for it. I trust them, and they will take care on the journey. Both to get me to the safe house, and to help me move elsewhere when it's time to."
"Will you not even take a mage?" he pleaded. "Dorian, at least. If something should happen…"
"I will be safe, Solas," she replied. "The less who accompany me, the better — and my choices should be limited to those with a relevant background. It is only a few weeks. We've been apart far longer." She slipped one hand out of his and drew her fingers along his skin. Up his arm, shoulder, and neck. Cradled his cheek in her palm. Swiped a thumb along the plush of his bottom lip.
There were a hundred questions, arguments, and protests swimming in his eyes when he met her gaze. A plea on his tongue when he parted his lips. But no place to say them.
So instead he closed his eyes and kissed her palm.
There was a flash behind them. The door pushed open, breaking the silencing spell, and a cacophony of noise followed. Louder than before — there were more people in the hall now. Leliana stepped inside, pausing only briefly to take in the scene of Solas kneeled at her feet. Intimate — private — but she did not shy from it.
She held out a folded shirt and pants; lifted her elbow, to gesture at a heavy wrap slung there. "I'm sorry, but you need to leave soon. Many of Skyhold's staff and civilians have begun to gather in the yard. We've been able direct them away from the front gate, but that won't hold. There is no better time to leave — we may not be able to corral the crowd much longer. Here—" She dropped the clothes on the floor, near Solas' feet. "—These are from our surplus, and will keep you warm while you travel. Unfortunately I can't find much in the way of armour, but Sera did have a spare bow and quiver to arm you with."
"Thank you, I'll be out in a moment," said Ellana. "Please have Bull, Sera, and Cassandra meet me at the gates."
She nodded.
And was kind enough not to let her gaze linger on Solas when she left.
It took 12 minutes to reach the gate.
Bull and Cassandra were already waiting, mounted up, ready with several packs of supplies divided between them. Sera had arrived with Ellana, having met up in the hall on her way out. She'd been awakened by the commotion, before Leliana came to fetch her, and wandered over to see the chaos for herself.
Dorian and Varric stood back. They'd managed to persuade Leliana to allow them a goodbye since they were already nearby. They were flanked by Solas.
"Got this bow for you," said Sera, and she shrugged for emphasis. Two were strapped to her back along with an overfilled quiver packed with sheaf arrows and a handful of enchanting experiments she'd received from Dagna. She dropped to one knee to offer Ellana a leg up onto her mount.
It was less graceful than usual, but that was owed to the poor rest and early hour. Exhaustion had already begun to take its toll on those who'd had little sleep. The sun would rise before they reached the basin, which meant travel would extend into the late afternoon before an appropriate camp was found. From there it would be three days before they recovered from the missed sleep. But the situation called for a swift exit; comfortable travel was a luxury they couldn't afford.
The bridge was dark as pitch — if they carried no torches they'd be invisible against the backdrop of night. Slip away unnoticed. There was so much commotion in the yard no one would even hear the clanking of the portcullis drawn just high enough to let them through.
Once settled on her hart Ellana nodded toward Cullen. He signalled his understanding and then ducked into the gatehouse to man the crank. All the other guards had been dismissed for a mandatory break.
When the chain began to tighten and the iron gate rise up, Solas felt his heart surge into his throat. He swallowed hard, and tried to ignore the pounding of his pulse. He could feel it in his neck and in his gut.
In his arm?
Then tapping on his elbow, more insistently.
He looked down. Varric stood beside him. The dwarf jerked his head toward the party at the gates. "Go," he said.
"I cannot," Solas replied, and loathed the way his voice sounded in shaking whisper.
"If you don't say goodbye properly you'll regret it," Varric urged. Again he gestured with his chin.
The gate was slower worked by a single man. Maybe a minute more before they left.
"You'll be miserable. She'll be miserable. You'll think about it every day. Go."
He didn't understand. "I'm not certain—"
Varric had no intention of explaining it to him. Instead, he shoved him.
Hard.
Surprised, Solas stumbled forward, but caught himself before he toppled over. Then found he was somehow still falling.
No — walking.
Then running. Toward her. He couldn't stop.
The gate was half-way up. Sera kicked her heel into her mount to spur it forward and ducked beneath. Cassandra followed behind. Bull would take the rear, so gave a gentle signal to the Inquisitor to move on.
"Ellana!" Solas cried. And she turned.
He didn't remember there being a decision made; there was no thought of proper goodbyes, of their friends who'd bear witness, or any thought at all. It just happened. He ran up beside her, captured her face in both his hands, and then he was kissing her.
Terribly. Wonderfully. Deeply.
Over and over again. Like he would die without it.
He didn't stop until she put her hands upon his wrists, gently. Traced her fingers over sensitive skin. A soft, guiding, touch to remind him to breathe. In the moment, he'd forgotten how. He did not want to if it meant they'd part.
She rest her forehead against his. Rubbed little circles against his wrist bones with her thumbs.
Then she kissed him once more. Smaller, and softer.
"Vhenan," he whispered. "Ma vhenan. Ar lath ma, i'tel ma vhenan dana. Ma dar'eth shiral, sathan."
She smiled. "I love you, too. I will."
He didn't remember the moment she pulled away, nor the last kiss she placed upon his lips before she left. Only that he held his fingers there as if he could keep it. And then stood in stoic silence, watching through the closed gate as her shadow disappeared somewhere along the bridge.
He stayed until the sun rose.
Until Varric touched a hand upon his elbow and led him away. Graciously, he did not speak of her — nor of the tear stains drying on his cheeks.
TRANSLATIONS:
Vhenan. Ma vhenan. Ar lath ma, i'tel ma vhenan dana. Ma dar'eth shiral, sathan. = Heart. My heart. I love you, my heart breaks without you. Be safe on your journey, please.