After feeling Tevinter, then Kirkwall, Siris (a young elven woman) find herself in the Emerald Graves, studying ancient elven ruins... When two revenants force her to free a man from an old underground prison. The man, named Solas, turns out to be one of the Ancient Even God, the infamous Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf. With only his orb in his mind, the elf and Siris are not best friends. Looking for the magic orb, they arrive in a small mountain village right before a terrible storm hit the land...

It felt like an earthquake at first; a small one, that only makes the walls tremble. The storm came, as Solas predicted. However, not even him saw it coming. There were rather high in the mountains, and many villagers said it was normal for the weather to change so fast. Nevertheless, it did not reassure Siris. It was her first "wet" storm. Back in Tevinter, she had survived sand storms and electric storms; but it never rained. Right now, it felt like all the water in the universe was falling on their heads.

In every little way they could, Siris and Solas helped: drying clothes, preparing warm meals, stacking up blankets… Everything went rather well: Revered Mother Elisabeth's gentle words allowed the townsfolks to organise calmly. Everybody was to come inside the Chantry until the "Maker's displeasure calms down". The village counted forty-seven souls, fifty-four with the chantry cleric and the two templars. Fifty-six persons had to survive threw the night in the chantry that seemed suddenly very small.

"We got a missing child." Knight-Captain Jean announced to Mother Elisabeth as Siris helped sister Emma wrapping a blanket around an old woman. "I'm going with Nicolas looking for him."

"This is not advised." Solas said. "The storm is getting worst. If you go, you might survive."

"And if we don't go, a child can die." The Templar calmly said.

"Solas, love." Siris intervened, insisting on the lovebird nickname. "I know you are worried, but let them fulfil their duties. Templars are strong! They'll come back."

Siris wished they stayed; the storm was terrible and even if it was a horrible thing to say, better that a child does not make it rather than the only security against malificars, bandits and demons from miles around. "The greater good" as some may say. Besides, she did not spot any adults looking for the child. An orphan maybe?

But no one had the time to continue the debate, as screams came from the building next door. Knight-Captain Jean rushed outside, imitated by the townsfolks near the noise. Siris and Solas made way to see that the two-floor house fell on sir Nicolas when the thunder hit the roof. His legs were under tons of grumbles. Siris felt her heart rush. Adrenaline. Lots of it. Her feet almost flew to the poor man. The rain was ruining her hair and clothes, freezing her to the bones. She almost fell on the ground when the mud made her overbalanced. Another scream. A baby. Sir Nicola looked at her, pain and terror in the eyes. But then some courage.

"Take her to safety!" He shouted over the storm, as he put in her arm a tiny child wrapped into clothing. "Get out of here!"

Siris felt Solas forcing her inside the chantry. She tried to fight back. The man! They had the save him! The building was going to… But once inside, the elf took the babe from her arm, gave it to someone and took her aside. Both his hands on her shoulders, he looked at her with cold anger.

"Don't. Do. Thing. Again. Ever."

"But the man…!"

"Is a templar, not my friend, neither is yours." He said. "Our mission is more important."

"Our mission?"

"Yes. The orb."

"So, because you lost your pressure orb, we should just ignore someone suffering? His legs are crushed! I'm not staying here while he dies in fear."

Siris freed herself and ran outside again. some tried to stop her but it was useless. Knight Captain Jean was trying to free the young templar, but it was no use. Siris took Nicolas' face in her hands to have a look at him. Without Solas' magic, she could not reach for Healer. Magic… Templars. They used magic thanks to the lyrium!

"Jean!" She shouted. "Use your powers!"

"What?"

"Just do it!"

The knight-captain did not think twice. The storm was getting worst. He emptied a vial as Siris got closer. She had to put her hand on his shoulder to feel it.

No time! The right leg is condemned. Cut it off! Healer urged her.

Indeed. Jean manage to free Nicolas' left legs, the over one was but gory porridge under the rubbles.

"Vishante Kaffas!" Siris cursed as the urge to throw up invaded her.

But she fought it. Jean was too busy with the rubbles to notice in time that his sword was in her hands. She muttered a sorry, and cut the last remaining nerves still holding to the lost flesh. The templar screamed and cursed. They had to hurry or the excruciating pain will kill him. Jean did not understand what happened, but when he saw the young elf pulling with all her strength his brother to the Chantry, he lend a hand. With almost no effort, he lifted the man in his arms and they all ran to the Chantry.

The doors closed right behind them.

Jean lie Sir Nicolas on the nearest mattress. Without exchanging any words, he and the young elf worked on freeing the legs from clothes. Their heads were almost touching as they were concentrated on their task.

Clean the wound. Healer said as Siris was nearly head to head.

"Clean water. Now." She ordered.

She took two pieces of cloth. She used one to keep her hair from bothering her; the second to clean as much mud as possible. The templar came back to consciousness. He started to kick and scream as the pain rushed in his body. One leg gone, the other in pieces. What could she do? Then Healer showed her something. A hand pushing a point behind the neck. Siris reached for the same point and pressed. Immediately, the templar fell in a deep sleep.

Useful. She though.

Siris followed Healer's directions carefully. Cleaning the wound. Stitching what can be stitch. Using honey? Siris did not ask why. She ordered on of the sister to fetch the giant pot of honey in the kitchens. Soon, the healer generously applied the gold liquid on the amputated leg. Everybody looked at her as if they saw a naked qunari dancing drunk and naked with multi-coloured nugs in a Chantry. She tried to ignore the looks as she "finished" the leg.

"Stay where you are, shemlen!" She ordered Sir Jean as he though to let her do… whatever she was doing. "Don't ask."

Siris went for the second leg. It was broken and had few hopes to fully recover one day; but at least, she could work with that. Following Healer's guidance, she set the bones back together and immobilised them with splints. Thanks to Sir Jean's help, Siris could even improvise a protective cocoon around the injured limb with large piece of clothing.

Then, they spent the next few minutes taking the armour off and change the young templar's clothes with dry ones. When it was done, people were back to they worried activities. The storm was still screaming outside, but everyone was safe. Sister Hélène put an extra blanket on the injured templar, smiled at Siris and whispered a "thank you", before leaving to attend to the villagers needs. The elf's attention turned to Sir Jean, sitting, like her on the floor. He was worried and deep in thoughts; but mostly he was looking at her. The lyrium inside him had cool down: Siris could no longer se the blue light coming out of him.

"You are a healer." He said. It was not a question. "But I'm not sure you knew what you were doing: honey?"

"It helps with the scaring process." Siris bluntly repeated what Healer told her. "It's pure so no infections. And it's sticky: it limits the bleeding. The sugar gives the body what it needs to gather strength."

That was an improvisation based on logic: Healer was no longer there to help her.

"You learned that in your dalish clan?"

"Hum… yeah. We were short on mages, so some of us became healers…"

A lie. And he knew it. But his eyes were telling her that if Nicolas survives this storm, she had nothing to fear. However, the human had to survive.

"Is the elf your husband?" The templar asked.

Siris said nothing, preferring to let him think she was adjusting the man's pillow.

The walls trembled again as the storm got excited. The wind was furious and the lighting no better. Siris could feel her ears lower down every time the thunder would lash out in the sky. The Chantry was mostly silent. The children would cry, the adults would mutter their worries, the clerics prayed the Maker. As the young elf looked around, she could see Solas in a corner. Sitting alone, not looking at anyone, not caring much.

The younger elf shivered. Her clothes were wet and cold. She stood up and went to a chantry sister. Changing in the room they prepared for her and Solas, Siris put on a sister's robe. She felt awkward in it, but apparently it looked good on her.

The young woman went back to the templars' sides. Sir Nicolas was doing fine so far. Considering his injuries, Siris expected him to be dead by now, under normal circumstances, anyway. However, having a link with a spirit of medicine could not be describe as "normal".

Siris' attention got attracted by a soft chuckle. She looked at the old templar. He wasn't really "old". In comparison with the young one, he was. Perhaps was he around his forties? Fifties at most. His hair, cut short, were greying and he had some tiredness in his green eyes that did not come from the rough day they were all having. His left cheek was marked with an old battle scar; disturbing the growth of his beard. Sir Jean may have not be able to shave for few days, the grey facial hair was making him a bit older, and somehow handsome. "Beard" was something Siris founded fascinating. Elves don't grow beards. She often wondered how male elves would look like with hair on their chins…

But Siris' attention snapped back to the shemlen.

If the effects of the lyrium were mostly gone by now, the elf could still see his abnormally blue veins. He must have felt her eyes on him, because he faked few coughs to get her attention.

"That's what you get when you consume lyrium has long as I did." He said. "And I'm one of the lucky one. Fifty-six years old and I only forget to eat only twice a month."

"Forget?"

"Memory loss. With the nightmares, paranoia and physical toll; and you have few of the downsides of being a Templar."

"Are there more?" Siris shyly asked.

"Well, you get to drag children out of their homes and make intelligent being into drooling vegetables." Sir Jean said with a poor smile. "Being a Templar is a fine job."

He was not convinced. He looked at her with sadness.

"I know madness is waiting for me." He said. "It has been too long since I could have a good night sleep. I believe in the Maker, and I believe I served him well. But I don't like my job."

He paused.

"But when I see you, and these people, I remember why I chose the Lyrium. Why I decided to be a Templar. Even if I won't wish this life upon anybody, I'm glad some like the kid choose it. Protecting the people against the malevolent effects of magic… There are no better things to do with your life when you don't know what to do with it."

Siris said nothing. She could only try to count the templar she met. Three in total. Knight-Captain Cullen, Knight-Captain Jean and Knight-Lieutenant Nicolas; whose carrier was probably finished. Her mind came back to Kirkwall. Cullen. How old was he? Could he be saved from the lyrium? Could sir Jean be saved? He was convinced to be doomed by fate. But was he?

"The Templars are useless." She slowly said, driving the man's attention to her. "That's what I though. Where I come from, the knights would show up only during risky rituals or when someone wanted a rival gone. Templars are no better than strong lyrium addicted grunts."

"You're from Tevinter?!"

"But then I found myself in Kirkwall." She ignored him. "I met there a man, a Templar. The alienage was at risk, and when I though he wouldn't listen, he… saved us. Brought most of the order and the guards for us."

A silence fell on the two. Siris checked on Nicolas. He had a small fever, but nothing surprising considering the extent of his injuries. The bleeding stopped, thanks to the honey. She made him drink a bit of water before the poor shemlen fell asleep again.

"Creator, habeo clementia um ea…" Siris muttered, hiding her tired face in her arms.

"What did you say?" Sir Jean softly asked.

"Maker, have mercy on him." Siris translated.

"Was that Tevene?"

"Yes"

"What was the man's name?"

"Knight-Captain Cullen."

"You mean, Knight-Commander Cullen, from Kirkwall's Circle?"

"He was a captain…"

"Not anymore." The Templar said. "Haven't you heard? The Circle have fallen. It a rebellion. Meredith got crazy, so he took matter in hands."

Siris heard the news when she was in Ostwick. But she didn't know Cullen became Knight-Commander. He deserved the promotion: he stood up for the people and not for the madwoman that had become Meredith. But… it felt wrong. When she met the templar, she knew that somewhere deep down he was trying to get himself out. Become commander was bounding him even more to the Order, no? she sighed. Why did she care? The shemlen probably forgot her, why should she worry for him?

Siris also knew that the rebellion spread across Thedas. But so far, she hasn't felt its effects yet. These parts of Orlais were surprisingly quiet. Sir Jean explained that here, unlike most places, people were very devout. The civil war took its toll on the inhabitants, so they were taking care of each other as a reaction. The templars leaving their duties were completely cast out, not only from the Order and the Chantry, but also from their hometowns and family. But he admitted that as time goes, fewer warriors felt that way, and more were deserting every day. Last week, there were four templars in this village. Now, there were only an old man and a kid who got promoted Knight-Lieutenant; since the last one left them to go hunt apostates.

Sir Jean and Siris talked for what seemed to be hours. The storms was too loud and violent for the elf to sleep, and the Templar seemed happy to have some company. At some point, titles and origins just melted away, leaving only two intelligent beings exchanging ideas, feelings, worries and hopes of the future. Knight-Captain Jean had a dream: to be free from the lyrium, one day. When he heard Siris dreamt to find a way to do just that; the old man smiled at her with kindness.

"I hope you'll find a way, Madame Siris. That I do…" He said with his Orlesian accent.

"The storm!" A woman shouted. "It stopped!"

Before anyone could do anything, Sir Jean was on his feet, ordering everybody to remain inside the Chantry. He went outside, and time seemed to slow down. Everybody was on edge, wondering how badly the village got damaged, how long it will be to repair and heal. When the templar came back, with his sword hanging from his belt, a relief submerge everybody in the Chantry.

"All clear. Be careful when walking by the houses."

And so, the village came back to life.

By the time the storm stopped, it was already day. Morning was bright and new… however the baby Sir Nicolas saved was dead, just like his parents before. A "mountain accident" as the villagers said. The father went looking for wood, tripped and fell to his death. The mother died two weeks after giving birth, after drinking poison. As for the baby, he had already passed away when the templar found him, but only Solas noticed it until things calmed down. It was why he shoved the little corpse into someone arms. That sole idea made Siris' heart bitter: how could he treat a baby's corpse like it was a sack of flour?

"It is sad." Revered mother Elisabeth said as Siris was trying to wipe tears off her face. "But the babe is with the Maker now."

It was little comfort, but Siris would hold on anything she could. When she went back in the Chantry, she went into the room the sisters prepared for her and Solas. On one of the beds, she found a letter, written in elven.

"Da'len,

You took great risk last night to save this one human. And by talking to the old templar, you gave up our cover and my only security.

I don't blame you. In fact, I would like to address formal apologies. Your heart was and is in the right place. Since we met, it has always been that way, but I was blind. I regret not treating you the way you deserved, and hope you'll forgive me one day.

This is why I am saying goodbye. I am going to look for my orb alone; and try to see this new world with better eyes along the way.

Allow me to offer you this pendant. I made it last night and enchanted it. It will allow you to contact me if you need it; but most of all, it will allow you to contact Healer at will. All you have to do is to make a wish.

I can only hope you'll keep an eye out for my orb; for reasons, you already know.

Ar lasa mala revas, da'len.

Dareth shiral.

Solas »

Siris read the letter few times, holding the pendant in her hand. It was a smoothed rock with a green spiral painted on it. As she let her fingers run on it, Siris could feel the magic; that calling Healer was easier even so she hasn't tried yet. But her attention was drowned by the letter. Every time she read it, she repeated the last words. "Ar lasa mala revas" was a writing she saw and studied back in Tevinter. It was an honourable thing to say and to receive; since it was only said when one gave a slave his or her freedom, during the old days where elves rules the world.

It meant that Solas saw her as a slave. A bloody slave; nothing more… Until now. Siris wanted to hurt him. But it would be both a waste of energy and beneath her.

At some point, she was so frustrated he left without saying a word in person, that Siris decided to keep her mind from doing anything too intellectual. She went to the bathroom and clean up. It was cold but at least the temperature was not "special elf treatment". She put on the dress Solas gave her. It was now dry, thanks to the chantry clerics who took care of it. Siris was not too sad to leave the chantry robe aside. It felt wrong to wear it.

Now mirror.

She needed to fix her hair, if not to be pretty, at least to be taken seriously.

But when she looked at herself, her heart skipped a beat. Who was that?

Siris put her hands on her face. How did this… No, she could still feel the scars… but where did the ink go? Her tattoos were gone! She rushed outside and looked for Sir Jean.

"What happen to your tattoos?" he asked, an eyebrow raised. He was helping the villager to clean a half-destructed house.

"I don't know!"

"And where is your husband?"

"I don't know!"

Siris' heart was racing. Her tattoos. What happened? When? How did it vanish from her face without her noticing?!

Sir Jean made her sit and ask someone to bring water.

"You need to calm down." He said with a soft voice, as he kneeled in front of her. "It's going to be fine."

Was it?

How long did she have her tattoos? How long did she looked at herself in the mirror and saw a mistreated slave elf, whose Master's daughters forced the ink on her face?

Sister Emma came to the rescue and escorted Siris back inside the Chantry.

What was she supposed to do now?

Next Chapter very soon!