"Hurtled into the Chaos, you fight. And the world will shake before you." -Flemeth

A/N: Preview for upcoming chapters: The next one will be a Cullen POV, followed by Solas again.

There is a lot of elvish in this chapter, some of which I miiiight have made up with some DA-Wiki guidance. There's a glossary of terms of the end of this chapter. Most translations will be made apparent in-text, though.

Chapter Two: Tel'na Herald

"Their little shem-quisition was poorly mistaken if it thought some fine clothes and a pair of boots would hide the fact of her tall ears and marked face."

-/-

"'The magic that still lives in your hand, can you feel it?' He pressed the palm of his hand against hers, and though she felt her breath catch, she was certain it had nothing to do with the magic he described."

Sahlin

Sahlin fell back against the door, furious. She refused to think of it as her door or her room. These were not things the Dalish had, doors and rooms or beds stuffed with…whatever it was the shemlen stuffed their mattresses with. Of course, the Dalish were hardly in the habit of being referred to as the Chosen of Andraste either, but that hadn't seemed to stop the shem yet. Without thinking, Sahlin slammed a fist backwards against the door, letting out a cry of rage with it. This was wrong. It was all wrong. None of it seemed real and, despite herself, Sahlin kept waiting to wake up, half-convinced she was trapped in some Fade-nightmare. But she was the Second—no, First, she reminded herself bitterly—of her Clan, an apprentice to Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel. She knew the Fade and the machinations of its nightmare demons, and this was no dream. It was real enough, but it was still wrong.

Only yesterday morning, she had been half-dragged out of a Chantry cellar and paraded across the Haven camp for all the reviling eyes of their round-eared army to see. She had never seen so many humans in her life. Creators, she had never seen so many people in her life! They were packed together like animals, herding around campfires, chewing on rations, sharpening their daggers, fletching their arrows, and staring…directly at her. Every shem in the yard had stopped what they were doing when the Seeker, Cassandra, led her out. And they glared. They glared their hatred and revulsion at her so hard it physically hurt. There was death in each and every stare, and she had no doubt that, if given the chance, they would have torn her limb from limb. If they could have, they would have killed her and brought her back to life to kill her again, a thousand times over. So hard were their eyes, so full of hatred. Never before had she felt such pure, blind hate and it terrified her. More than once, a refugee hurled something at them: an apple, a rock, a slab of raw meat. The Seeker deflected each missile with ease and snapped at the offender to get back to work, but that hardly made a difference.

"They have already decided your guilt," the Seeker explained and, despite herself, Sahlin moved closer to the woman. She knew what they thought her guilty of; she had already been told in the dungeons. To them, she was the knife-ear who had killed their Divine, who blew up their sacred temple, and every last one of them wanted her dead. It was madness, and yet there was no other explanation. Even worse, she had no memory to combat their allegations. Pain tore through her every time the Breach expanded. The mark on her hand radiated with its power and she could feel it threatening to tear her in half with it. It took all her concentration just to focus on remaining conscious.

Those events seemed like a lifetime ago now. She remembered them in the same way she remembered one of Old Tariel's fireside stories. She was sure these things had happened, but not to her and certainly not just yesterday. It was all wrong.

Now, only a day later, she was able to walk openly across the Haven camp yard without fear. People still stopped and stared as she passed, but the revulsion in their eyes had been replaced with awe. Those that did not stare, bowed their heads in reverence. Guards halted when she came near, clicking their heels together and holding their fists to their chest to pay respect, and when she climbed the snowy steps to the Chantry, refugee children ran ahead of her, throwing winter flowers in her path. They called her Herald of Andraste. Yesterday, the mark on her had was a death sentence. Today, it was providence. It was all wrong. None of it made any sense.

She wondered if the soldiers remembered calling her knife ear, or if the man who bade the blessings of Andraste go with her knew that she was the same elf he'd thrown an apple at the day before. Where did they think that elf had gone? Or were these shemlen so fickle in their beliefs that they were truly capable of calling for her execution one day and regaling her as the Chosen of their Maker the next? It was wrong.

They gave her a house made of logs. The ambassador called it a cabin and apologized for its comeliness. "It's not much," the woman said in a heavy Antivan accent. It was a single room with a door, and a window, and a bed on top of legs, and a table with a chair, and a massive wooden box with drawers. Even with all the furniture, there was still space left to walk around inside. It was larger than any Dalish aravel she had seen and when she told the ambassador as much, the Antivan woman merely shook her head. "These are not quarters befitting the Herald of Andraste," she said sadly. Sahlin wanted to correct her, to explain again that she was no one's herald, least of all Andraste's. But the ambassador spoke the title so softly, with such reverence, it seemed cruel to deny her.

It was all wrong.

Sahlin sank down to the floor, her back pressed against the door that she would not call hers. She could still hear people moving about the camp outside, their never-ending din of voices and swords and stomping feet and slamming doors transformed into one giant, muted cacophony. All her life, she had dreamed of venturing beyond the carefully constructed perimeters of the Lavellan camps, of seeing the world beyond the life of the Dalish. Now, here she was, farther from the Free Marches than she had ever been and embarking for the Hinterlands tomorrow morning, and all she could think about was home, of her sister and her brother and his family, of their father and his warm, halla-scented embraces. Most of all, her thoughts turned to Adris and her heart ached for the weight of his lanky arm slung across her shoulder, for the sound of his teasing and the comfort of his constant certainty. It was Adris who should be here, not her. It was all wrong.

Their memories welled up inside her, unbidden, and despite herself, Sahlin could not stop the hot tears from running down her cheeks. They were the first trickles through an already fractured floodgate, barely holding back the memories whose tide she had fought against for so long. She slammed her fist against the door again, but the damage was already done; the floodgates were broken, and the more she beat her fist, the harder she cried; the fiercer she hugged her knees to her chest, the more memories came crashing down upon her. Out of order, incoherent, unrelenting, they slammed into her like waves against the Wounded Coast.

She was seven years old and her bare toes gripped stone as she hauled herself indecorously atop one of the massive statues of Fen'Harel. It was the farthest from camp she'd ever been.

"What's wrong?" she teased. "Afraid of the Dread Wolf?"

"I am not!" a ten-year-old Adris yelled back at her from where he stood, his own toes hugging the invisible line that separated their camp from the forest beyond.

"Look, he doesn't bite." Sahlin swung her legs over the stone wolf's haunches and gave his head a hard thump. "Besides, don't you want to know what they're all doing? They've been gone for hours!"

Only two weeks ago, they stood at the camp's end, the stone statues of Fen'Harel marking the Lavellan border. Nolle was the last to say goodbye, and Sahlin could not help but smile as her sister pressed the forehead of her naked countenance against her own.

"This is your dream, sister," Nolle whispered. "Try to be happy. It's what Adris would want."

The sound of his name left a knot in her throat, and it was all Sahlin could do to nod in response.

Adris held his hand firmly over her mouth. Her frightened tears spilled out over his fingers as they watched the metal feet stomp past the log they hid under.

"Go back to your city, shem. You want no fight with the Dalish." She recognized the voice of one of their hunters, Tirrith, and guessed that the leather-wrapped feet standing closest to the metal ones must be his. From where they hid, it was impossible to make out anything but legs and knees and feet. Blood-red skirts hemmed in gold danced around the metal feet, and though she had never seen one before, she knew that the men Tirrith spoke to were templars. Beside the metal feet, her people were easy enough to pick out. Most of them wore the leathers of their hunters and scouts, but there were also two pairs of wrapped feet hidden under the robes worn only by Dalish mages, one of them blue, the other a warm yellow.

Sahlin's eyes never left the blue skirt.

"Your apostates are a long way from home, knife-ear. The Knight-Commander might ignore your malificarum in their landships, but I don't see any tents here." It was the first shem voice she had ever heard, and the sound of it sent a shiver down her spine. The accent was all wrong; it was too angry, too hard. She wanted to run back to the camp and regretted ever teasing Adris about being afraid to leave.

"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now." The shem voice in her ear was low, dangerous. Nevarran.

The Seeker's hand was rested against the hilt of her sword, ready.

Sahlin's knees ached from where they dug into the stone ground of the dungeon, and her wrists throbbed, bloodied and raw under the manacles keeping her staked to the ground. She grasped desperately to remember…anything. But there was only blackness... and a hand, emblazoned in fire, reaching out to her.

The fire from the bushes burned hot against her cheeks, but she dared not run now. Screams filled her ears. Adris pressed his hand harder against her mouth, refusing to let her scream mix with those of their people. Tirrith's dead eyes watched them from where he fell, no longer capable of seeing them staring back. Through all of it, her own eyes never left the blue skirt. She followed its every movement, begging it to turn and run away. She said every prayer she knew, begged Mythal the Protector and silently screamed out for Elgar'nan to come and save them. But the blue skirt stopped moving.

"Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker's will is written. Is that what you want from us? Blood? To die so that your will is done?" Leliana knelt at her makeshift altar, glaring at the Chantry as she spoke. "Is death your only blessing?"

Sahlin had already moved to leave when the hooded woman turned on her. "You speak for Andraste, no?" she demanded. "What does the Maker's prophet have to say about all this? What's his game?"

Sahlin tore against Adris but he was older and twice her size. He kept her pinned beneath the log. Her mother's head hit a rock as she fell, her body crumpling around her like a broken doll, wrapped in blue. A line of blood rolled down over Mythal's mark, over her mother's closed eyes, and across her nose. She felt Adris's other hand against the back of her head, forcing her face into the crook of his arm, willing her not to look.

"Have you seen the sky? What about the temple ruins? The bones lying in the dust?" Leliana spit out the horrors of the past few days, the pain of each atrocity inflected in every word. "Even if you didn't support the Divine's peace, you wouldn't call this right. Who could? So many innocent lives, the faithful murdered where the Holiest of Holies once stood. If the Maker willed this, what is it if not a game or a cruel joke?"

"I don't know," Sahlin whispered.

It was the first time she actually wished she were the Maker's Chosen. Perhaps then she could ease some of their pain. It was what they all expected of her, it was the reason she was not dead. Because they believed she could save them.

They were wrong.

"You have said you do not believe you are the Chosen of Andraste," the Seeker said slowly, selecting each word carefully. "Does that mean you also do not believe in the Maker?"

Sahlin answered quickly. It was a question she had prepared for, expecting it to be a common one in the days to come. "I believe in the elven gods," she said. She lied, more like it. Still, it seemed a reasonable enough response.

But the Seeker's eyes did not release her. "And is there truly no room among your gods for one more?"

The sylaise'len emerged from the tent and found Carahel standing in the crowd that waited. Her father had leapt up the moment the healer appeared, dropping Sahlin off his lap where she sat. She hurried behind her father, clinging to his leg as the sylaise'len took his elbows in her palms. She pressed her forehead against her father's.

"Ir'abelas, Carahel. Samahl is with Falon'Din, may he guide her in Bellanaris."

Hands grabbed at her when she ran for the tent. She kicked at them and screamed and cursed them all to Fen'Harel. They could not have her, not her mother. The sylaise'len was wrong. She was lying.

The memories beat against her, one after another, unrelenting. And suddenly, Sahlin felt like she was seven years old again. Only it was a shem door and not the wheel of an aravel she rocked herself against, and it was thousands of unnamed mages and templars who had died, not her mother and Tirrith. And there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing she could do to stop them, to take it back, to make it so it hadn't happened. She buried her face against her knees and didn't care about the snot or spit or tears that pooled there. It was all wrong.

"I was a templar. I know what they're capable of," his voice was soft, almost pained.

The ambassador was speaking again in her foreign accent and careful words but Sahlin was no longer listening. She stared at the commander, with his kind eyes and his regret over the losses at Haven. His eyes found hers and she looked away, not wanting to see the hurt, not caring. She had already imagined him in the blood red skirts, holding the templar sword and demanding his Maker's justice. It was an image she could never un-see.

They stood at their massive war table, moving pieces, making plans. None of them asked her opinion. They did not care that she was not the Maker's Chosen, would not even listen to her arguments to the contrary. She wanted to close the rifts, to contact the mages, to seal the Breach. It was not time, yet, the ambassador said. They could not approach the rebel mages, not without more support. Sahlin could not imagine how it could possibly be that complicated. There was a hole in the sky. The mages could help her to seal it. How was it not that simple?

There was a woman by the name of Mother Giselle in the Hinterlands who wanted to meet the Herald, Leliana explained. They always said "the Herald" or "the Herald of Andraste" when they spoke of her. She did not want to go, did not see the purpose in it; she wanted to contact the mages. But Josephine was asking the spymaster what they should have the Herald wear, not listening. Sahlin gaped at them.

"You understand, of course" the ambassador said and Sahlin wanted to scream that she did not. How could it ever matter what she wore when there was a hole in the sky? But the ambassador continued before she got the chance. "It is important to consider how we will appear to the people of Thedas," she explained, as if to a child. "What we require most right now is support."

"So look for opportunities to expand the Inquisition's influence," the templar added. If he noticed the glare she gave him, he had the good sense not to remark on it.

She was not some Circle mage, and she was not his ward. The templar's commands fell on pointed, deaf ears.

The tears had finally stopped, replaced with a hot rage that wrapped itself around her stomach. Sahlin's fingers found the laces of the leather boots that had been the only footwear made available to her that morning. She tore at the knots, fumbling, too angry to do anything properly. When she finally jerked the first boot free, she reared back and threw it as hard as could across the room. It connected with a shelf on the far wall and sent books sprawling across the bed and floor beneath. Fen'Harel could have them all, the commander and the Seeker and the spymaster, even the ambassador.

She had been careless to believe them and their talks of actually closing the Breach, to think that she would somehow play a part in it, to believe that they would actually do anything. Keeper Deshanna's lectures on the shemlen, on the impossibility of any friendship between their peoples ricocheted between her ears, teasing her. Of course Deshanna had been correct about this as well. She had allowed herself to feel pity for Leliana, to admire the Seeker's strength, if nothing else. She had actually respected the commander and felt humbled by the ambassador's clumsy attempts to respect her culture. But they had made it clear that she was just another piece on their table, a glowing hand to be moved from one location to the next, to do their bidding. But the Dalish served no one. Their little shem-quisition was poorly mistaken if it thought some fine clothes and a pair of boots would hide the fact of her tall ears and marked face. Sahlin turned her attention on the second boot, attacking it just as fiercely, when a hard knock at the door interrupted her assault. She paused, the second boot already half-unlaced, praying that whoever it was would just go away.

Another knock, followed by a familiar but not entirely unwelcome voice.

"You in there, kid?" It was Varric, the dwarf they had met on the battlefront yesterday.

Sahlin heaved a sigh, deflating. She couldn't even have this one moment of fury to herself. With one last curse, she hauled herself to her feet, rubbing her damp cheeks on the inside of her coat in the process. Before the dwarf could knock again, she pulled the door open, blinking against the hard afternoon sunlight that poured in.

"Sorry, I—"

"Don't worry about it," the dwarf waved off her apology as he let himself in. Sahlin moved aside to make room, not entirely certain what she was supposed to do when someone knocked on the door that wasn't hers. To her surprise, the bare-faced elf, Solas, also followed the dwarf in. The elf inclined his head politely, but said nothing, allowing his dwarven companion to continue. "If I just got back from a meeting with the big heads," Varric was saying, "I'd lock myself away in my room too."

Sahlin forced a smile, not entirely sure what to say to that. Fortunately, she didn't have to say anything. The dwarf seemed content to go on talking enough for the three of them.

"So now that Cassandra's out of earshot," he said, "I just thought I'd check in and see if you're holding up alright." Sahlin's tear-crusted cheeks burned red and she was suddenly all too aware of the books sprawled across the room, the boot that lay suspiciously on the bed just beneath the lopsided shelf, and the other boot, still half unlaced on her foot. Both Solas and Varric were obviously aware of the scene as well. The elf watched her with a bemused half-smirk draped across his naked face, while Varric set about collecting the scattered books, his monologue still in full swing: "I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful!" He set the books he'd collected on a table in the corner. "Most people would have spread that out over more than just one day."

Sahlin gave herself a moment to be sure the dwarf was finally finished before answering. She didn't even know where to begin. How was she holding up? Poorly. This is all wrong! she wanted to scream at him. But somehow even she knew that wouldn't be appropriate. When she caught the dwarf eyeing the lone boot still left on her foot with an amicably raised brow, Sahlin decided on the simplest possible answer she could offer.

"My feet hurt," she said with a shrug. "I don't know where they took my clothes, and these—" she gestured at the shem garments that made up her Josephine-approved-Herald-ensemble, "are fine," she spat the word, "I guess. I'd just like to have my leathers back if nothing else."

Sahlin frowned. The answer sounded pitiful, whether it was the truth or not. Fen'Harel take her, she was disgraceful. 'Pathetic' was never a descriptor she'd have ascribed to herself before, but it pretty accurately captured the sentiment she felt now. She doubted her father or siblings could even remember the last time they'd seen her cry, and now here she was, puffy eyed, red-faced, dressed like a flat-ear, with blisters boiling on her heels and her shem room in a state of disarray because she'd just thrown a tantrum. 'Pathetic' most certainly fit.

But the dwarf merely barked out a hearty laugh, and somehow Sahlin felt sure there was nothing mocking to it. "Kid," he laughed, "if that's your biggest concern right now, I'd say you're doing alright. What do you think, Chuckles, can you get something for the girl to wear or should I just cut the toes out of a pair of my socks for her? Same thing, right?"

The elf smiled good-naturedly at his stocky companion. "Is it 'Chuckles' now, Varric? I was just growing fond of 'Baldy.'"

"Yeah, well, I figure we'll be here for a while and who knows when you'll get a chance to shave again. That's assuming you people do shave, I guess. Point is, 'Baldy' just wouldn't have quite the same ring to it if you started sprouting hair. Besides, 'Chuckles' has something of an everlasting quality to it, don't you think?"

She followed their banter silently, in awe of how they could even joke in the wake of everything that had happened. But listening to them, watching the pair of them, so easy and unaffected, she could feel the knots in her stomach finally beginning to loosen.

"In either event," the elf replied evenly, "I came here to check on our guest's mark, not to play dress up. But I shall see what I can find."

"See that you do. We can't have Andraste's Herald hobbling across Thedas like a lame nug!"

The elf raised a brow, but didn't deign to comment on his companion's analogy. Instead, his pale eyes found Sahlin. "I had almost forgotten," Solas remarked, "you are the Chosen of Andraste, the blessed hero sent to save us all!"

The elf's tone was light, possibly even jesting, but his bare face made her wonder. She had heard of the flat-eared elves found in shemlen Alienages and Circles. For all she knew, Solas was an Andrastian. For all she knew, he truly believed she was the Maker's Chosen, that she somehow could save them all. At that realization, all the levity of the previous moment evaporated, and the knot in her stomach tightened all over again.

"Tel'na, Herald," Sahlin replied, a little more harshly than she had intended. "I am no one's chosen."

She felt guilty for the words almost the moment they left her tongue, but the weariness of the war council was still fresh, and she was not in the mood to be reminded of just how little control she had over this new title of hers or, apparently, anything else for that matter. She was about to apologize for her rudeness when Varric snorted.

"I don't speak elf, kid," he said, squaring his gaze on hers, "but I'll tell you this: Chosen of Andraste or not, these people needed something to believe in and you gave them exactly that. That makes you a hero in my book any day. And if you haven't read my books, well, you'll just have to take my word for it: I know my heroes. Oh, and don't forget about those elf-socks, Chuckles."

The dwarf gave her a quick wink and turned for the door. "Let me know if you ever need anything," he called over his shoulder, "oh Holy One."

With that Varric pulled the door shut behind him, his laughter following him as he went. Sahlin stared after him. Chosen of Andraste or not, these people needed something to believe in, the dwarf's words still rang in her ears, and you gave them exactly that.

"It isn't that simple, Sahlin, and you know it."

She glared at Adris, weary of his composure, of his casualness, of his acceptance.

"Why should I know it?" she challenged. "Because Deshanna tells us it is true? She still believes, Adris. For all her reasoning, for all her wisdom, Deshanna believes as strongly as Old Tariel that the Creators still hear our prayers. She believes they are locked away, tricked by Fen'Harel, and she still damns Him for it.

"But they're never coming back. They abandoned us. I know you believe as I do. We spend our entire life wandering aimlessly, grasping for a world that doesn't exist anymore when we could live free, when being Dalish could mean something more. And you would truly continue the Old Ways, believing as you do?"

Adris offered her a weak half-smile, and before he had said a word, she knew she had lost.

"I'm Deshanna's First, vhenan," he said. "I will be a steward of Lavellan, nothing more. Would you have me steal the meaning from Tariel's life, from his stories? Would you have me forbid Arhen from calling to Sylaise before he tends his patients? Would you have me rob him of the certainty that gives him a steady hand a clear mind? Should I tell your father that Ghilan'nain does not hear him when he prays? Why? To what end?

"The role of a Keeper is to protect his people. I will not be the one to destroy their faith, vhenan, not when they still need it. I can't."

"I should be able to find you a decent pair of footwraps."

Sahlin jumped. She'd been so lost in the memory that she had entirely forgotten about Solas. The elf didn't seem to notice her surprise, or if he did, he had the grace not to comment on it. Instead, he merely gestured her toward the bed.

"Here," he said, "let me see your blisters."

Embarrassed all over again, Sahlin politely shook her head. "They're not too bad. I'll make a poultice for them later." In truth, they were excruciating, but the thought of letting some stranger—elven or not—analyze her feet was hardly an option.

"Suit yourself," he answered easily, not at all offended, "but here, sit down all the same. I met Varric practically at your doorstep. Cassandra asked me to look in on you, to see that your mark was still stable."

Of course she did. Couldn't have the Herald of Andraste losing her glowing green Herald-ness. But she didn't bother to argue. Instead, Sahlin hobbled one-boot-on-one-boot-off to the foot of her bed, finally jerking off the offending footwear when she sat down. The bare-faced elf followed her towards the bed, dragging with him the only chair in the room.

"If you don't mind my asking," Sahlin ventured, "how is it you know so much about the mark?"

"In truth, I know little more about your mark than you or even Cassandra, for that matter." Solas settled into the chair and reached for her hand, turning it over in his own, inspecting. "I was not far from Haven when the Breach appeared, and I have spent a considerable amount of my life studying the Fade. I came to offer whatever assistance I could, though I never expected that assistance would extend to a mortal mark capable of controlling rifts in the Fade itself. You are quite the mystery."

Sahlin felt the color rise in her cheeks. There was something in his manner, so confident and yet so unassuming, it was difficult not to feel small under the weight of his stare.

"The magic that still lives in your hand, can you feel it?" He pressed the palm of his hand against hers, and though she felt her breath catch, she was certain it had nothing to do with the magic he described. "It is from the Fade itself. Pure, untempered by the Veil—" his voice trailed off as his eyes moved from their entwined hands to her face. "Forgive me if I have startled you," he said suddenly, letting her hand fall from his. "It was not my intention."

Sahlin felt her cheeks burn even hotter and she shook her head. "No, it's not that—I just, well, you don't seem like any Circle mage I've ever met and—"

An earnest smile replaced the concern on his face. "Then I must ask you to forgive me once more, da'len," he said. "I sat beside you for so long in the dungeon, I have forgotten that we do not know each other. Shall we begin anew?"

Sahlin nodded. In fact, she found herself quite eager to know more about him, this elf with no vallaslin, who seemed to know so much more than the rest of the Inquisition forces. "I would like that," she said.

"As would I. Well, you already know my name, and I have gathered you are Lavellan—"

"Sahlin, actually. Lavellan is the name of my Clan."

"So it is. I know the Dalish customs, da'len, but thank you, for entrusting me with your familiar name." There was a terseness in his reply that had not been there before.

Sahlin frowned at the change in his tone, not sure what exactly she had said to warrant it. "Ir'abelas, lethallin, I just thought…Were you born into a clan, then? Before you were sent to the Circle?"

"There is nothing to forgive," Solas said. His tone remained polite, but it had lost some of its frivolity. "I grew up in a village to the north. I have never been a part of any Circle."

Sahlin narrowed her eyes, "You seem to know so much about the Fade, I just assumed—"

"A safe assumption, certainly, but incorrect nevertheless. The village I grew up in had little to interest a young man gifted with magic. I found myself bored among the company of my peers. But as I slept, spirits of the Fade showed me glimpses of wonders I had never imagined. They became my friends, my teachers. I treasured my dreams." The lightness in his tone had returned, as if the mere memories of his 'friends' in the Fade were enough to return a smile to his face. "Being awake, out of the Fade, became troublesome. I had learned to control my dreams with full consciousness, and there was so much I wanted to explore. But this world or—rather—its memory, is reflected in the Fade. To visit new places in my dreams, I had to find new places in this world first." She must have looked puzzled then, because he added: "Dream in ancient ruins, you may see a city lost to memory. Dream in a village to the north, and you will only see the memories of that place. So, you see, I had to leave my village to continue my studies. I was in an abandoned ruin not far from here when the Breach was sundered. And so now you have my story."

Sahlin listened to his tale, enraptured. One detail in particular had leapt out at her, and she seized on it now. "You're a somniari, then, a dreamer?" she asked. "You can actually control your dreams?"

Solas arced a brow. "I am. It is a very rare gift, and one that very few are familiar with. I am surprised you know the term at all."

"Had we met a few years ago, I might not have," she said. It was true, the term—the gift—was rare, and her first encounter with its magic still left her somewhat unsettled. To Solas's still-arced brow, she added, "There was a boy in the Kirkwall Alienage that my clan sheltered for a time. He'd been sent to us by one of the south Marcher clans. He was a mage, a somniari. But his dreams…they were different than the ones you describe.

"I'd never seen our Keeper afraid before, not ever. She's the kind of woman you could never imagine as a child, getting scolded by her mother or one of the elders. Keeper Deshanna may be a lot of things. Afraid just isn't one of them. But that boy, Feynriel, he terrified her." Sahlin suppressed a shudder. It was still disconcerting to think of anything scaring Deshanna Istimaethoriel. "The rest of the clan wasn't told what he was. I wouldn't have been told either, if I hadn't already been apprenticed to Deshanna at the time. Feynrield traveled with us for a month, maybe less, and I don't think the Keeper slept more than a few hours any night the boy was with us. She watched him constantly. She said the magic he possessed was old, something lost to our People long ago, and that it made him dangerously susceptible to possession." Sahlin frowned then, remembering the way the Keeper had evaded her questions, the way she explained there were certain magics better left forgotten. "That was all Deshanna would say on the matter, but there must have been more to it. It's not common, but even apprentices and Keepers fall to possession on occasion. It wasn't abomination that frightened her."

Her voice trailed off as her mind wrestled with the incomplete memories, the secrets she knew she'd not been made privy to. There really wasn't any more to say about the boy, but Solas was listening with such intensity she felt compelled to continue.

"I spoke to him a few times," she added. "He was scared and alone, just a boy still. There were always dark circles under his eyes, and he said the thought of falling asleep terrified him, that the demons were always waiting for him in his dreams. He'd nearly become an abomination once already. That you could learn to control such a thing by yourself…"

Solas ignored her unspoken question. "And this boy," he said instead, "what became of him?"

Sahlin shrugged. "I don't know. He was travelling to Tevinter when we took him in. He hoped there might be a magister there who could help him control his gift, to understand it."

"And your Keeper let him go?" Solas shouted. The sudden fury in his tone took her by surprise and It was all Sahlin could do to stumble through an excuse.

"There was nothing Deshanna could have done for him," she reasoned. "His magic terrified her. Honestly, I was surprised she let him travel with us at all. And when he did leave, Deshanna sent a message with him for the Keeper of the next clan along his path."

"So your Keeper sent him to Tevinter to sell himself into slavery?" Solas was standing now, pacing the room like an animal locked in a cage.

"She said his gift was rare, that it would be valued in Tevinter. It was the only choice he had. He couldn't control the power on his own, he'd already tried—"

"Fenedhis! The ignorance! Though I suppose I should not be surprised. That is the way of the Dalish, is it not? Abandon everything you do not understand, twist it until it is evil and corrupted and cast it aside for something simpler!"

Sahlin was on her feet now as well, meeting the bare-faced elf glare for glare. "And what do you know of the Dalish? How dare you pretend—"

"You forget that I have spent my entire life walking the Fade, that I have seen Elvhenan and ancient Arlathan in my dreams, that I know better than any that the Dalish are little better than children, acting out scenes from a past thew know nothing about!"

His words wounded her more profoundly than he could have known. It was a sentiment she had expressed herself, on more than one occasion. But that had been with Adris, with another of the Dalish. Everything in her seethed at the notion of an outsider, a bare-faced flat-ear passing such judgment on her People.

"Ma banal las halamshir var then?" she spat. So instead you abandon our People? He had seen Elvhenan, Arlathan. Her heart ached at the very possibility of being able to witness such a time, such a place. There was so much he could offer to the Dalish, and instead he mocked them as children for not sharing his gift. The sheer superiority of it, the arrogance, left her heart rebounding against her chest with a hot fury that surpassed any anger she might have felt earlier.

"And what would you have me do?" the bare-faced elf asked. "The Dalish care little about improving their lives, they already consider themselves perfect, the sole keepers of elven lore."

"Ma halani, lasa ghilan!" Teach us. "Or are you too proud to even try? Are we so far beneath you that we could not begin to comprehend the knowledge you would withhold?"

Solas's pale eyes were dark and contemptuous when they met hers, but his expression was even again, his composure regained. "This conversation is over, da'len." His voice was low, almost threatening, as he made his way across the room toward the door. "Dirthara'na ma ar ir'halani." The words were barely even a whisper, but she was sure she'd heard him correctly. May you never know how much I have tried.

The door slammed to a close behind him and Sahlin sank back down against the bed that was not hers, her chest still heaving with the heat of their argument.

It was all wrong.

"Not a clan in all the Marches or Ferelden to take her!" Adris raged at no one in particular. He glared across the glen that lay just beyond the outskirts of their camp. Even in his fury Adris was quiet, composed. It was why the Keeper called him First and her Second. "There is more magic manifesting among the clans each year. You heard the numbers at the last Arlathvhen. Creators, she's only a child!"

"The Law is wrong, Adris. Fen'Harel take it and Deshanna too if she can't see that. The world is breaking into chaos and Istimaethoriel wants to abandon a child for bearing the gift of the Elvhen. You have her ear, you—"

"Fenedhis, Sahlin! Is that all you think of? The el'Rivas? This is my sister—"

"Lavellan will not abandon her, Adris. We both know I am the better choice to leave. I only want you to remember your position when I'm gone, what it means, what it could mean to our people."

"And where would you go?" he bellowed, anger finally fracturing his ever-calm veneer. "The templars are slaughtering apostates on sight."

"More reason for it to be me, not Novera. You know I'm right."

"We are not discussing this, vhenan." Deshanna's First turned to walk away and she knew that would be the end of it.

"Adris—"

"I said no, Sahlin. There are weeks yet before a decision is to be made."

"Adris should be the one to go, Keeper. There is still time to bring him back. Please, hahren!"

"He has made his decision, da'len. Do not begrudge him that." Sahlin opened her mouth to protest, but the Keeper held up her hand. "This task is yours and yours alone. You are First now, but even if you were still Second, you would have been my choice. This is the path you must walk. Your heart is right for it, da'len. Now go to Haven, lethallan. May Mythal guide you."

TRANSLATIONS

sylaise'len: healer, literally "child of Sylaise" (made it up, let's just roll with it)

ir'abelas: I am sorry

Bellanaris: Eternity

fenedhis: common curse

Tel'na Herald: I am not your Herald (I'm basically scrolling through the Dragon Age wiki and making shit up)

da'len: my child, or my student, etc.

lethallin/lethallan: familiar one/clansmen/one of the blood (if you don't know this one, I don't think we've been playing the same game…)

"Ma banal las halamshir var vhen": "You have abandoned your people" (took this one from the game, and it didn't exactly come with a translation, so that's my best guess and how I'm using it)

"Ma halani! Las ghilan!": "Teach us! Be our guide!" (again, from in game, no exact translation was given)

"Dirthara na ma ar ir halani": "May you never know how much I have tried" (made that one up)

el'Rivas: "Our Freedom" (Taking some liberties here. This one alludes to a 'movement' of sorts that will be better explored in later chapters.)

hahren: elder/teacher