a/n- Well, as I said, finishing up college was an exercise in patience and sanity. Amid Lord of the Rings marathons, tearful goodbyes and fevered studying, I managed only a small amount of writing. Of course, the thing they don't tell you is that you have to pack up your stuff and somehow figure out how to reintegrate with the real world when you arrive home. Regardless, I apologize for the amount of time it's taken me to post this new chapter. As always, I seriously enjoy writing this story. DA: Inquisition has officially been part of my life for a whole year now, and this fanfiction will soon be just as old. For those of you who have stuck with me from the very beginning, thank you, and for those of you who are just starting to read, welcome. And to all of you, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Winter Soltice, Merry Yule etc…

Tabitha

Shadows Fall

Enya awoke in blue shadows. Her face was damp and the ground around her dusted with crisp snow that had fallen from the hole in the ceiling of this cavern, just as she had. Icicles dripped, their droplet splashing to the ground. In the cold, her mind slogged, slow and lazy, toward memories of what had happened. The tips of her ears tingled in the damp icy air. She gasped and then cried out as agony flowed through her ribs. Any movement made the pain worse, every vague shift a catalyst for more suffering, but she could ill afford to remain in this cavern.

She was already too cold. Her ears were the first sign of a condition that would soon take all of her if she didn't get to her feet, make it out of this cavern. Enya coughed and hint of blood painted her tongue. Her next breath was shallow but long as she quelled the panic that threatened to overtake her.

Her mark hummed and whined in the semi-light. Illuminating her surroundings and with them, her memories. The Anchor glowed eerie green and she saw Corypheus' face, the dragon, the flare streaking through the sky. She remembered telling her friends to run, to leave her, Cassandra's reluctance, Solas' resignation, Varric's acquiescence. Mythal, let them have survived.

Enya pulled herself up from the ground, ignoring the ache of her cold joints and her overused legs. Her feet could barely feel the ground beneath her. The Inquisition surely believed her to be dead, she had brought down a mountainside on top of herself, but if they were near, if she could find them, she would. One foot in front of the other, she used the haunting light of the Anchor to light her path through the passages. There was only one way to go; all other ended in vertical walls she did not have the strength to climb or in dead drops into an abyss of swirling black.

The shriek of a Despair demon chilled her more than the moist air of the cave. No sooner had Enya heard them, than a wind buffeted her battle dirty face. On the other side of the great cavern, snowflake twisted in the zephyrs slipping through the tunnel's entrance. Her distraction cost her another injury as the demons took notice of her presence and hurled ice at her. Enya wince as one of the shards tore through her upper arm. It was instinct that drove her to raise her hand. Her mark pulsed, pushing on the boundaries of her palm. It did not hurt. Instead the energy built begging to be released. She flung her hand forward. She did so and ripped open the Veil between these five demons. They slowed and were pulled apart in the vacuum of Fade Energy that surrounding this tear. When they had all fallen through, she closed her hand, quenched the flow and the rift she'd created snapped shut again.

Her heart pounded in her chest and she stared down at the Anchor. Her hand was stiff and her arm still blossomed with splinters of pain but she understood it better now. Enya could sense how it worked more, feel it fluctuations. Another cold wind blew through the opening, pulling her from her reverie and reminding her that she would freeze to death if she didn't keep moving.

The climb up the slope was long, but she passed by campfires. Someone had passed through the area not long before. The gale that rushed down the slope was relentless, and at times her steps only took her forward by inches rather than feet. Her weakness was a constant source of frustration. She'd run through her elfroot potions, those that had not been broken by her fall that is by the time she reached the treeline and though she could no longer taste the blood she produced when she coughed, the bitterness of the herbal mixture was no more welcome.

Enya looked back down the valley as the blowing snow finally abated. She wished to pick a rock and sit down for a few moments, maybe shut her eyes. The lids began to drift closed where she stood, but her stumble brought her back to full consciousness. If she sat, she would not rise again. In the silver moonlight, only the snowy slope could be seen. Haven had vanished under the snow, along with the Red Templars army. There was nothing left, not even the top of the Chantry was uncovered by her avalanche.

She coughed again and this time licked the blood from her lips.

"Fenedhis lasa!" the curse was bitter, rude, but it gave her strength, reminded her of her sister's harsh and unrestricted language.

The mountain pass was lonely. The wind howled through the peaks like wolves in the night. Alshasa would have delighted in calling it a sign that Fen'Harel had caught her scent, that he was dogging her footsteps. She shuddered against the cold that bit through her skin and muscles to her bones. It was foolish to remember her wild sister now, of all times. Focus was the only way she would survive.

Enya pressed on. The higher she climbed, the harder it was to breath. Even without the driving snow and wind, the air was thin and she couldn't take a full breath without pain. What was more, each step was a labor for the blanket of white on the ground reached well over her knees. She trudged ever upward. Her time was running out. She spat blood into the snow, just to spite her broken body. Her green eyes raked the scene above her for any sign the Inquisition had come this way. She was about to give up when she spotted the triangular structure of sticks standing out against the brown-gray rock.

Her limbs were imbued with new energy and she dropped her hand from her side. Enya had learned early in her life that hope was a powerful tool, one on which the Dalish had learned to rely, yet all too often forgot. It was hope that kept the Keepers searching for relics of the past, hope that drove them to move from place to place, hope that one day they might regain the pride and honor they felt they were due. It bloomed in her as she arrived at the edge of the firepit and was welcomed by the warm red-orange glow of embers in its depth. She was far to chilled to feel their warmth. They were waning, but it was still something.

She looked ahead of her and saw that the path curved away over the peak of the mountain. It was the only way she could go forward and so again she placed one foot in front of the other. Under the snow, the mountain often held unexpected ridges. Up until that moment, she was prepared, but her excitement had cost Enya precious amounts of her strength. As she crested the peak she stumbled, part in relief at the warm glow of campfires and the cream tops of Inquisition tents that filled the valley and part because she caught the toe of her boot on a ridge under the snowy coating. Her legs collapsed and she sat, swathed in the shimmering coat of the mountain. She could not control the shivers that wracked her body like seizures. Tears leaked unbidden over Enya's eyelashes and ran over the sage vallaslin on her cheeks in frustration and exhaustion.

Mired now to her waist in the snow, she fought, trying again and again to rise to her feet, but her muscles, overtaxed and shaking from cold would not obey. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she contorted herself or reached out toward the snow for the hope of something to grasp, her legs could not lift her from the ground. It could have been an hour or it could have been seconds, but eventually she gazed at the tops of her breeches, rusty stains soaked into the leather. He hands came to rest on them, the Anchor flaring weakly, as though its power was tied to her life. She was too tired, to dehydrated, to truly cry, but a tear dripped onto her forearm. There was nothing more she could do but hope.

Enya uttered a silent prayer. Falon'din, tel'ghilana mir dinan.

Her thoughts from that moment on grew hazy. There came the crunch of boots in the snow. They were close to her, a shout, male, smooth, strong, familiar called out to her. Another voice, she though perhaps it was Cassandra. But the words made no sense, they shuffled, jumbled in her mind. Hands at once grabbed her, both rough yet gentle, perhaps urgent. Pain, intense and precise pierced her side. She was convinced it was Cassandra's voice. It was close, soothing, scared, like a mother speaking to her sick child. And then through the pain there came the welcoming rush of darkness.

When next she woke, her hand pulled her from blissful unconsciousness. It crackled and hissed angrily in her palm. A gruff voice argued with Solas over her treatment. She tried to sit to interject, if for no other reason than to get them to stop so she could return to her slumber but the instantaneous pressure of Solas' hand on her shoulder stopped her. Instead she managed and agonizing fit of coughing that ended when he touched her forehead and sent her back into sleep.

Varric woke her later with quiet murmured words. Enya blinked, eyes half open, but the dwarf didn't notice. She couldn't understand everything he said, for a great deal was too quiet to even discern but in his hand, he clasped and idol she recognized as Andraste. Her surprise was quickly forgotten as he rose, tucked the little figure into his coat pocket and patted her armor clad knee.

"Be strong, Herald," He whispered and walked of the tent in which she slept, past a very disgruntled Adan.

She slipped away again, though this time it was not from pain, or magic, but pure exhaustion. Though she had not noticed, her ribs had been healed.

Enya let out a groan and pressed a hand to her head. There were voices, angry, elevated, insistent. Their frustration seeped into the air and into her. It had been hours. Her head had started to ache in her prone state.

"And what do you suggest I tell them?"

The entire camp could hear Cullen's yell. It wouldn't help anything to keep yelling. Enya pushed herself up, mouth twisted in tight line of irritation and concern. A warm hand stopped her from doing much more than prop herself on her elbow. Mother Giselle's well-meaning gaze, though she knew it was meant to sooth and comfort, did little but remind her how useless lying in this cot felt.

"This isn't what we asked them to do!" the Commander's hand sliced the air in front of him, every bit as sharp as his sword.

Cassandra's strained voice raised and octave to respond, "We cannot simply ignore this. We must find a way!"

Cullen poked her in the chest, "And who put you in charge?!"

Never before had Enya seen such abject aggression from their Commander. The sight was distinctly disquieting. Stress changed him, made him fearful. And like a wounded animal, he lashed out. Every crack of Cullen's voice, even now when he was not speaking to her, reminded her that he had a long history of great misfortune and the destruction on Haven was just one more disaster to add to his list.

"We must do this by agreement or not at all!"

"What did you think we were doing Cullen? Shouting down the snow?" Sarcasm was terrifying when it fell from Cassandra's lips.

Josephine intervened, her Antivan lilt pleading them to calm down, "Please, we must use reason. Without the infrastructure of the Inquisition, we're hopeless…"

Cullen cut her off, "We can't just dream up an order! It can't come from nowhere."

Leliana stepped in front of the ambassador, her response a warning, "She didn't say it could!"

And again Cassandra stepped in, "Enough! This is getting us nowhere."

"Well we're agreed on that at least."

"You need rest," Mother Giselle's quiet tones drew her back to the healing tent.

Enya let out a long sigh, "They've been at it for hours."

"And thanks to you, they have that luxury," the Chantry mother's mouth curled into a tiny smile. The light of the campfires gave the raspberry red of her Chantry habit and robes a warm glow, glinting off the golden overlays.

"Our enemy could not follow, and with time to doubt, we turn to blame. Infighting might threaten our Inquisition as much as Corypheus."

Enya's eyes travelled to her hand. The Anchor was silent, dormant, now, nothing like it had been when she'd woken before. She closed it into a fist and looked up at the Revered Mother, "Have Leliana's scouts found any sigh of him?"

"If he is nearby, he is well hidden," Mother Giselle replied, "But it is more likely he has run back to his sanctuary for now. You dealt him a significant, blow, Herald."

At least she could find satisfaction in that. The Red Templars that assaulted Haven were buried. They would not threaten again. She regretted it, but they were better off. They would only have been consumed by the red lyrium that flowed through their veins. A quick death under the snow was far more merciful than the slow creep of madness brought on by the corrupted lyrium Varric had described.

"He may believe you are dead, and therefore he has slipped back into his hole. Or he girds his forces for another attack. But we are not even sure where we are. Leliana's scouts and Cullen's patrols only know that we have come over many ridges and are among some of the tallest of the Frostbacks. It is unlikely Corypheus knows any better."

Enya shook her head. How could they not know where they were? Creators. If she were recovered perhaps she could join the Scouts, find the scar from the Breach in the sky. It had to be visible. With Clan Lavellan, she'd led hunting parties home through forests they'd only passed once. Certainly, she could find their way.

"I should be helping," Enya intoned.

Mother Giselle's smile faded and she returned her hand to her lap, "Another heated voice will not help matters. Even yours. Perhaps especially yours."

Enya's tilted her head in question.

"Our leaders fight because of what they have witnessed, what we all saw." Her voice darkened, low and soft, "We saw our defender stand, and fall, and now you have returned to us. The more the enemy is beyond us, the more miraculous your action appear, and the more our trials seem ordained.

Enya pulled herself all the way up, swinging her feet over the side of the cot. Her feet swung, and though she wished to sit tall and proud, her spine still slumped with exhaustion.

"That is hard to accept, no? What we have been called to endure. What we perhaps must come to believe." Mother Giselle's stared deep into the camp though her expression was far away.

Still they thought she was some great figure, some chosen one, fated to save Thedas. Yes, she had accomplished great things in the time since the Conclave, but she'd done them all herself, without the help of any great deity or prophet. Only herself and her closest companions. Perhaps it gave them comfort to believe that she was chosen, but it still made her uncomfortable to allow it. Once, the Creators had been present, once they'd had chosen, perhaps if she'd been alive then, she would better understand their feelings, but alas, they were gone and her actions were her own.

"I escaped the avalanche. I have not returned from the dead," She argued, "I did not die, Mother Giselle."

Enya looked up at her.

"Indeed, and the dead cannot return to the living from across the Veil, but the people know what they thought they saw, or what they needed to see," A hint of a smile returned, "The Maker works both in the moment, and it how it was remembered. Can we truly know that the Heavens do not intervene?"

Enya remembered a conversation she had with Solas about spirits and how they reflected the world closest to them in the Fade. They reflected all the memories of those closest to them, regardless of the truth of them. Both the actual moment of the event and the memories of it would leave an imprint, and the reality was indistinguishable from how it was remembered. Each version of the truth is a mistruth, but all are of equal regard in the Fade. After a tempestuous conversation with Threnn, she had asked about Ostagar, his dreams of the battle he offered as evidence for his analysis.

"Corypheus said that he had entered the Fade before," Enya commented.

Mother Giselle nodded, "The Canticle of Threnodies tells a tale of Tevinter Magisters who succumbed to the temptation in the words of the old, false gods of the Empire and Breached the Veil to see the Golden City of the Maker. But the Fade is not a place for mortals, and their intrusion Blackened the seat of the Maker. For their crime, they were cast out as darkspawn. Their hubris is why we humans suffer the Blight. If such is the claim of this Corypheus, then he is a monster beyond imagining. All mankind continues to suffer for that sin. If he is as he says, then all the more reason for Andraste to choose someone to oppose him."

Enya considered this. Tales of the Chant of light rarely made it to her Clan. The Dalish had simply taken the Blights to be another symptom of the Creators' imprisonment and avoided them if at all possible. She reminded herself, however, that the last blight had been ended by a Dalish hunter from Clan Sabrae. But if Corypheus were real, did that make his tale true, did that prove that Thedas was truly alone?

"He said he found only emptiness." She pressed, "Nothing golden."

Mother Giselle let out a sad sigh, "If he had entered that world, it has changed him. The living are not meant to make that journey. Perhaps these are lies he must tell himself, rather than know he earned the scorn of the Maker. I know I could not bear such."

But if he followed the old gods of Tevinter, why would it matter to him that he earned the wrath of another god? Enya bit her lip and gripped the edge of the bed tighter.

"I am not some chosen one, Mother Giselle. Corypheus is a real, physical threat." Enya's emerald eyes danced with her frustration as when she met the Chantry Mother's brown ones, "I understand that it might be a comfort for some to see me as more than an accident, but if it was Corypheus' own fanatical beliefs that brought this chaos, why should we encourage more of that same thinking?"

Enya rose from the cot and crossed to the edge of the tent. A cool breeze brushed over her cheeks, soothing and quiet, yet it did not lift the trouble from her face. She hung on one of the rope that held the tent. The raw strands of the thick ropes grounded her, and then her hands found her hips. On the far side of camp, Leliana and Josephine sat together next to one of the fires. The spymaster rubbed the back of her neck through her hood, legs drawn up to her chest. Josephine stared at her hands. Cullen paced as he often did when anxious. Enya wondered if the movement of his feet helped him to think or if it was a nervous habit from when he was a Templar patrolling the circles. She spotted Dorian drinking something by the fire, though the bottle rose and fell from his lips as though by necessity rather than desire. Varric was harder to spot, but she finally found him near some of the younger recruits, whose eyes were vacant. They had probably lost their first friend to battle. Enya pitied them, for this was not their last fight, nor that last death they would endure, before Corypheus fell. Cassandra poured over their maps, fingers tracing trade routes and roads, the outlines of cities. Yet she looked up too frequently for this exercise to be anything more than comfort

Mother Giselle pursed her lips, "You are Dalish, are you not, Herald?"

Enya glanced back over her shoulder, "I am."

"I have read that your people believe they were betrayed by one of their gods."

"The Dread Wolf," She supplied.

"Yes. They believe that this 'Dread Wolf' sealed the rest of the gods away so they could no longer help their people?"

Enya nodded affirmation.

"Are your people better without the hope that their gods might intervene?"

Enya's silence spoke volumes. Her gaze fell to her feet in thought. Without the Creators, the Dalish had become disparate, spreading across Thedas and only meeting once every ten years to share the knowledge the Keepers had gained through their studies. They were always looking back, hoping to recover all that was lost when the Chantry stomped out Halamshiral. Even the prayers and oaths they made, were made in the memory of their Creators, as a tradition rather than a belief that they would somehow have an effect, as though the simple belief that they existed would somehow release them from their prison.

"There is a difference between fanaticism and faith, Herald. And in you, much of Thedas sees a source in which to place our faith."

Enya lifted her eyes again, brows raised.

"You give us a reason to hope, Herald," Mother Giselle explained, "And in such turbulent and troubled times it must be hope that guides us through this unending darkness."

On the far side of camp, Leliana and Josephine sat together next to one of the fires. The spymaster rubbed the back of her neck through her hood, legs drawn up to her chest. Josephine stared at her hands. Cullen paced as he often did when anxious. Enya wondered if the movement of his feet helped him to think or if it was a nervous habit from when he was a Templar patrolling the Circles. She spotted Dorian drinking something by the fire, though the bottle rose and fell from his lips as though by necessity rather than desire. Varric was harder to spot, but she finally found him near some of the younger recruits, whose eyes were vacant. They had probably lost their first friend in the battle. Enya pitied them, for this was not their last fight, nor the last death they would endure, before Corypheus fell. Cassandra poured over their maps, fingers tracing trade routes and roads, the outlines of cities. Yet she looked up too frequently for this exercise to be anything more than comfort. In the tent next to her, the strange boy, Cole, dabbed at the ashy brow of Chancellor Roderick and shushed his weak moans.

She could say nothing to Mother Giselle for the enormity of the Chantry cleric words left her devoid of anything she could have said. A combination of disbelief and expectation held her tongue captive.

Shadows fall and hope has fled.

The Revered Mother's unsteady alto emanated from the tent behind her, at once quiet, yet powerful. Enya spun at the sound, but the cleric did not meet her eyes. She walked past her, out into the clearing at the center of camp. With each line, her voice grew. Enya didn't know the words, had never heard the song before, but as Mother Giselle moved into the next verse, she was joined by Leliana and then other voices. She spotted Cullen and Cassandra's lips moving. Josephine stood from the bench on which she sat, and the very act gave her voice more power. In the crowd of people that slipped from the tents to join Mother Giselle in song, Enya spotted the faces of Haven, those that had once looked at her with accusation, now open and bared to her. They approached like the tide coming in, and slowly they fell to one knee. Their heads were bowed, but their voices raised in song.

Enya's breathing came shallow in her chest as her heart swelled. Her shock could not have been hidden, nor did she try. Her face was pale with it. Her vallaslin should have been a shimmering reminder that she wasn't someone these people trusted but they seemed not to see it, to look past it, to the mark she bore on her hand and to their belief that she was the chosen of their champion, Andraste.

Look to the sky, for one day soon,

The dawn will come.