They were the same walls she looked at all day every day. Dented and grimy, half the greyish paint long since chipped away, and only one small window that looked out over a barren field and a disintegrating barn. On the other side of her door she heard her brother's voice as he paced the house, talking to himself. Narrating his day and imagining two sided conversations as he waited for the return of their father. The rhythms of his speech mirrored that of their father's so closely that at times she wasn't sure who it truly belonged to. Selise had little idea what else her brother did out there while their father was away, sometimes for hours, sometimes for the entire day. She knew that his activities included intermittent noise followed by eerie silences. And that sometimes he would have a girl over, and she would hear squeals of a high pitched voice that could have been pain, could have been laughter, or could have been something else.
She spent most of the hours by the window, watching the birds in the field, especially the one large hawk that used it as a hunting ground. Often she would see it carry its still struggling catch over to the solitary fence post, where it would tear apart the nug or rat and swallow the bloody pieces whole. And then it would rest a bit, standing sentry on the post for an hour or two with a big lump protruding from its neck. The hawk was the being she saw more often than any other. But she often wondered why a bird that was built to know boundless space spent so much of its time in the same field. If she could enter the hawk's body, even for a couple hours, she would take herself far, far away from this ugly wasteland. But she supposed this beast, like any, had to eat. And the field was never tilled, never sowed, at least not any more. It held a guaranteed meal at almost any moment thanks to the absence of human interference.
On the days her father visited the tavern he always announced his homecoming with a distinctive drunk belligerence. He'd go on unintelligible rants and send chairs crashing against the wall or dishes clattering in the sink for no other reason than because they were there. Some days she'd hear violent quarreling between him and her brother. On those days she was glad to be locked away, though occasionally the safety of her room was breached, and she was reacquainted with his bloodshot eyes and solid fists. On other days she would see her father in full Templar gear, dragging a beaten mage into the dilapidated barn. And she knew that within hours she'd be pulled her from her room and marched out there too, only to be ordered to administer pain, nightmares, weakness, and eventually, an untimely and untraceable death.
Those days were a confusion of emotions. Dread, guilt, fear, desperation, resentment, hatred. But she also knew that once her work was done, she would finally get to bathe. She might even get a decent meal or a new pair of clothes if her father was particularly satisfied with her work. It was the only time she got anything other than the stinking rags, toilet bucket and stale crusts of bread and soggy vegetables that her brother provided.
Trying to figure out a way to turn her powers against her father was the foremost thought in her mind on almost every day but those in the barn. In the barn her thoughts were simply about blocking out the screaming and getting through to the end without a fist to the head, getting to the hot bowl of stew or cold tub of water that waited on the other side. The wish for a way to defend herself against the spell purge that thrummed through the door, stripping her of her abilities for hours, was ever-present. Same for the dose of magebane her brother would supply halfway through the day, which she was forced to swallow under his intense scrutiny. He wanted her to refuse to take it, as then he had license to whip her. But she swallowed it down every time simply to avoid giving him that satisfaction.
How does a girl defy the man who remained the largest and most frightening figure in every single memory of her life? All she knew of the world, she knew from him, and from what memory survived of the time before her mother mysteriously died. The only other things she knew were the walls, the window, the field. The stories told by the mages in the barn as they answered questions and begged for their lives. The irregular occasions he transported her somewhere, usually to meet the one other Templar who knew of her existence. That always meant there were multiple mages who had been captured and needed "interrogation", and usually they were cornered privately somewhere and already wounded. Sometimes there were already dead present. But if it was only the one mage, then to the barn they went.
Her father had always seemed omnipresent, aware of everything she did and everything she thought. Always one step ahead of her. Even when he was drunk, he retained a fierce focus in his gaze and a ready striking hand that kept her in line. The biggest motivator for her obedience, was how much both he and her brother enjoyed making her regret ever trying to rebel.
This particular day was familiar. The telltale tatters in her clothes, particularly the newly ripped seam of her sleeve which bared her left shoulder. And the kicking, struggling boy that she watched being pulled into the barn before her father turned to the house. His face was scratched and bloody, this particular mage somehow able to land a claw to his cheek in his attempts to fight. These things always told her what day it was; this was the day she finally did it. The day the magebane didn't work, possibly because of the rancid meat she'd tried to eat that morning which had her feeling ill. The day she felt an exhilarating stream of magic rushing under her skin as she watched the metal clad monster that was her father as he wiped blood off his face and approached the house. The day the flames burst from her hands for the first time, and she was the only who made it out of there alive.
By now she knew when she was dreaming about it, even though she still hadn't figured out how to wake herself and escape the memory. She'd watch with dread for what felt like hours until she finally felt the flames singeing her hair and blistering her skin as she made her way to the field, and then she'd wake, sweaty and with her heart racing. While the nightmare itself was saturated with terror, her feeling upon waking was always one of reprieve and salvation. She had done Thedas, and mages in particular, a favor when she removed her father from the world. And every time she woke, she found herself a long way away from that old reality, never ever having to return.
On this night, the dream felt different somehow. After the inevitable combustion, she stood in the field watching the house burn. The screams of the two men inside had already faded away and she felt only a deep numbness. She already knew she'd be going to the Circle and turning herself in. She'd decided years before that she would as soon as she had the chance. Even if there were Templars there, they at least could be watched, their actions known by others. The only question was whether she should explain about her father. Even to tell them who he was would have been revealing enough on its own. In the end she did tell them his name, but very little else. And she learned on her own later that he hadn't been a full Templar for several years by the time she finally escaped. His pursuit of apostates had continued beyond his employment due only to a sadistic personal vendetta.
The difference on this night, was that she wasn't alone in the field. At first the bald elf was just an apparition in the corner of her eye, a floating haze of yellow and white. And then she turned her head to see that he was actually standing silently beside her. At least, as actually as possible when caught awake within a recurring dream. His face was drawn into a grim frown, his two brows straight, angled lines of enmity as he watched the old wooden house begin to collapse. Selise said nothing, wondering why her mind had brought him into this place with her. But when deep blue eyes flicked over to her, she got the sense that he was not the product of her imagination.
"I said I would find you did I not?" he asked her. "And I have."
Selise nodded. She was unsure why he was there in the first place, and the longer she looked at him, the sharper his appearance got and the more alert she began to feel. Wanting to test it, she closed her eyes and tried to leave. If she wanted to be anywhere, it was where ever her body really was. With Anders.
She opened her eyes and was standing in Anders' room back in Skyhold. It was not where she had intended, but to truly be there would have involved simply waking up. This room was exactly what she associated with Anders originally, but it was empty, save for herself and Solas.
"You are an adept dreamer. I suppose that is to be expected, considering your gift of sight," he said.
"So you really are here? In my dream with me?" she asked.
"I am. Walking in dreams is one of my most cherished past times. Some might call it a special ability, but most people could do it if they put their mind to it."
Selise regarded him carefully. He hadn't directed any hostility toward her, but he was with the Inquisition and surely could not think well of her after what she and Anders had done in their escape.
"How big of a mess did we leave behind?" she asked.
"Less than you might imagine. It would have been considerably worse had you not managed to leave everyone unharmed. Two guards recovered quickly from a shock, I assume from your companion. And Cole helped those in the Hall who received the Horror visions. But the reigning opinion is actually how impressive it is that you accomplished what you did without causing any loss or life or serious injury," he said.
"Well that's better than I was expecting. But there is still a large force out searching for us, yes?"
"Of course there is," he answered. "That couldn't be helped."
Selise wondered if she should mention the book, since he hadn't. And then decided she should probably guard her mind. He was in it, after all and she didn't know what else here he had access to. That thought alone was unnerving enough on its own. If he didn't already know about the book, she didn't want to be the one to draw his attention to it.
"Can we speak about the scene we just left for a moment?" he asked her cautiously.
Selise felt the familiar pang of dread that always appeared when people asked about her childhood. She wasn't sure how much he saw, only that he watched the home that contained her father and brother as it burned to the ground.
"I'd rather not," she said.
"Very well. I am sorry to intrude on that scene. I normally try not to insert myself into dreams of such a personal nature."
"So this is something you do often?" she asked.
"Not at all actually. And when I do I often take people to a comforting but neutral location and try to let them know right away what is happening. It is only fair."
Selise nodded, "So why didn't you do that for me?"
"You resisted my taking you anywhere. But I suppose my timing was off. You seemed to be engrossed in something… important. My apologies again."
"So why are you here? Are you going to try to convince us to turn ourselves in or something?" she asked suspiciously.
"That was not my intention. I am sure you have your reasons for fleeing. My loyalty to the Inquisition extends to helping the people and our cause. Neither of those are served by depriving you and your companion of your freedom. Especially since you've already displayed that your intention is not to hurt anyone," he said. "I am here because I believe we can still help each other as we originally agreed. Though I suspect that the… scene we just left might need to be explored for that to be possible."
"How could that have anything to do with learning how to use my power better, or about my connection to the Veil?"
Solas gave a quiet laugh. He walked lightly throughout the room, inspecting the books piled on the the table. The room looked exactly as they had left it. The covers on the bed were still slightly wrinkled with the indentation of where two bodies had lay together. His searching eyes flashed back to her regularly, appraising her with a mysterious intensity. But she was not frightened, or even nervous. The eyes that looked into her were deep, intelligent and kind.
"Our experiences have tremendous power to shape who we are, especially experiences that are rich with emotion and trauma. The Fade responds to that, and much more than people realize."
Selise considered what that might mean. Her childhood was nothing if not rich with trauma.
"At any rate, this sort of thing is best done in small doses, especially in the beginning. I just wanted to make contact, ready you for future visits if you are willing," he said. "If not, simply say the word and this may be the last you see of me. At least this way."
"It's fine. I still want to learn," she answered honestly.
"Excellent. I would urge you think more upon your past. Consider any events or experiences that might have left a permanent, if unconscious, mark, for that is where you will find important clues to enhancing your magic." Solas said. "And I will try to have better timing next time."
Selise nodded again.
"And have no fear Selise. This will stay between us."
In an instant, she was awake. It was still completely dark outside, surely some frigid early morning hour that even the Maker himself would avoid venturing out in. The conversation with Solas had been about as real as any waking experience she'd ever had, and she found herself very disoriented by her sudden appearance into waking life. But this is where she had tried to take herself when she discovered she had the presence of mind to choose. Despite the cold, the multiple days now with no hot food beyond the occasional cup of tea, despite the increasingly grouchy horse that seemed to have left a permanent bruise on her tail bone, she would have chosen to be right where she actually was.
"Are you okay?" Anders asked in the dark, surprising Selise.
"Yes, I'm fine. Did I wake you?" she asked.
"Well yes. You were thrashing a bit, and calling something out a little while ago. But it stopped. Bad dream?"
"Something like that," she sighed and scooted in closer to him, resting her cheek on his chest and nuzzling in as close as she could. It never ceased to amaze her how perfectly their bodies fit together, even in rest. He was just tall enough compared to her all that her curves and grooves fit perfectly into his. The first time she'd had sex, back in the Circle, she recalled only angles and bones and awkwardness. Even if she had wanted to lay for a while afterward with that boy, she was sure she would have been profoundly uncomfortable. But Anders was personified comfort. His voice, his touch, the way he was shaped, his kisses… everything soothed her, cocooned her in a warmth and tenderness that was nothing short of pure bliss.
She closed her eyes, but nothing changed. It was still as dark behind her lids as it was in the tent, and the pictures didn't leave. Her father's scratched face, the kicking boy, the flames licking up the walls. It was all still there. Even the consoling presence of Anders didn't scrub the pictures out of her memory.
"Can you make a light of some kind?" she asked him. She had seen him do it before, conjure up a ball of energy that lit up the dark. And he did it now, a spark of light growing into a swirling ball of bright energy, imbuing the air nearby with the smell of ozone. It lit his face and she immediately felt the dream begin to fall away, the images replaced by deep, glistening eyes, an aquiline nose and alluring lips. She relaxed herself onto his chest in a position where she could continue to look at him. They could see each others' breath smoking through the air, and the air against her exposed skin was frosty, but also invigorating. It was helping to wrench her mind away from her dream and fully into the now. She felt herself smile slightly as she studied him. He was so beautiful. It almost seemed as though the Maker was rewarding her for making it through the first 18 years of her life. If she had known that this would be at the end of her path, those days in her bedroom would not have seemed as terrible.
And everything in her life had led her to this point. If her father hadn't been a monster, she would not have run and sought refuge in the Circle. If she had not joined the Circle she would never have met the Nightingale. If she had not met the Nightingale, she might never have made it to Skyhold and been entrusted with Anders. She could, and did, still hate her father, most especially for whatever happened to her mother. But how could she fault the events in her life which had led her to him?
"Do you want to talk about it? Your dream?" he asked.
"No need," she answered gently.
She picked up his hand and brought it to her face, laying soft kisses on the pads of his fingers. The cherished hand whose touches had opened up a new world for her. She skimmed a finger along the scars that circled his wrists. They were rough, textured, completely unlike scars that healed with the aid of magic.
"Is this all from the same… instance?" she asked him. "Or have you been tied up like this many times?"
"Two different instances. The same captor," he whispered.
"And you didn't heal them?"
"I couldn't," he shrugged. "Templars. You know how it is."
She paused a moment, a chill not caused by the frigid air racing up her spine.
"Yes, I do."
She ran her eyes over his shoulders and neck, and realized how little she even saw most of his multitudes of scars anymore. She'd become so accustomed to admiring him at every opportunity that they were just a familiar part of the landscape now. But each scar there was a little piece of his history, a story about a moment in time when he was younger, different, a still-in-progress version of the man he was now. Most of her scars might have been hidden, and she was sure he had plenty of those as well. But so many of them were written plain as day for anyone to see. Suddenly every nick and line that marred his skin seemed impossibly precious. They were a record of how strong he was, how bold and passionate, and of how hard he fought throughout his life, for freedom and the right to just be alive in the world. But while they were such a defining piece of the man she loved, they also were also wounds that could have taken him away from this world before she even knew him.
Just moments ago she was considering how the events of her life conspired to leave her right here, and now she convulsed internally at the thought of a life where Anders had never crossed that bridge into Skyhold. What would she be doing now? Sitting on her cot inside the tower room she shared with so many other mages, her nose pressed in a book to discourage any of them from speaking to her about their hair, or which robe was more flattering, or any number of things she had no interest in talking about. She'd continue to be bored, restless, empty. Living in complete ignorance to the experience of love.
The closest he had come to this fear being realized was displayed openly in the most sinister scar of them all, the crescent moon of shiny flesh that lined the entire left side of his neck. It should have meant certain death, if not for the extremely quick thinking of someone. She supposed that someone must have been Hawke. But underneath the skin the tendons worked, bones were whole and blood flowed. And he lived.
No matter what they had been through before, and no matter what happened from here forward, they'd found each other. Through the rocky, sticky, painful trials of life, they had managed be in the right place at the right time to come together.
Selise sighed happily and nestled back down into his arms.
"You can turn out the light now," she said.