"I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade
For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."
Leliana has been on her knees for so long that she can feel the chill of ice water against her greaves. She needs the Maker's guidance now, perhaps more than ever -and yet she feels in her heart an emptiness, almost as if the Maker were gone -perhaps He was never there to begin with, and that is a thought that chills her more than the snow and ice ever could.
It has been an eventful few days for Leliana and her colleagues. Her scouts are still combing the mountains for Anders and his accomplice, but they've all but vanished right under their noses. She and Cullen have made efforts to keep their encounter a secret, but rumors get around, and before she knows it, Chancellor Roderick is using this failure to fuel his aggressive tirade against her, against Cassandra, and against the Inquisition. As if he or his broken Chantry and corrupt templars could do any better!
Areina has begrudgingly accepted her role in the inquisition. The more Leliana speaks to her, the more it seems like the girl is simply the most unfortunate elf in Thedas -stolen from the comfort of her clan and thrust into a holy conspiracy unlike any other. The implications of a Dalish elf of all people being accused of murdering the Most Holy are not lost on Leliana, and she trusts that Josephine will try her best to keep those accusations off of people's lips.
Through all of this, however, she can't help but sit anxiously in wait for Anya to awaken. She doesn't quite know how to feel in the wake of her abrupt arrival and inexplicable ties to the most wanted apostate in Southern Thedas. She wants to believe that Anya is innocent, but the only way for that to be true is if Anders is innocent as well, which leaves the Inquisition in dire need of a suspect -or a scapegoat.
She feels as though the Hero of Ferelden, the woman asleep in the Haven clinic, is a complete stranger. Where she once could predict every word that came out of her soft, heart-shaped lips, every devious chuckle, every cocksure grin, she's no longer so certain. She has heard rumors that Anya's trauma from the blight had soured her and caused her to go mad, that this had been the reason she travelled to the Deep Roads on her Calling much earlier than most Grey Wardens. Part of her wonders if Anya would have disappeared had Leliana come back to her sooner. In the past, she often thought about how things would have changed if she'd had the courage to march into Amaranthine and reunite with the woman she loved, but the past is in the past, and at present, she can't let her feelings get in the way of her investigation.
The noises Anya had made when Adan was operating on her were not natural, and when Leliana closes her eyes, she can clearly see her face, twisted in agony. Every single scream has etched a scar into Haven and scratched deep into the wall that is her resolve. Solas had attempted to ease Anya's pain with magic, and perhaps it is to his credit that she still lives. Leliana has to keep reminding herself that everything has changed.
"Sister Leliana," one of her agents calls her out of her meditation. "I've got news for you."
"Report," she orders. And so responsibility latches on to her coattails…
Solas would not consider himself a healer, but he has dipped his toe enough in creation magic that he can assist Adan and the other healers when the occasion calls for it. And with the damage that the explosion at the conclave has caused, the healers at Haven have their hands full. Not to mention the fact that his expertise has been invaluable in keeping their "Herald" alive.
He hears a whine of pain from the cot in front of him, where the famed Hero of Ferelden lies, fitfully fidgeting in her sleep. Haven is freezing, but sweat is streaming down Anya's face. Solas dips a washcloth in cool water, squeezes it, then gently presses it against her brow.
He frowns when he remembers the chaos that had ensued when she first arrived at Haven. Everyone knew the story. The Hero of Ferelden, who slew the Archdemon and ended the Blight, had gone missing in the 34th year of the Dragon Age. After six years, it was assumed that she had met her death in the Deep Roads like so many Grey Wardens do. Solas had already come to expect the unexpected when he offered Cassandra and her people his assistance, but a fabled hero coming back from the dead, traveling with a known fugitive no less -he can't help but be impressed that an elf is the one causing such a stir.
He warily glances at a polished moonstone amulet, set in an intricate silver frame the size of a large coin. It rests, nestled against her collarbone, and reflects the candlelight from the bedside table. He senses something ancient in it and wonders if the amulet had been given to her or if she had simply found it during her adventures in Ferelden. Part of him wishes to yank the chain off her neck and study it while she sleeps, but he's busy enough that he scarcely has the time for such curiosities.
His eyes then wander to her bottom half, towards the bandages covering the stumps just below her knees. The blood soaking her bandages is dark brown now and he makes a note to ask Adan for more. He can still hear her screams echoing in his mind -she had been somewhat lucid when he and Adan removed her legs -not lucid enough to speak coherently, but enough that she spent the entire procedure babbling in elven. It's hard to tell who she thought he was, but it was clear that she thought she was dying.
He nearly jumps out of his skin when he senses the magic of the Anchor nearby. It feels like static against his skin, caressing his neck and leaving goosebumps in its wake. He manages to compose himself just as the door to the clinic slowly opens. He hadn't expected Areina to awaken this soon, but it seems that she's a resilient woman. His eyes follow her as she timidly approaches him, casually observing the way her long arms wrap around her body like she's keeping a secret, and the way her thick ivory tresses cascade down her shoulders, half covering her face. For three days, she had been asleep, and Solas must admit that it's remarkable how she can stir all of Thedas into a ruckus and not even be conscious to see it. Apparently, she's the Herald of Andraste now, too. The things humans tell themselves to feel better about the fact that an elf saved their lives are truly mystifying.
"The Chosen of Andraste -a blessed hero sent to save us all," he greets her with a slight tilt of his lips.
She drags a stool over to him and takes a seat. "I don't really feel like a hero. I just wanna do what I can with… whatever this is," she tells him, twisting her wrist over to look at her mark. It hasn't grown much bigger, but it hasn't healed at all; she suspects all her hopes of healing it lie in closing the Breach -a task that is even more daunting than it sounds.
"Spoken nobly indeed," he says calmly, dabbing the cloth along Anya's neck idly.
Areina grimaces as she runs her gaze along Anya's body. Her moans are getting more frantic, like she's seeing something nobody else can. "Who's that?" Areina hums quietly, reaching out to grab the smaller elf's hand.
Solas has to hold in a gasp at that. "You don't recognize the Hero of Ferelden?"
Anya's hand unconsciously tightens around Areina's, holding on to it for dear life. Areina gapes at him, her heart skipping a beat. "I didn't know the Hero of Ferelden was an elf," she remarks breathlessly, looking down at her with wide eyes. "Maybe I shouldn't be surprised that the elf part isn't common knowledge."
"Yes," he agrees solemnly.
"What happened to her?" she questions, rubbing her thumb in circles against Anya's hand.
"Another victim of the explosion at the conclave. Though, from what I can tell, she had been an uninvited guest."
" As banafelas! As'gara sul em! " Anya's voice is guttural and raspy -almost like a demon had taken over her.
Anya's hand has tightens around Areina's uncomfortably to the point where she has to double check to make sure Anya isn't actually awake. She knows that Anya just spoke Elven, but she finds it difficult to translate the words on the spot. Thankfully, it seems Solas has it under control.
"Shh, da'len. Eth amahn," he purrs softly, arching his back to speak into her ear; the words roll down his tongue like honey, and Areina can't help but note how natural Elven sounds coming from him. His words somehow seem to be getting through to Anya, even in her delirious state, and the heaving of her chest slows down.
"Nightmares," Solas explains, not even bothering to wait for Areina's inevitable question.
"What did she say?" she asks, watching the crease in Anya's brow deepen. "She sounded scared."
Solas dips the washcloth in water to cool it again as he replies, "She believes she is being hunted by a corruption. She is a Grey Warden, so there is a possibility she is experiencing visions related to her Calling."
"Her Calling?"
Solas nods hesitantly before turning to look apologetically at Areina. "I must admit, I do not know much about it myself, but that is what Sister Leliana believes. Perhaps she may be able to answer your questions about the Warden better than I could."
Trying to be as quiet as possible, Areina scoots her stool forward to be closer to the bed and leans over the Hero of Ferelden. She'd heard stories about this woman, but to actually look at her and not just see any woman, but an elven woman… Areina's known so many elven women: soft and delicate women, and strong huntresses that could topple mountains. She has no doubts that an elven woman could single-handedly save Ferelden, but she sees such vulnerability in the way Anya's lips quiver in her sleep, and the way her hands shake when she's not awake to stop them.
"I've journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations," Solas finally says, breaking the silence that had engulfed them. "I've watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war has its heroes. I'm just curious what kind you'll be." His steel blue eyes probe her curiously, picking at every gesture -every breath, every blink, every untucked strand of hair.
There he goes, calling her a hero again. The very word makes her skin crawl. Circumstance shouldn't make a hero -bad luck shouldn't make a hero. Does being at the wrong place at the wrong time alone make one a hero? What about Cassandra and Leliana, the right and left hands of the Divine, who have been running Haven in the wake of the explosion? What about Commander Cullen, whose forces have been pulling corpses out of wreckage and giving the refugees food and shelter? A magical mark on one's hand does not a hero make.
Anxious to change the topic, she asks, "What do you mean by ancient ruins and battlefields?"
He looks more than happy to indulge her questions, and she can't help but find herself leaning in to listen, her shoulder briefly brushing against his. "Any building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen."
His words make her heart swell. She's heard of mages with the power to dream so deeply that they don't see the fade as most dreamers do -rather they see it with such clarity that it is indistinguishable from the real world. She had a theory that Keeper Deshanna, in addition to being an ancient elf, was, in fact, one of these Dreamers. This had been a theory that she kept to herself, but she recalls her Keeper often resting under trees and communicating with the spirits.
She recalls a time when her clan was staying in a beautiful forest on the southern Tevinter border. It's been over ten years, and she still remembers how strong the trees were, how proudly they stood. She remembers the grass on the ground being thick and glistening in the sunlight that trickled in through the treetops. She remembers flowers in every color imaginable growing on the forest floor with an ethereal glow about them. Keeper Deshanna had told them that the forest had been called Em'ethal by their ancestors, and that it had once been a part of Elvhenan many, many years ago, frozen in time by the spirit that watched over it. She said she had found it in a dream and that the spirit of the forest, Inar, as the Keeper so affectionately called it, had offered them refuge for a short time.
Areina lets out a giggle, noting with amusement the way Solas bristles in response. "I'm sorry," she says, "But you fall asleep in ancient ruins? You must be used to close calls with giant spiders then."
He scoffs. "Speaking from personal experience, are we? I do set wards. And if you leave food out for the spiders, they are usually content to live and let live."
Still grinning, she tells him, "All I get out of going to old ruins is old carvings, maybe shards of an ancient ceramic plate if I'm lucky. It's impressive that you can go so deep into the Fade and learn so much."
She catches a soft glimmer in his eye when he hears her praise. "Thank you. It's not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning. The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand year old dream? I would not trade it for anything." There is a tender note in the way his voice rumbles in his chest, and Areina sees in him a kindred spirit.
"Maybe after I figure out a way to close that hole in the sky, you could show me one of those ancient battlefields. It sounds much more exciting than trying to put together old trinkets and reading ancient trading manifests."
His eyes meet her own dusky irises and for a moment, Areina feels like she might have said something wrong. "I would like that," he tells her, though there is an unmistakable pause before he speaks. Abruptly, he tears his eyes away from her to look at the wooden boards in the wall in front of him. "I will stay then, at least until the Breach has been closed."
"Was that in doubt?"
"I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me," he reminds her. "Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution."
"You've been risking your life to help, Solas. I won't let them lock you up for that," Areina insists.
"How would you stop them?" He's doing it again, staring not at her, but through her, and it makes her heart leap into her throat.
"However I had to," she promises.
A faint smile plays at his lips. "Thank you." He subtly clears his throat before adding, "For now, let us hope either the mages or the templars have the power to seal the Breach."
Areina slips her hand out of Anya's and straightens up in her seat, unsure if she's ready to leave Solas's company yet or not. It's more than just elven kinship that draws her to him -speaking to him feels like opening an old and familiar book, and listening to him is like getting lost in the pages. Unfortunately, she has other things to worry about, and so she excuses herself and gets to her feet.
Before she reaches for the door, however, she turns around again and asks, "Solas, of the wounded you and Adan have been helping, did you find a Dalish girl? With dark skin and tight, short curly hair?"
Solas holds in the sigh that builds up in his chest. "Your sister?"
"Yes," she says, voice barely above a whisper.
"I am afraid I have not," he replies, pursing his lips. He doesn't want to give her false hope, but he wants to say something. He wants to tell her 'Perhaps she escaped and went north, back to the Free Marches.' but he won't lie to her like that, so he simply leaves a gap in the air shaped like all the reassurances he's stifled behind his tight lips.
"Oh," she says. "I'll ask somebody else then. Thank you, Solas."
'Don't thank me,' he wants to say, but then she's gone, and he puts his washcloth in the basin, squeezes it, and goes back to wiping Anya's face.
"I'm doing the right thing, right?" he mumbles to himself, unfolding the cloth and laying it flat against her forehead.
"I'm probably the worst person you could ask…"
Solas freezes as one of Anya's golden brown eyes peeks out at him. "You're awake." She's also more conscious than she had been when she first arrived at Haven as she's already started to make an effort to pretend that the state of agonizing pain she had just been in has completely dissipated.
"And you're bald. And now we've both stated the obvious," she replies weakly, giving him a cheeky grin, and he sighs, rolling his eyes in response. Leliana and Cassandra would want to hear about this, though perhaps he can offer her a few moments to gain her bearings before leaving her on her own.
"Do you know where you are?" he asks.
"Haven," she replies and winces, letting out a groan. "I can't feel my legs."
"Do you know what happened after the conclave exploded?"
"The what?" she murmurs. "Is the Divine…"
"The Divine is dead, and you were injured in the blast that took her life."
Anya lets out a shuddering sigh and raises her hands to her face, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She lets out a high pitched laugh in spite of herself. "Ahh... that certainly isn't good."
"No," he replies flatly. "It certainly isn't."
I fumbled around with FenxShiral's Elvhen lexicon for the Elven I used in this chapter. Here are the translations:
As banafelas! As'gara sul em! - "She's corruption! She's after me!"
Shh, da'len. Eth amahn.- "Shh, child. It's safe here/You're safe here"