"This is… alarmingly clear."
Solas looks at Leas as they stand outside the chantry, the slightly shifting and distorting walls and the even greener sky the only real signs that they are in the Fade. Even so, Solas knows it is nothing more than a simulacrum: there is no real life here, no smell, no taste, no wind, nothing of what the Chantry terms the 'divine spark' that differentiates mortals from spirits. Most would be unnerved, he knows, but it is comfortable enough to him, even if it is a shadow of what it once was, what it should still be.
But Leas appears deeply unsettled, and Solas frowns at his expression. Earlier, he had said that the idea of a world where the Fade and reality mingled sounded wonderful, if perilous, and Solas' heart had leapt at his marvel. There is no marvel here, however, only uneasiness. "In what sense?" Solas prompts him.
"Can't you sense it?" Leas asks, frowning. He takes another long look around him. "I can smell… I can smell things. Spices on the wind, blood, incense in the chantry—everything I've come to expect. And I can hear… I can hear the wind. Feel it, even. It's so… lifelike. If it hadn't been night five minutes ago, I would think this was the real world."
Solas stares at him for a moment, then looks around, trying again to sense the things of which Leas speaks. But he comes up with nothing, only the simulacrum. "That is… unusual," he says tactfully. "To dream with such clarity that the Fade and the real world seem the same? Even I have not encountered such a thing before."
Leas looks down at his marked hand. "It must be this," he says, lifting and examining it. "It gives me a connection to the Fade beyond what I already had. Who's to say it can't make me dream with even greater clarity?" His voice trembles for just a moment and Solas can detect no excitement at the idea—unsurprising, he supposes, given what little he has heard of the life the man has led.
"That is most probable," he agrees. Another silence falls, and he exhales. The Fade was never so real even to the elves of Arlathan—it was always noticeably different, no matter how interconnected the two realms were, and it could never be more than a simulacrum—but there is something about how real it is to Leas. The man is more connected to the Fade than possibly any elf alive today other than Solas himself, and yet he can do so little with it because of Solas' own creation. It is so pitiable that it borders on tragic, and though he wars with himself, the greater part of him thinks that surely there is nothing wrong with giving Leas a taste of what he could have had, in another time, another place, especially if it helps them in the battles to come.
Or perhaps he is merely trying to make himself feel better. Who can say?
"How else is it affecting you?" he asks after a moment. "Is there anything I should be aware of other than your dreams and the pain?"
Leas considers it, eyeing the mark as he does so. "Not that I'm aware of," he says slowly. "It's painful when it nears a rift or any group of demons. It's excruciating when I close a rift. It seems to brim with raw potential, but what that potential might be, I don't know. Apart from that…"
Solas nods. He had been expecting such an answer. "I suppose we shall see," he says. "We have time, after all. However, I must ask that you come straight to me if anything out of the ordinary happens. It should be stable, but I worry how it might interact with your abilities, especially now that we are training them. They could become more potent when combined, but they could also pose a serious danger." That stands true without factoring his own plans into it, and Leas makes a small noise of agreement.
"I will, don't worry," he says, with a reassuring smile. "For the moment, however, it seems calm."
That is some relief, and Solas permits himself a moment of it. "Good. Now, I thought we might try something slightly different tonight." He heads down the steps towards the entrance to Haven, the boundary of this part of the Fade, and Leas follows him. As they do, they pass by the other sleeping minds, whose dreams whirl in myriad indistinct shapes, and if Solas were a weaker man, he would think they were begging to be entered. As it is, he shall enter no one's mind without their permission; consequently, he is the only person whose dreams Leas has entered (carefully controlled versions, of course; now's not the time to give the game away). That will have to change.
They reach the gate, and Solas raises his hand. "Watch carefully. Tonight, I shall take you further afield." Leas stands at his side and leans in somewhat, and Solas slows his movements so that the younger man can see how he warps the boundary, how he pulls it around them until it gives way. He steps forward, and Leas follows, and just like that, they are standing in the raw Fade.
"It is a matter of intent, exiting realms to walk the Fade," he says, lowering his hand. "Simple enough, even for a beginner. The boundaries should give way before you." Leas nods slowly throughout and looks curiously back at the boundary they have just crossed. "Would you like to try?"
"I think that would be an idea," Leas says. Solas nods, and it is an even simpler matter for them to step back over the boundary and into the realm that has taken Haven's form. Leas appears to allow himself a moment of adjustment, then he turns back, raises his hand, and presses it to the boundary. Even here, Solas can see his mark, and even before the two make contact, the border is already shifting and warping. Whether that is a natural consequence of the mark or only the raw, untapped ability of an apprentice dreamer, Solas is uncertain, and he's not sure he'll like the answer.
For a few moments, however, nothing happens, and Leas screws up his face and gesticulates slightly, his attempts at imitating Solas quite overdone. "Calm," Solas says. "You need not try so hard. Such boundaries are resistant to brute force. Focus your mind on wanting it to happen, and it will happen."
Leas nods and visibly relaxes, and seconds later, the boundary gives way, and they step out into the raw Fade again. "Excellent," Solas says.
"Is it always that simple?" Leas asks in a tone full of wonder. "What if I am trying to leave the realm of a powerful demon?"
"That is a far more complicated matter, yes," is Solas' immediate response. "In such cases, the boundaries will be stronger, and if you cannot kill or drive away the demon, you will need to reshape the Fade to leave. I will show you how to do that later. For now…"
They begin to walk through the Fade, as easily as if they were ambling around Haven. "You said you planned to take me further afield," Leas presses.
"Indeed. Dreamers can go very far in the Fade in a single night, sometimes from one end of the continent to the other. I suspect such an ability could be useful to you in the days to come, wouldn't you agree?"
"Oh, yes," Leas says, and he nods vigorously, that excited spark coming into his eyes once again. "I can already imagine the possibilities! Or a fraction of the possibilities, I suppose. So, how far are we going?"
"Quite far," Solas says with a rare smile. The idea had come to him after he had first heard of Leas' family a few days since, and it is one of those rare ideas of his that he has had no desire to shake off. "Watch. As we walk, I will show you how to reach our destination on your own. Something tells me you will wish to return frequently."
"Oh?" But Leas does not question him further, as if sensing that Solas wants to surprise him, and for that, Solas is grateful. He's not sure if he can call the young man a friend just yet, but it seems only right that he do this for him after what his actions resulted in.
They walk far, and though Leas occasionally seems agitated and eager to get on, they do not hurry—time is as meaningless here as it was in the days of Arlathan. As they go on, Solas points out several notable 'landmarks', so to speak, and makes Leas memorise them; thankfully, the man's memory is strong, and he learns quickly. In between these 'landmarks', he speaks of how one can master the art of Fade-walking, and Leas hangs onto his every word. Again, Solas can't help but compare him to a child eager to start his lessons, and he wonders that the Dalish could produce someone so willing to learn and see a world outside his preconceptions. But for once, he does not voice that thought aloud; it seems in rather poor taste, given what he has in mind.
At long last, they arrive in the simulacrum of a mid-sized forest bordered on the east and south by the coast. They have not got far into it when Leas suddenly straightens, sniffs the air, and frowns. "Is this…" he murmurs, and he gives Solas a glance that Solas supposes he meant to be surreptitious, but he trails off while Solas says nothing still and keeps himself from smiling. They continue on a little further, and soon the first aravel appears among the trees.
Leas freezes, and his oversized blue eyes get even wider in the shifting light of the Fade. "Is that—Creators!" He whips his head around and stares at Solas, expression caught between shock and delight, and Solas now allows himself to smile, admittedly rather smugly. "Solas! You took me to the Free Marches?!"
"I did," Solas says, his smile turning into a small grin. "I did tell you dreamers could travel far. This is your clan, is it not?"
"I—" Leas turns around again and observes his surroundings, but he does not do so for long. "Yes, this is—I recognise this part of the forest! My clan were camped here when I left for the Conclave! How did you know?"
Solas shrugs a little. "I overheard you saying they were still near Wycome," he says. "It was easy to extrapolate from there. Given how long it is likely to be before you can see them in the flesh again, I thought you would appreciate being able to see them in the Fade."
The grin spreading across Leas' face is all the answer he needs. "I do indeed, very much so," he says, his voice brimming with scarcely contained excitement and relief. At once, he sets off towards the aravels, and Solas follows him. "To know I can find them in the Fade, even if I can't interact with them as normal… 'ma serannas, Solas."
"De da'rahn," Solas says, and they breach the permitter of the camp. All around are aravels and statues to the Evanuris, even one to himself—Solas tries not to look at that one for long. Somewhere to the right, he can just faintly see the herd of halla, sleeping in the grass, as fine beasts as they were in the days of Arlathan. Next to him, Leas breathes in the scents and quiet of home, and quiet contentment replaces his excitement, for a scarce moment.
Then he looks at Solas, narrowing his eyes. "Wait. Everyone's asleep now, guards excluded. In the Fade. How will they not see us? Deshanna and the other mages especially?"
Again, Solas smirks, and he waves a hand, contorting the Fade around them. Leas astutely watches the movements. When he has finished, he drops his hand. "This will conceal us from them," he says. "Again, it is a simple matter."
Leas raises an eyebrow at him. "Everything in the Fade seems a simple matter to you." His tone is dry.
Solas chuckles. "After the amount of time I have spent here, yes, I suppose so," he admits. "In time, it will become simple to you as well, I promise."
"That would be something," Leas says. He shakes his head slightly. "Come. Let's look around."
They begin to make their way through the camp, passing by the remnants of the night's campfire, the crafting stations, the food stores, and more besides. Leas spares these a look, but Solas can tell that his real goal is the aravels, and indeed, he only slows down once they have reached them. Surrounding them now are about two hundred indistinct shapes, little realms all of their own, the thoughts and dreams of Leas' clanmates, and in the centre, Solas can see what he supposes must be Keeper Deshanna and the other mages of the clan. These four wander, as mages do, and they pass them by, but they spare them not a glance, as Solas had said.
Still, Solas catches the drift of their thoughts. Situation is worrying—we need to get the clan out—what's Deshanna waiting for, we have to go—we've got enough problems—Leas with this 'Inquisition'—overtures of friendliness, but they're just Chantry puppets—why is he helping—what about this Breach—can he truly close the Breach—they say he has a mark, a divine mark—Herald of Andraste, what bullshit, how dare the Chantry—some of us need to go, no good can come of leaving the Breach in the sky—let them burn, it should be our turn again—
Leas initially jumps at the sudden influx of his fellows' minds, but he seems to adjust quickly enough. "Strange," he murmurs. "Surface thoughts only, but I'd rather not get more acquainted with their inner minds than that. Let's keep moving."
"Haven't you heard their thoughts before?" Solas asks as they proceed through the aravels. "Even entered their minds?"
"Deshanna permitted it a few times, but when the others heard of it, they refused to let me near them," Leas says. "We don't get much privacy, living like this. I think they'd rather not lose what little they have to a form of magic they barely understand. And, well…" He trails off, and though Solas looks at him, he does not elaborate.
The thoughts continue. Most revolve around the mundanities of clan life, worries about the next day's hunt, or apprentices who aren't doing their jobs properly, or a sick child, or which design of vallaslin some adolescent will choose for their coming of age—Solas' hands tremble with sudden fury at this. Others are more unusual, concerning the situation at Wycome and the Breach; a few of the hunters and warriors appear to be considering asking permission to join the Inquisition. One, a young man named Syghimye, muses over Leas' heroism and wonders if his going to the Inquisition might bring them closer together, but Leas does not appear to notice. He is more focused on a much younger man to his left.
"Ah, Anverelan got his vallaslin," he says, obviously pleased. "Elgar'nan. A shame I wasn't there to see it."
"A shame?" Solas asks tersely.
Apparently unaware of the shift in tone, Leas prattles on with a smile. "Well, the Keeper is the one who applies the vallaslin in the ritual, and as her First, I've spent years practising the craft. Whole hours spent covering myself, my brother, and my cousins in ink! Good times…" A momentary pause. "All I can say is, Ghilan'nain's and Mythal's are easy, Sylaise's is not, Dirthamen's requires patience… you get the picture. Anyway, I practised on Anverelan a lot when we were younger. He's one of my cousins, by the way, one of the few who I have any sort of relationship with. I'm sorry I missed him getting it for real."
Solas narrows his eyes. "You make it sound like a hobby," he says.
Leas chuckles. "True. The children love getting their hands on the ink and painting each other with mock vallaslin. My brother and I did it all the time. Deshanna doesn't like it—she's always been a stickler for tradition—but they do it so often that she really can't stop it." He remains entirely oblivious to Solas' mounting anger as he muses and still does even when Solas inhales a sharp breath to calm himself.
A hobby, he growls to himself. A mockery. I wonder how this Deshanna would feel if she knew what the vallaslin was traditionally!
Moments later, Leas leaves his cousin's side, and Solas trails after him, distracting himself from his anger by listening into more of the dreams and thoughts that they pass by. Again, there are the mundanities of life in the clan, but this time, he also senses an entirely different theme. Leas, what's he got himself into—a divine mark—they say he lets them call him the Herald, bloody flat-ear, what's wrong with him—typical, really—the mark is magic, like he needs more magic—too dangerous—we should tell the Keeper, we need a new First, he's too much of a risk—he can't be First and be that nice with the shemlen—will he forget us—they'll forget him—too bloody dangerous, his magic would be better off forgotten—And on and on it goes, intermingled with images in nightmares of Leas as an abomination, Leas without his vallaslin, a 'flat-ear' as they say, and Solas scowls again.
"I get the sense your clan doesn't like you very much," he says after a few minutes of this.
Leas chuckles, and his face shows no signs of his being hurt by his clan's disregard. "No, they don't," he says. "I've always been a bit… different from the others. As the First, I was isolated from most, though I had some companionship in the other mages. But then I returned from the Blight, and I had experience of a world and things that most of us could only dream of, and with it came rather… unorthodox opinions. To be sure, my clan interacts more peacefully with humans than most, but even so, we're not that friendly to them, and we cling to the old ways very closely. So when I came back having adopted Andrastianism in addition to following our own gods, and when I started to advocate for building bridges and making friends with the humans, and when I tried to think critically about the old stories and traditions instead of just swallowing them, and when it turned out I was a dreamer, well… most of them didn't like that. I've been a pariah ever since: protected, of course. But disliked."
Typical, Solas thinks bitterly, though his heart warms to Leas as he speaks. He is an anomaly indeed, perhaps even a man after his own heart in some respects. A pity his people are too narrow-minded to appreciate that.
"I understand," he says. "But why would they reject you for being a dreamer? It is a kind of magic that is almost extinct among your people yet was close to universal in the days of Arlathan. I would have thought the Dalish would have been happy that you possessed it."
Leas shrugs, and Solas can tell from the way he's peering into the aravels now that he's not paying a lot of attention. "Some respected me for it, yes," he says. "Keeper Deshanna among them. But we've all heard the stories of the dreamer-abominations, of how most dreamers are too frail of mind to survive possession. Most of my clanmates feared I would be just as weak, would end up possessed, and would slaughter the clan, and hearing of the powers I possessed didn't help matters. They gave me a very wide berth as a result."
"It's been a decade since your abilities manifested," Solas says, hands shaking again. "You've survived all that time. And yet they still…?"
"Things can change at a moment's notice," Leas says. "The reason I got caught up in the Blight was that my clan went to Ferelden to give our excess mage children to a clan who had lost all of their mages due to the Keeper becoming an abomination. He had been their Keeper for some fifteen years, I'm told, and he still ended up possessed. Most fear the same will happen to me. Yes, it was as common as water in the days of Arlathan… but it isn't now, and I didn't have the training to make use of my abilities, so they're basically useless to my people, and we must all think of the safety of the clan. I won't deny we're very stubborn, but… we are more adaptable than you think, Solas," he adds with a small smile, and Solas sighs.
He considers for a long moment, attempts to consider the position of his clanmates. "I suppose I understand," he says grudgingly, after a while. Dreamer-abominations are exceedingly dangerous, and if his clan didn't have the resources to teach Leas how to use his gifts, then he must concede that their fear of him on this count only makes sense. "I do not agree, but I understand." Perhaps, it occurs to him, he expects too much of the Dalish. But that is a thought for another time.
A brief pause, then Leas comes to a halt. "Here we are," he says, inclining his head towards the closest aravel, one that is a little larger than most of its fellows. "Come in with me, Solas." Just like that, he steps through the wall of the aravel, the phasing apparently no surprise to him, and Solas follows him.
Inside, they find a rather large group of sleeping Dalish, at least twenty in all. Many are redheaded, and the predominant vallaslin seem to be Elgar'nan's, Mythal's, and Andruil's, though Solas also recognises the patterns of Ghilan'nain, Falon'Din, and June. Looking at Leas, he sees the man visibly relax, a small smile crossing his face. "Babae's side of the family," he says by way of explanation. "Mamae's have another aravel to themselves. We're quite sprawling as Dalish families go."
"Indeed," Solas says, looking around. "You must have many cousins."
"Nearly a dozen and a growing pile of first cousins once removed," Leas says. "I'm here for closer relatives, however." With that, he starts to tread carefully through what little open space there is, and Solas follows him; as he does, he notes that though it seems a crowded mess, there are gaps between different groups of the Dalish, and each group has both elders, adults, and children within it. Individual families within the larger whole, that much is plain. Thus, it does not take long for him to realise that the final group, at the other end of the aravel, comprising two very elderly Dalish, a man and a woman with greying hair and similarly stern expressions even in sleep, who face away from each other, a young man whose hair, vallaslin, and lack of scars are the only things that differentiate him from Leas, and a brown-haired child with a soft face who shifts uneasily in his sleep, are Leas' most immediate family members. That their thoughts are predominantly occupied with Leas, filled with anxiety and fear for him—and extreme guilt, in the case of his brother—I should have been there, I should have come along, what's he going to do without me, I can't let this happen to him, not again—is further confirmation.
"My parents, paternal grandparents, brother, and my son," Leas says, and he kneels between the latter two, observing them closely. Solas spares the brother a brief look, notes Falon'Din's vallaslin and how even now he has the mien of a fierce warrior, but he devotes most of his attention to the child. The boy must be about ten years old—older than he expected, considering his father is only twenty-five—and his hair is soft and messy, and his mouth twists into a frightened grimace, and that is all Solas can see before he has to tear his eyes away.
He had known Leas had a child, but to see the boy now… What sort of life will he have now that this mark has been given to his father? Gut clenching and compressing, Solas focuses on the boy's surface thoughts almost to the exclusion of all else.
Where is he—is he all right—too many shemlen, is he okay, will he be okay—Creators, please, let him be okay—I'll be good, I won't ever ask for sweets again—please please please—I want him home, maybe he can tell me what this—woke up last night and the wood was freezing—don't get it—please let him be okay, don't let the shemlen eat him, please—
What follows is an increasingly distorted series of images, all of Leas—not as an abomination this time, but as the victim of humans: hanged, beaten to death, stripped naked and left to die in the cold, any number of horrible fates. Interweaved with these visions are equally fantastical depictions of Arlathan, the Dales, and the alienages, with humans as demons wearing human faces, chasing the elves down, killing them, chaining them, beating them, and Solas looks away from the moment to see the boy shifting even more uneasily. A soft whimper leaves his mouth. They must be teaching him of the fall of Arlathan and the Dales, he thinks, and he glances at Leas.
Leas, however, is also watching. "A nightmare," he says, looking resigned. "He has always been prone to…" He sighs. "I knew learning our history would do this to him. Solas, is there anything…?"
A pause. Solas weighs up his options, then grimaces slightly. "I hate to take advantage, but yes," he says. "You can shape his dreams, give him something more pleasant. You see how his thoughts appear to be swirling around him, like all the others?"
Leas looks back down at his son and nods.
"Take them in your hand," Solas says. "Normally, I would tell you to enter his mind, but with the mark, I suspect that will not be necessary. Try to take them, and keep your mind blank while you do so." Leas frowns, evidently confused, but after a moment, he lifts his hands and presses them to the spinning images. The boy shifts again, with another whimper, but though Leas startles, he does not let go.
"Now what?"
"Think of a memory. Something pleasant. With the aid of the mark, you will… press it into his mind." Leas glances at him, frowning, and Solas shrugs. "It is difficult to explain. Think of a memory, focus on it as you did on the boundary, will yourself to direct it to his mind, and it will go."
Slowly, Leas nods, and his shoulders hunch as he concentrates on a memory. Solas, meanwhile, sits in what little space there is available and observes. After a few moments, he sees the images start to flicker around Leas, too indistinct to be described. "Keep focusing," he says. "They must be clear, or they will not last." Leas nods again and furrows his brow in concentration, and gradually—though it backslides often and at one point almost disappears entirely—the images become more and more detailed until Solas can make out a scene of a younger, unbranded Leas holding a toddler in his lap and singing to him.
"There," he says. "Now transfer it. Hold onto the boy's nightmare and open your mind. Try to think like him: to recall some of his terror. It will aid the process. And do not try too hard—his mind is malleable, and he is no trained mage. It will not take much effort to get this into his head."
This time, the silence is longer, and Solas watches as Leas attempts to open up both his and the boy's mind. Ever so slowly as before, the scene flickers through, chasing some of the nightmare away, and the boy's muscles relax for a moment, but just as quickly, it fails, and the previous images return. A second attempt is made, then a third, but both fall short; ultimately, Solas shakes his head and also presses his hands to both the boy's nightmare and Leas' memory. "Let me assist," he says, and he clears his mind, and holds both things tight.
The boy's mental barriers are stronger than he had expected—he is unconscious, of course, but there is something there that Solas has seen before: an unawakened potential, the capacity to be aware in the Fade. Ah. The boy is a mage. But Solas does not linger on this thought, nor does he say anything to Leas—that is no way for him to find out. Instead, he clears his mind again and focuses, easing the barriers aside with as much gentleness as he can. Moments later, the memory slides into the boy's head, and Solas listens with a small smile as the younger Leas sings Ma Da'len Somniar. The boy startles for a moment, but then his tension eases at last, and when Solas and Leas pull away, the scene remains.
"Well done," Solas says.
"I thank you for the help," Leas responds with a nod, "but I was hoping I would be able to do that myself."
"You have never shaped anyone's dreams before, remember," Solas tells him. "It will take practice. Besides, the boy's mental barriers were quite strong."
Leas apparently does not catch the implication of this statement. "Interesting," he says, but he is more focused on staring fondly down at the boy. "I would like to keep doing this. He is skittish, Adhlean. Anxious by nature. He must be terrified for me. Hmm. Perhaps I could do this for Iselen, too… approach him in his dreams. That is possible, yes?"
"Indeed, but that will take even more effort than this, at least to begin with," Solas says, "and I believe you have done enough for one night."
Leas' shoulders abruptly sag. "You are probably right," he admits. "It was enough to come here, to see them, and to give Adhlean this much. And if I can come again…" He smiles for a moment, then exhales. "I expect we should be getting back soon."
Solas nods. "You will need sleep," he says, and Leas hums in agreement.
"Of course. Let me just say goodbye," he says, and Solas steps away, insides twisting again. If he could sweat in the Fade, then almost certainly he would.
Leas leans over his son, running his hand over his hair, touching him yet not. "Siu'era, 'ma'hallain," he says soothingly. "My ne arla melahn'elan. Tel'gela sul'em." Then he goes to his brother, to his parents, and to his grandparents, and for each of them, he murmurs similar words—words that they cannot hear. Solas supposes he will have to teach him how to enter their dreams; they deserve that comfort, and perhaps it will ease the guilt that's presently trying to choke him. He swallows it down, but only barely.
When Leas has finished, he stands and inclines his head to Solas, and they pass out of the aravel the same way they entered. The younger man looks thoughtful, perhaps even at peace despite everything, and Solas knows better than to question it, to shatter it. He's done more than enough already.
"Come," Leas says after a few moments. "Let's head back." With that, they turn and leave the camp, or its simulacrum, and return to the raw Fade.
Translations
"De da'rahn": "It was a little thing."
"Siu'era, 'ma'hallain. My ne arla melahn'elan. Tel'gela sul'em.": "Sweet dreams, my little halla calf. I will be home when I can. Do not fear for me."
All translations taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen.