Slow Arrow

by pushtheheart

Sometimes, terrible choices were all that remained. He knew that better than most. Still, his people fell for the one he had to make and centuries of wandering the Fade had forced him to watch the world and its people diminish and die a slow, lingering death. His path was set long before he ever woke, and he never thought to stray from it — until he met her.

7. Things We Lost In The Fire, Pt I

That's a succinct summary of humankind, I'd say.
Who needs tomes and volumes of history? Children are dying.
The injustices of the world hide in those three words.
―Steven Erikson, Deadhouse Gates

We do this because the world we live in
is a house on fire and the people we love are burning.
―Sandra Cisneros

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The journey from Haven to the outskirts of the Hinterlands took three days.

Several squadrons of the Inquisition's forces had been sent ahead to establish camps throughout the area, to begin the work of stabilizing the countryside. However small the fledgling Inquisition's forces were, he had to give them credit for their enthusiasm to restore peace where they could. While the various political and religious forces at work in Thedas scrambled to maintain their systems of power, the Inquisition acted to protect the civilians who'd been left in the crossfire of war and unrest.

There were a few of his own agents planted among them, as scout recruits and camp laborers. While they had not yet managed to track down the magister's whereabouts, it seemed that whatever remained of his forces after the explosion at the conclave had seemingly vanished into thin air. For now, it seemed most prudent to cast a wide net to find what clues could be discerned of their whereabouts, as well as to help the Inquisition however he could.

Frustrating as it was, it was only a matter of time until they resurfaced. And he was nothing, if not patient. He could wait.

For the time being, Solas spent his days acclimating to the rhythms and moods of his companions and learning what he could of them, while offering only what was necessary to maintain their trust. Their group was accompanied by several squads for the duration of the trip from Haven, until they reached the outskirts of the Hinterlands. There, they were dispersed by the Seeker and sent out to survey and collect information. From that point on, their small group traveled unaccompanied by Inquisition forces.

The first night, they camped far from any notion of civilization, much to the dwarf's dismay. Tethras was too occupied with airing his complaints of the matter to notice the Herald slip away, and the Seeker was too well occupied with assembling the tents to notice either.

She hadn't used her glamour, nor had she taken her horse — that much told him that she hadn't intended to go far, and would soon return. He saw no need in outing her, lest he further diminish his standing in her good graces. He simply kept his silence as he assisted by setting wards and constructing a suitable campfire.

There was almost a luxurious amount of time before either of them noticed the Herald's absence. She had not warmed much to any of them, and rarely engaged in conversations during their travels unless provoked, so they'd become well accustomed to her long silences.

Still, it wasn't long before the Seeker was seething, as she paced around the campfire.

"Of course she would wait until now to escape when our forces are scattered between Haven and the Hinterlands!" the woman raged.

It would have been more prudent to stay out of the matter, but Solas could not help but bristle and ask, "Is she still considered a prisoner?"

The Seeker fixed him with a tight look of annoyance, "No, she is not."

"Then perhaps we should not treat her as such," he advised.

Cassandra snapped back, "There is a war on, if you've forgotten. And now we have reports of rifts opening up all over this area. Either of which could claim her life, and end whatever chance we have in fixing any of this!"

Before the human could voice any further complaints, Varric piped up, "She could have left at any time, Seeker. Maybe she's just stretchin' her legs and getting some air. That poor girl hasn't had a second to herself since the Breach spat her out."

The Seeker's anger wavered, but did not relent. "Then why didn't she tell us her intentions? She could be anywhere by now!"

"She'll be back," Varric said, waving his arm dismissively as he settled by the fire.

Cassandra frowned, "How can you be so sure?"

Varric busied himself with pulling out a cleaning kit, and laying his crossbow across his lap, "Because unlike you, Seeker, I happen to be a great judge of character. She'll be back."

The Seeker stalked to the opposite side of the campfire and sat down across from him in a frustrated huff, and began to work her sword's edge with a whetstone. The two of them settled into uneasy silence as they worked on their respective weapons and neither of them spoke to Solas, which left him to the relative peace of his own thoughts.

They were each, in their own way, preoccupied with the elf who carried his Anchor — just as he often was.

A matter of pragmatism, really.

The Breach was an imminent threat that crossed all social, racial, and political lines of delineation in Thedas and had brought all manner of people together to address it. Though the Inquisition was still a fledgling organization, with hardly any allies to speak of, its very existence was already bringing nobility and politicians out of the woodwork.

But more so than the Breach itself, it was the Herald that was bringing them all together. It was the fact that she carried magic that could close the rifts, that she could be the one to close the Breach itself — the belief of divine intervention, divine intention — that was a galvanizing force amongst the people.

In the end, they were here for her, by circumstance or design. An uneasy alliance, but an alliance nonetheless. Whether or not the Seeker nor the dwarf cared to engage him in conversation in her absence did not bother him. He was content to return to the puzzle of her, to worry at the threadbare tapestry that was forming in his mind of who she was, and the life she'd lived that had brought her to this point.

The absence of personal information — and her unwillingness to share it with any of them, even the dwarf she was seemingly so fond of — made him terribly curious. He hoped by the time they returned to Haven, his agents would have turned up more than he'd been able to. It was unwise to let so much of his plans rest on the shoulders of an unknown element, and there were too many questions that had been stirred up from what he had witnessed in her dreams.

He was still not sure how exactly he'd ended up there, to begin with. He hadn't intended at all to trespass into her dreams, so it had not been at all a purposeful intrusion on his part. And he was certain she had not drawn him there, as she was no Dreamer, not even a mage. Her dreams were no different than those of other non-mages — simply subconscious forays into the Fade that reflected their experiences, their memories, all of the unspoken and unresolved matters in their lives, with no control or ability to direct its subject or path.

Solas suspected that it had happened because of the Anchor, as there would always be a latent connection between them as long as she bore the mark. He would have to be more careful in the future, so as to not trespass where he had not been invited. Enough of her freedoms were being taken from her; he would not add to it, if he could help it.

Still, he was curious to see if the Anchor would affect her dreaming over time. If she might gain lucidity and awareness, or if she would remain unknowing of her own dreaming. If perhaps she did gain the ability to shape her own dreams, he would be keen to teach her how to control it, were she so inclined. But he doubted that she would be, as such a thing required implicit trust, and what they had could hardly pass for more than an uneasy alliance.

There were moments where she seemed to warm to him briefly, but they were quickly withdrawn in the wake of their arguments, or more often his criticisms of her people. Whatever ground he gained with her, he often lost just as much and just as quickly soon after, until he would inevitably be demoted back to being treated with the same casual indifference as the rest of them.

Except for the dwarf.

Solas cast a surreptitious glance at the dwarf, who was fully absorbed with oiling the gears of his crossbow. At this point, he was certain that Master Tethras could do no harm in the Herald's eyes. Through very little effort that Solas had seen, the dwarf had somehow made the Herald inexplicably fond of him.

In his world, showing such favoritism to an undreaming would have been considered eccentric, at best — aberrant, at worst. But this was a different world, and the dwarf was nothing like the dwarves of his time, so such stating such about the societal expectations of his time could only bring ire. He did not think Master Tethras would care much for the historical lesson, nor the Herald.

Neither of them were what they should have been, and both seemed content as they were, however diminished they were.

In another world, one would have walked with Titans, and the other would have hunted them.

It wasn't particularly difficult to imagine her in his world, to imagine what she could have been. For a shadow, she was a remarkable imitation, which did little to discourage him from entertaining the notion. Unbowed and rebellious, still fighting against the bonds of a fate unfairly thrust upon her — and yet he'd seen a streak of nuance in her, a deviation he had not anticipated.

Curiosity, and an openness to the unknown.

"I should like to meet them one day, I think. These Wisdoms and Purposes."

It threw him off, left him unsteady and worrying over her declaration in the days since they'd left Haven, picking at it in his mind like a bothersome scab. There had been nothing to suspect duplicity on her part — what could she have possibly gained from making such a statement? The favor of an apostate at the mercy of the Inquisition? No, he was almost certain she'd been entirely sincere, and it had been enough to spur his imagination to envision what she could have been in his world.

A seeker of knowledge, like himself? Or one who shook and shaped the foundations of their society, for better or for worse? Whatever she would have been, it would have certainly been something to behold.

She would have been so much more, she would have been what she deserved to be — whole.

Her defiance made it far too easy to imagine her among those who'd followed him into rebellion — fierce and furious and free.

She would not be what she was now — a mere shadow, stunted, made blind and deaf to what the world should be, to what she should be, and seeking the company of someone who couldn't even dream.

Still, she was just one of many who had been robbed of their potential, of their personhood, for his catastrophic misestimation of what raising the Veil would cost them.

It was his fault that she was less, and there was only regret and pain to be had in pursuing the fantasies of what she could have been.

Fanciful imaginings aside, he still knew very little of the Herald. What he did know of her painted an unusual picture that did not quite align with what he'd come to expect of the Dalish. He'd expected what he had encountered before — the self-importance, the aggrandized sense of superiority over the other modern elves, the denouncement of anything that contradicted their beliefs, the childish ignorance, the unwillingness to open themselves to the truth.

She wanted nothing of what the title of Herald could bring her, and that utterly fascinated him.

He had not expected it, nor her curiosity. He had not expected her interest in the Fade — in spirits. Nor her rejection of superstition in favor of practicality. She'd even gone so far as to denounce the gods — Elvhen and otherwise — which was outright heretical coming from a Dalish elf.

Whatever he'd expected, it had not been her.

Sharp-witted and perceptive — almost too perceptive. Little escaped her notice, and he found himself watching his words around her. She had an almost impish, playful sense of humor that she kept hoarded to herself. And wisdom—

"Waging war on one another never ends in our freedom. There is only more blood, and deeper trenches. And soon a day when none of us are left."

He was startled at times by her words, by the truths that came hurtling out of her mouth in moments of heated discussion. She was far too young, too inexperienced, to be filled with such truths. She was continually proving herself to be something entirely different than anything he could have expected, and it left him fumbling for an explanation. Surely, something had to account for it.

The disjointed glimpses he that he had witnessed in her dreams spoke of a disrupted early life, but any assumptions he could make was at best conjecture until his agents provided him with what truths they could uncover. Had she been tutored? If not, how else could she have gained such a broad perspective? The Dalish were too narrow to have produced such a being. And he could hardly broach such an invasive subject with her — especially given that he rightly should have had no knowledge of it in the first place.

And then there was the matter of her magic.

He'd had time to further consider the manifestation event that he had witnessed in her dream during the days they'd spent traveling from Haven. At first, he'd considered that perhaps there was something unique about her that had restored the broken link between her and the Fade, but he had quickly dismissed that. Beyond her current possession of the Anchor, there was nothing particularly uncommon about her to suggest such a thing.

The humans had developed the rite of Tranquility, which was not unlike the state in which all beings existed beneath the Veil, if only a more acute state of the disconnection from magic. Still, it was reversible.

Had a spirit come to her, in her time of need?

It was not unheard of, and very much in the nature of certain spirits.

If not that, then what?

The questions brought him around to the edge of something more troubling to consider. That it had not been an event unique to her, but perhaps proof — in some manner — that something remained in the modern elves that gave them the potential to be restored to what they once were in his world. Their link to the Fade was broken, but perhaps not entirely severed. They dreamed, still, and the seed of magic remained in them, even if it had become largely dormant.

But that thought only produced a troubling conflict.

Removing the Veil would restore those of his people that remained, and the chance to rebuild the world that was — but it meant the end of this one. Just as the raising of the Veil had destroyed much of what relied on the Fade to exist — countless wonders and political structures, and all living things inherently tied to its magic — bringing it down would result in much the same.

Many of his people had suffered and died as their world collapsed around them, as their political power and dominance in the world shifted, as they were subjugated and lessened beyond recognition. And they had been at the peak of their power. What, then, could he expect of the modern elves?

Too many would be snuffed out, and it was too horrible to consider them as more than just shadows of what his people had been.

He'd considered the consequences of this world ending as an acceptable loss, however regrettable. The death of lesser beings, while unfortunate, was preferable to the loss of his own people. To him, they were no better than their Tranquil, which even these lesser beings denied personhood to. The irony, of course, was that there was little difference between them — both were cut off from the Fade, from wholeness.

But if they were more than what he'd considered them to be, more than just flesh constructs and shadows, more than just Tranquil—

But that was impossible to consider.

This world was too diminished to produce anything beyond the stunted beings which inhabited it, and despite his best efforts in locking away the evanuris, the world was still hurtling towards its end. Restoring what once was, was simply the first step in healing the damage they'd wrought. He could not trade the world itself over the concern of those who dwelt in it now.

Considering the Herald, he could almost understand how his friend had made the fatal mistake in considering them to be more, to be worthy of such consideration. It was a remarkable imitation, he had to admit. Yet, such could be said of a portrait or a statue carved to mimic the likeness of another.

Perhaps he had relied on his friend too heavily and too often, when he sent him from the relative safety of uthenera and into the waking world on missions over the centuries. Each time, his friend lingered longer than was necessary before returning to the dreaming. He suspected that Felassan had allowed himself to be seduced by the waking world, and in his loneliness had forgotten himself. That lapse in judgment had cost him dearly, and Solas had taken no pleasure in punishing him for it.

He could not afford to make the same foolish mistake.

Too much was at stake to confuse her, or any of them, as more than just poor imitations of the world he sought to restore — no matter if the elf managed at times to make him feel as though he were speaking with one his own. It was only his regret and longing for what was — his own damnable loneliness — bleeding into his perception of her, and nothing more.

Nearly two hours passed before the Herald came walking back out of the dark, strolling into the camp as if nothing were amiss. She carried an assortment of bundled items in her arms.

The Seeker rose to her feet and grimaced at the elf as she demanded, "Where did you go?"

"A few miles north, along the river," Tephra replied flatly, waving behind her in a vague direction. "Then slightly to the west, a bit. Then, back here."

Still defiant, but there was a note of humor in her tone. Perhaps she was warming up to the Seeker, in her own way.

Varric gave a snort of laughter, before he said, "See? She's fine, and she came back. No harm done."

"No harm? And what if harm came to her?" The Seeker rounded on Varric, and all but hissed, "We cannot afford to lose her."

"This is true," Solas spoke up, in agreement. The Herald shot him a frown as he continued, "Losing you would cripple any effort in closing the Breach for good."

Still frowning sharply, she took one of the bundles she was carrying and held it out to Cassandra.

The Seeker eyed it warily, "What is that?"

Whatever it was, it was bundled in large waxy leaves, and secured with twine.

"A peace offering," Tephra replied. Her frown softened, if only marginally, and she looked liable to change her mind and revoke the gift at any moment.

Cassandra gave a frustrated sigh, and took the bundle. Tephra reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a smaller bundle and held it out for the Seeker to take. The taller woman cocked an eyebrow, and accepted it without further complaint.

The Herald moved on to Varric, handing him both a large and small bundle. The dwarf gave a chuckle, and said, "Is it my birthday, or did we overlook some weird elven holiday?"

Tephra pushed the dwarf's shoulder, almost playfully, before moving on around the campfire towards him.

Solas accepted the bundles as she handed them to him. He had to admit, he was curious as to what she'd spent her time away collecting.

"Ah, Snowflake," Varric piped up, holding up a trout; it had already been gutted and cleaned. "You know we've brought supplies — you didn't need to run off and get all this."

Solas opened the smaller bundle, which turned out to be an assortment of forage items — berries, edible roots, fiddleheads, morels, and a single black plum.

"Supplies are good when forage is scarce. There's plenty here, if you know how to look for it," the elf replied, simply.

"You should have mentioned your intentions before leaving," Cassandra remarked, still annoyed. "I would have accompanied you."

Settling down next to the dwarf, Tephra shot back, "Should I also ask for permission to go and take a piss, as well?"

The crude edge of her response sent the dwarf into a fit of laughter.

"Come on, Cassandra, lighten up," Varric chortled. "If she was gonna hightail it outta here, she could have long ago. And she didn't. She brought you dinner. A fine first date, if you ask me."

Varric winked at the Seeker, who gave a disgruntled sigh.

After fashioning a spit to roast the fish, they ate in relative silence. Solas busied himself with a book, which gave him the appearance of being busy while surreptitiously observing his companions and letting his thoughts wander.

There was an uneasiness between them all, save for whatever small bond had developed between the dwarf and the Herald. He spoke to her often, and his easy nature drew her out in a way that no one else among them seemed capable of.

If he were honest with himself, he might consider himself perhaps jealous of such, but it did no good to be. The dwarf had earned it, and he could not fault him for it.

His thoughts turned back to when he'd first sighted Tethras in the tavern of a small mountain town near the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

In truth, the dwarf had initially escaped his attention, at least until he'd pinned a drunken man to the tavern wall with several crossbow bolts for harassing a serving woman. The night had otherwise been uneventful while he waited for the inevitable event of the magister unlocking his focusing orb. He had been writing several missives for his agents at the time. It was during that brief interruption that the tavern was rocked by the explosion of the Conclave as the Breach opened in the sky.

The Seeker's men were among those in the tavern, as well, as the town had merely been a pit stop along their journey to the Conclave. He learned later that Tethras had been in the Seeker's custody at the time, as she intended to present him to the Divine, for matters that hardly concerned him.

The chaos which resulted in the aftermath was distraction enough for him to slip away with the intent to reclaim his orb, but despairingly, he had found no trace of it in the smoldering rubble the temple had been reduced to. There had been no sign of the magister's remains, nor of his people.

Little had gone as he'd expected.

An explosion had been probable, due to the circumstances of someone but him accessing and opening his foci, but to the degree in which it unfolded had been entirely unanticipated. He had not anticipated that the magister would manage to tear a hole in the Veil, nor that he would be unable to reclaim his orb. With no means to regain his power or to close the breach in the Veil, panic had set in. Solas had only just begun to order a retreat of his agents when word of a survivor began to circulate — of how she'd walked out of the Fade, and the strange mark burning on her hand.

He'd scarcely dared to hope, until he could confirm it with his own eyes. It had been a calculated risk approaching the Seeker's forces, but he had no choice but to investigate the matter personally.

All of which had brought him to this — to having insinuated himself into the Inquisition, to have made himself an invaluable resource regarding matters of the Fade, to a position to guide the bearer of his Anchor along into useful action while his agents worked to locate his focusing orb and the whereabouts of Corypheus. It had all brought him to this small alliance of unlikely companions, tethered around a single ultimate goal that happened to align with his own, for the time being.

The campsite remained rather quiet until the dwarf cracked open an Orlesian red. The Seeker refused his charitable offer, but the Herald partook of it with considerable enthusiasm. It was quickly apparent that she had little tolerance for alcohol. After two small cups, she was flushed and smiling and far more talkative than she had been in the entirety of her time with the Inquisition. She even provoked Cassandra into talking about herself, asking many questions of the Seeker's past.

Solas was surprised that the human indulged her. But then, there was an earnestness to the Herald's questions, and a softness she had not shown before.

When the subject turned toward the Seeker's family, however, the mood took a somber turn. Cassandra mentioned her brother briefly, but would not speak further on the subject. The implication in and of itself was enough to speak of his fate, and the heaviness that settled over the campsite was palpable.

The Herald rose, and moved to sit beside the Seeker. The sway in her movements spoke to her inebriation, but her sincerity was no less for it when she reached and place her hand over the woman's arm. A simple, brief clasp before her hand retreated back. She said nothing of her own brother, though, and they sat for a time in silence and watched the campfire.

Had he not survived? Did she share a similar grief with the Seeker?

It wasn't long after that when the Seeker retired to her sleeping roll and slept heavily. Tephra and Varric continued to talk well into the night as she curiously prodded the dwarf about his life and experiences, and said little of herself in return. Varric did not seem to mind the imbalance; he was quite content to speak of himself at length, though Solas was certain the dwarf was inclined toward embellishments. Their voices did not wake the Seeker, not even when the Herald broke the relative quiet of their campsite with a sudden laugh.

And of course it would be the dwarf who coaxed the first true laugh out of the so-called Herald of Andraste.

Well earned, Master Tethras, he conceded, to himself.

Despite his efforts to keep up the appearance of being absorbed in his book, his attention was inevitably drawn to the pair of them, laughing together across the campfire.

"—that's ridiculous," she was saying, as she pushed the dwarf's shoulder in a playful manner.

"No, I'm serious," Varric insisted, despite his gravelly laughter.

"I'd have to see it for myself," Tephra declared, before adding another skewer of fish to the fire pit.

Solas set his book down in his lap and asked, rather impulsively, "And that is?"

Her amusement didn't cool or retreat when she looked at him. Even though the smile wasn't for him, it had a curious effect on him nonetheless.

"Oh, Varric insists he's fought a dragon. Naked. And won." She gave the dwarf an impish smile, "And I'm calling bullshit."

The dwarf laughed as he protested, "It took half a year for my ass hair to grow back!"

The elf was sent into another fit of incredulous laughter.

It took considerable effort to turn his attention back to his book. What did it matter who made her laugh first — or even at all?

Varric's irreverent demeanor could be disarming and had proved effective against her wariness from the moment they'd met. Solas couldn't fault the man; even he laughed more around the dwarf than he had in a long time. Still, he could not help but feel a bit envious. It had not been Varric laboring for three days to keep the mark from consuming her after the Conclave exploded, to keep her vitals steady, to keep her nightmares from causing catastrophic stress to the functions of her heart. And then for a second time, after the attempt at the Breach.

Maybe it had something to do with being away from the chantry, away from Haven, away from people vying for her time and services. Perhaps with just the four of them, it made it easier for her to let her guard down. Or perhaps it was a credit to the dwarf's personable nature, as she hadn't cracked so much as a smile at the Seeker. With most of them she had been, at best, indifferent — at worst, defiant.

But camped out here in the Hinterlands, surrounded by wilderness and sitting beside Varric, she'd dropped her guard. Limbs unfolded, elbows on her knees, leaning forward in interest, and the laughter — it transformed her. It lit up her face and sent Solas's stomach rolling in a curious manner.

Truthfully, he could not blame Varric for gaining the Herald's friendship in a more timely manner than himself.

She had come to him in Haven, after the attempt at the Breach, amiable and unguarded. She had wanted to establish familiarity, even if simply on the merit of shared race. The memory of her playfully wiggling her ears at him nearly brought a smile to his face. He might have appreciated her sense of humor at the time, had he not been so preoccupied with dismissing her and distancing himself from her people.

How many times had he tried to reach out to the Dalish, only to be turned away? The sense of alienation had long since soured into resentment, especially now that one of them had tried to reach out to him.

She'd reached out, and he'd thoroughly rebuffed her. It was no wonder the dwarf had earned all of her smiles and laughter.

In retrospect, he could have used a gentler approach when speaking of her people. Even if he could not completely explain himself to her, he had the distracting notion that she had the capacity to empathize, to understand. There had been an openness in her face at the time, a kind of reaching out — kin to kin. But in his haste to dismiss and differentiate himself from modern elves, he'd offended her. And like a door snapped shut, the Herald had retreated back behind her guardedness and he'd yet to coax her out again.

He could only hope that she hadn't shut him out for good.

After the night in the woods and their long walk back to Haven, he was cautiously optimistic that they'd managed to at least move vaguely in the direction of something amicable. Yet even so, she remained largely indifferent to him and did not seek him out for conversation the way she did with the dwarf, who joked often and told ridiculous stories and set her at ease with kind words.

Was it really so surprising to him that it would be Varric who'd gotten her name first before any of them, and now her laughter?

Solas was suddenly aware of the silence that had settled over the campsite. He lifted his gaze from his book to find them both settled down onto their sleeping rolls. When had they retired for the night? Had it already grown so late?

He found that time still moved strangely for him, even a year after waking from uthenera. Lapsing into his own thoughts could eat away hours in the blink of an eye. He had to force himself to be quicker, to match the pace of these mortals, to be more present — or he would find himself left behind, such as he was now.

At first, he thought they'd already gone to sleep, but the elf stirred and asked a quiet question. The dwarf sighed wearily, answering in the same low tone, beyond his hearing. Silence lapsed again, yet each time the night grew too still but for the snapping and popping of the campfire, she would start speaking to the dwarf again.

She was fighting off her own fatigue, reluctant to submit to sleep.

Solas was certain he knew why. He'd seen part of what awaited her there in the Fade.

Finally, the dwarf sighed, "Go to sleep, Snowflake. The world's not gonna end if you close your eyes."

Tephra huffed, as she rolled over and tightened up into a protective curl.

As far as he'd seen, it was the only way she would sleep. Fully drawn into herself, curled into a tight knot. Blocking everything out that she could.

He was not surprised to find it to be when she was most at guard, when sleeping was when one was at their most vulnerable.

"It's not fair," Tephra said quietly, from where she lay curled by the fire.

"I don't make the rules, kid," the dwarf grumbled, sleepily.

"I wish that I didn't dream, either," she sighed.

Such an off-handed statement, and yet it despaired Solas irrevocably to hear her say it.

Nightmares had existed as long as the Dreaming had, but they were easily banished in most situations. Few ever required serious intervention. Dreaming was to his people as magic was — something natural and innate, something to be shaped, something to revel in. A means of renewal and learning and exploration, and never something to be discarded of or purposefully avoided.

Her unwillingness to sleep spoke to the depth and the frequency of her nightmares, which he suspected might have begun to spike after she received his Anchor. What might have been an occasional nuisance in her dreaming, had become something more frequent. He did not suspect that she'd drawn the attention of a despair demon, however brief her foray in the fade, but it was perhaps worth investigating. If that were the case, he could cast it off, but that would require much more than simply observing her dreams.

He idly considered casting a spell to banish her nightmares, if only for the night, to give her proper rest. Or perhaps, he could slip into her dreams and offer to introduce her to his dearest friend. She had shown an interest in the Fade and in the nature of spirits — she'd even gone so far as to express an interest in meeting them.

What a curious creature she was, so unlike any of the Dalish he'd ever met.

But Wisdom had fled the Breach just as many other spirits had, and he had not heard from it since the explosion. And even if the spirit remained, the offering itself was far too familiar, too impulsive. The fact that he'd considered it in the first place unsettled him greatly, as she was not trained of mind and the result of her meeting Wisdom could have irrevocable consequences for one of his oldest friends.

A spell was the safer option to calm her dreaming, but that would be yet another intrusion upon her, however kindly it was meant.

As it stood, they were not on the friendliest of terms, let alone familiar terms. Even if he offered such services to her, he doubted she would accept the help. She was stubborn to a fault, and admitting such a weakness would have required a level of trust that they simply did not share. Perhaps in time, she would trust him in such a manner that he could offer his assistance.

Solas sighed, and let his gaze drift back down to the lilting text of his book.

It did not take long until the dwarf was snoring quietly. Solas thought that the elf had drifted off as well, until she rolled to face him. The firelight threw her into stark relief, and her dark eyes watched him until he put his book down into his lap and returned her gaze.

Her voice was hardly above a whisper, as she asked, "Will you tell me about the things you've seen in the Fade?"

It was like a key fitting into a lock.

Something opened in him, regardless of his own apprehensions, and he was suddenly and acutely aware of how long it had been since someone had shown such an interest in what he had to say. He found himself regarding her warmly, as he asked, "What would you like to hear?"

Tephra regarded him thoughtfully. "Something good. Something beautiful."

Something to chase away her nightmares.

Solas put away his book and settled down onto his own sleeping roll, laying on his side to face her. Resting his head on his arm, he asked, "Have you ever been to the Tirashan?"

The Herald shifted to rest her head on her folded arms as she laid out on her stomach, and she shook her head in response.

His voice remained low and quiet as he told her of how she had the look of the ancient elves who once lived there, which elicited a sleepy smile from her.

"Truly?"

"Truly," he assured. "They were as fearsome as they were beautiful."

Again, her smile had a curious effect on him.

He diverted his attention from it, and spoke of the glowing glass spires and terraces that his people had built there, of the floating gardens filled with flora that no longer existed. Of trees that towered like giants, and structures built around them that housed elves beyond counting. He told her of the U'vun'adahla, the Star-Trees, that grew in the deep dark heart of the Tirashan — trees pale as bone, whose fruit glimmered in the dark and inspired their name. And of the moths drawn to them — as large as ravens, just as pale as the trees that drew them with shimmering silver patterns that flashed and pulsed with light. He told her of all of the goods things, not the civil wars or the destruction or the disease that befell the elves that dwelt there, nor of those who dwelt there now.

She regarded him with a sleepy, hopeful look, "Are they still in the Tirashan? The moths?"

"I cannot say with any certainty," he replied, stifling a yawn behind his hand. "But much is possible in this world. Some yet may survive in the deepest depths of the Tirashan."

"I'd like to see them, one day," she mused. Her expression fell, briefly, before smoothing back out to the practiced mask she wore. She was staring at the Anchor on her hand, as she said, "But I don't think I ever will, though. I don't think I will ever be anything but this now."

Guilt coiled in the pit of his stomach. He ignored the odd lump that had been building in his throat, and asked, "Shall I continue?"

"Yes, please do," she replied, and settled into a curl, knees drawn to her chest. All drawn in on herself, but her eyes watched him.

As deep and as dark as a well, pulling him in.

He kept talking until she drifted to sleep, but it did not take long.

When her breaths slowed and deepened, he reached across the space between them and pressed his fingertips to her temple. He hoped she would forgive him such a small intrusion.

It was a simple enough spell to cast — which cost him nothing — to fill her dreams with a thousand glowing moths.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The further they traveled into the Hinterlands, the more it descended into chaos around them.

Skirmishes between the templars and mages left cottages and farms ablaze, and corpses were left to rot where they fell in battle with no consideration for funeral rites or last wishes. With civilians fleeing theirs homes and their lands, there was none left to even afford them the dignity of a proper burial. Instead, carrion birds were busy making quick work of their flesh. And with each group they came upon, they were thrown into the fray, as neither side relented — mages and templars alike attacked them on sight.

It was a decidedly harrowing new experience for her; she'd never been in conflict such as this before. She'd hunted bandits many times in her life, but that was a different animal altogether. Much of it had just been for show to drive them off, or shooting from a distance while concealed and picking them off one at a time while they scrambled for cover — that was one thing.

But mages?

That was something else entirely.

Tephra had never fought mages before, never had to deal with all manners of fireballs and bolts of lightning and daggers of ice being thrown her way. If it wasn't for Solas's barrier spells, she reckoned she wouldn't have even lasted to see the second fight.

In their first encounter between a group of templars and mages, she'd been caught seized up in awe at the incredible forces blasting across the battlefield. The sheer force of the spells barreling past her — forces of nature bent to deadly whim — left her breathless. More than once she'd been caught gaping like an idiot, much to the endless frustration of her companions. Varric made a running gag of it, much to the Seeker's annoyance. And twice now Solas had swept her off her feet and out of the path of lethal magic, using some sort of non-lethal spell. The last time he'd done it, she'd been too preoccupied with shooting at a target to realize that a mage had targeted her. She'd been mid-draw, when suddenly it hit her, some unseen force, and sent her tumbling through the air and landing in a rolling heap of tangled limbs and curses.

Her lack of confidence in survival against mages wasn't so much as doubt in her own skills, as her arrows found her targets with deadly efficiency. She rarely missed a mark. It was simply that in the face magic, a bow did not have the same level of destructive capability. Even Varric had a more efficient drop-rate than her, given the sophistication of his crossbow.

It made her feel like a fumbling youth on her first hunt and it kept her racing along, just trying to keep up.

It was almost comical that she — a simple Dalish archer — was their so-called Herald of Andraste. Of anyone who could have received the damnable mark, it was her. Fumbling along, trying to not get killed.

By midday, she had a higher body count than the whole of her life. And yet, despite the horrible reality of being caught up in a civil war that had nothing to do with her, she had no time to stop and process any of it. And it did nothing to prepare her for what was to come next.

They were halfway to the Crossroads when they came upon a trio of Inquisition scouts hunkered down behind the charred ruins of a home, and surveying a skirmish below the hill. They were too outnumbered to intervene.

At their approach, one of the scouts jumped up from their place of concealment and called out, "Seeker Pentaghast! Thank the Maker! We must help them!"

"Oh, we must," Varric griped, already weary of the fighting. "At this rate, we'll reach the Crossroads by the next age."

Tephra couldn't blame him — she was tired of it, as well. It all felt so pointless. Any meaning and justification, for either side, was lost in the face of senseless death and destruction.

Down the hill, she could see a dozen or more templars fighting with a handful of mages. It seemed as though most of the mages had already been killed. Not far from the battle, a lone cabin had recently been set ablaze.

"They've shut the apostates inside and barred the doors and windows," the scout continued, her voiced edged with a terrible urgency. The band on her arm marked her for a medic. "The others came to stop them."

Cassandra frowned. "Who shut them in? The templars? Surely not, that's—"

"What, exactly? You think the mages locked themselves in and set the house on fire?" Varric gave a snort. "Not all your templars are the good guys, Seeker."

"That's hardly—"

"There's children in there!" the scout cut in, panic overriding propriety.

All eyes turned as one to the burning cabin, as Varric cursed under his breath.

Tephra's stomach twisted with an immediate, visceral response to act. To do something — anything.

Before any of her companions could respond, she dug her heels into the horse beneath her. It all but leapt down the hill and into the fray.

They had no choice but to follow her.

Gods, what am I doing? The panicked thought flickered briefly through her mind. She'd given no consideration to formulating a plan; she'd simply reacted.

She skirted the battle as her companions dismounted and joined the fight, and let her horse carry her as near to the burning cabin as it would go. When it began to shy and whinny in fear, she dismounted and let it retreat to safety. She ran the rest of distance on shaking legs.

The door had been crudely boarded shut, as well as the windows. Smoke had begun to pour out through the cracks between them.

For a moment, she did nothing but stare helplessly.

What could she do?

Her gaze swept the building for any possible way in, for any answer she might have overlooked, for—

Something.

Anything.

And then she heard it.

There were screams coming from inside the house, clamoring over one another, made distant over the roar of the fire and the battle that raged behind her.

Frightened women, pleading at the door. And somewhere further inside, the cries of children. There was no moment of conscious decision, only the movement of her body propelled inexplicably to their terror.

Tephra discarded her bow and quiver, before tearing off her coat and throwing it aside. Her hands were shaking as she drew her dagger and moved to the closest window.

What the fuck am I doing?

She jabbed her dagger between the boards, and wrenched. It took three tries before the wood gave and cracked. She yanked the broken pieces from the frame of the window. As she pried a second board free, an arm shot out and grabbed at her in desperation.

"Please, please I can't—"

"Hold on, I've almost got it," Tephra assured. Her voice came thin and high, and shaking almost as much as her hands were.

She wrenched another board free and threw it aside. There was just enough space to pull the woman through. She was coughing fiercely as she tumbled into Tephra's arms, covered in soot and burns.

"Please," she rasped, as she sank to her knees, pulling Tephra with her. "I couldn't reach them."

"I'll get them," Tephra assured, as she disentangled herself from the woman's grip. Her voice had grown curiously calm. She shoved the woman away from the cabin, as she urged, "Go. Get away from the fire."

Tephra reholstered her dagger. She yanked her scarf up to cover the lower half of her face and knotted it tightly behind her head. The heat and smoke stung her eyes as she hoisted herself up into the window. Someone was shouting her name, but she paid it no heed as she climbed through and into the choking darkness of the cabin.

She immediately dropped to the floor, to get beneath the thick layer of smoke that had filled the building. The glare of fire came from several directions, and the wooden floor beneath her blistered from the heat rolling off the flames. She strained her ears and followed the sound of the crying children. The air was becoming increasingly thin, and the smoke pressed down further with each passing moment, until she couldn't see more than a few feet ahead of her.

There was precious little time to waste in finding the children, before the cabin would come down on all of them — herself included.

She'd only just managed to scramble halfway through the cabin when something exploded against the outside walls and shook the entire structure. It sent her tumbling forward in a sprawl as a beam in the roof came crashing down. Smoldering ash and debris showered over her, and she barely had enough time to raise her arms to protect her face from the spray of hot ash.

Tephra rolled away from it, gagging and coughing and shaking off the burning cinders. Pain shot across her forearms, as she rolled too close to the fire atop the scorched floor, but the sensation was gone as soon as it came. She scrambled back onto her hands and knees, away from the burning beam and toward the sound of the crying children.

It guided her to the far corner of the cabin, where she found them huddled behind an overturned bed. It had been turned on its side and braced against the wall, as a makeshift barrier to protect them. Fire raged just beyond it, and had begun to ignite the mattress. A table blocked them in, having caught fire and fallen when one of the legs gave way.

Desperation set in as she kicked at the burning table, trying to knock it aside. It hardly budged an inch. She braced her hands against it to shove it away, but immediately pulled back from the sudden shock of pain.

It was too hot to touch.

Growing desperate, grabbed it again and pulled with all her might. She could not feel her hands anymore, but it did not matter, not with the children screaming for help just out of reach. The table budged, but just enough to create space enough so that she could wedge herself between it and the wall. She brought her knees to her chest and braced her boots against the heavy tabletop, carefully avoiding the burning edges. It took all of her strength to push, to shove it further away, until there was enough space to reach the children.

She could barely make out their shapes as she counted. Three — four? No, five. Small hands clutched at her, as she shouted to the older ones, "Take hold of each other's hands!"

Tephra grabbed up the closest child, little enough to throw over her back. She pulled their little arms around her neck, and they quickly grasped ahold. With the next, she grabbed their hand and brought it to her belt for them to grasp hold. "Don't let go of each other," she shouted over the noise, as she started to cough and choke as the smoke clawed at her throat. "I'm gonna get you out of here, you just have to follow me."

As they clasped hold of each other, she double checked, counting their soot-covered faces. "Have you got a hold of each other?"

A chorus of nods was all that she needed.

"Stay close to me," she urged, as she turned on her knees and began to lead them out and towards the window.

The fallen beam blocked her previous path, so she led them along the perimeter of the wall. The little one she'd scooped up clung to her, skinny arms tight around her neck, little legs gripping her chest. The child behind her held tight to her belt. The slight tug with each movement was a reassurance that they were still with her.

Moving on three limbs proved awkward and slow, as she kept one arm against the child's side atop her back to keep them from falling. She had to maneuver around furniture and debris that she could barely see, until she nearly collided face-first into them.

Minutes crawled by as she led the children along the walls, occasionally stopping to feel for the frame of the window above her head. Panic and disorientation began to set in, as each search proved fruitless.

Where the fuck is the window?

She almost turned around in her disorientation, until she heard them shouting her name.

Tephra all but dragged the child behind her as she pulled herself to feet. She stumbled toward the voices, clutching the smaller one to her torso.

Almost there.

Blinded and choking on the smoke, she pushed the child she carried out the window and into waiting arms. Next came the older two, which she shoved out the window rather unceremoniously. There wasn't time for gentleness. As she was lifting another small one and handing it through the window to the waiting hands, a sudden horrible realization hit her.

Where was the fifth?

Someone had a hold of her arm and was trying to pull her through the window, but she wrenched herself free.

There was still another child somewhere inside the cabin.

Five, not four.

She was certain of it, but there was no more crying to guide her path, only the roar of the fire around her and the distant shout of her companions.

Tephra dropped down into a crouch and began to backtrack.

The smoke pressed down further, thick and black, and nearly touching the floor. It was nearly impossible to see anything, even the fire. She could only feel the press of blistering heat against her face coming from all around her, making it difficult to feel out a safe path.

It frightened her, but fear was not an option.

Tephra followed the wall, coughing and straining to keep air in her lungs, feeling her way along in the darkness in a slow path back to where the children had hidden behind the bed.

The choking black was not unlike the dark waters that took him, so many years ago.

Five, not four.

A little one, too. Why hadn't she picked him up? She could have at least tried to carry him. Hell, she could have dragged him along. She could have done something — anything.

An inexplicable anger rushed through her, chased by a crushing sense of guilt.

She could have carried two. Why didn't she even try?

Tephra felt her way along in the darkness, slowed by the despair and exhaustion setting in, until she nearly tripped over a small body. She could barely make out his shape in the darkness as he lay on the floor.

He wasn't moving.

Oh, no.

Her fingers trembled as she felt for him and lifted his body up into her arms. He was boneless, and unresponsive. She could not throw him on her back if he couldn't hold onto her. She turned back for the window, clutching his small body to her chest with one arm as she went. Her head was pounding, and she was dizzy from lack of oxygen.

This one was so small in her arms, yet so terribly heavy.

No, no, no. Please wake up, we're almost there.

She tipped sideways, nearly dropping him.

Something pushed against her side, and steadied her. She nearly dropped the child in surprise.

Was there someone else still in the cabin?

Tephra swept her free arm out, as she sat back on her heels, and felt blindly in the smoke for another body, but there was nothing there.

Had she imagined it? She was almost certain it felt like a hand.

There was no time left to investigate.

She pushed onward to the window and by the time she reached it, she could barely bring herself to stand. Her lungs were screaming for air, just as the people outside were screaming at her to get out.

Tephra held the child to her chest tightly as she hauled herself up into the window. More of the planks had been pulled away, clearing the way for her. Several sets of hands pried at her and hauled her out of the cabin. She landed on unsteady legs, and let herself be pulled away from the billowing smoke.

Someone was hitting at her back, and a coat was thrown over her as she stumbled further from the burning cabin. There was a clamor of arguing voices around her as she yanked it back off of herself. She was surrounded by her companions and the scouts, but they were nothing more than a flurry of anxious faces and bothersome limbs. Tephra pushed herself free of them, clutching the child, and stumbled further from the burning cabin. When she was at a safe distance, she crouched and lay the child on the grass.

He still wasn't moving. His eyes were open and unfocused, but he wasn't breathing.

Panic coursed through her, but her movements were steady as she rubbed her knuckles over his sternum. When he didn't stir, she positioned his head and then put her mouth over his and tried to breathe life back into him the way she'd been taught by the healers of her clan.

It had brought people back before. She'd seen it done, and she had done it once herself.

She breathed into him again, and again.

Please, let it—

She breathed, and breathed into the child, before a fit of coughs took her.

"Teph," Varric said, gently. He was crouched at her side and had reached to pull her off the toddler, but his hand hovered at her shoulder without making contact.

The boy stared lifelessly at the sky above them, and did not breathe.

She sat back on her heels, and let out a ragged breath.

He couldn't have been more than two summers old. Maybe three. His hair was matted around his face, as dark as the ash on his skin. His lips were blue. His eyes were unfocused and unseeing, but they seemed to bore into hers accusingly.

The smoke had killed him long before the fire could. It was little consolation that she'd pulled him out before the fire could take the rest of him.

With burned, shaking fingers, Tephra gently pushed his eyelids closed.

Something terrible and ragged clutched at her chest. Around her, the others were speaking to her, but all she could hear was the ringing in her ears.

And then she saw him.

One of the templars had survived the skirmish.

His hands were bound with rope and he'd been left to sit on his knees near the corpses of his companions. He stared at her with a wide-eyed, hollow expression.

She was up on her feet and past the others before anyone could react. The bone dagger was in her hand in a flash and then she was on him, knocking him to the ground as she straddled him and stabbed him in the chest.

And kept stabbing.

He tried to block the blows, grabbing awkwardly at the dagger with bound hands and fumbling fingers, but it didn't matter as they were soon slick and red and could no longer grasp. She didn't hear his pleas for mercy, or the cries for his mother, she simply kept stabbing long after he fell silent and still beneath her.

It was only then that they dragged her off of him.

Tephra wrenched herself free of their hands, vibrating with fury.

Cassandra gave her a tight look, hands still hovering near as she said, "Herald, your arms..."

When Tephra looked down at them, it woke the pain in her.

The fingerless gloves she wore had done little to protect her hands, and in her panic to reach the children, she had foolishly ignored the scream of her nerves each time she touched or brushed against something burning. Long welts of raw burns and watery blisters had bloomed on her fingers and forearms. The medic moved to help her, and she felt Cassandra's hand at her back. She shrank away from the Seeker's touch and waved them away, as she made her way toward a small creek that ran beside the cabin.

She couldn't bear to be touched, and she could not get the image of the boy's face out of her head.

Alive, then not alive.

Alive — wide-eyed and silent and tucked down against the corner with the others. How had she missed him? Then not alive — on the floor, not moving at all. Lost along the way when she'd led the children to safety. Why did she trust a child to save another child?

He had been right there. Why hadn't she grabbed him up with the other little one?

All she could think of was the other she couldn't hold onto, who'd she also lost in the choking black.

Alive, then not alive.

It was too much.

Tephra sank to her knees in the shallow creek, trembling from the pain. Carefully, she submerged her arms into the water. Pain washed over her, but it was nothing compared to what raged inside her. Her whole body shook with grief and fury, and there was no name for the sound that left her. Only that it was as raw and ragged as the burns on her arms.

And then there was nothing after, but the stillness of ruin.

Solas stepped around her in the water, and crouched down.

It was simply instinct that Tephra pulled away when he reached for her arms. She had never been good at letting anyone help her, even wounded as she was.

Still so much a wild thing, even after all these years, she thought, ruefully.

"Sathan, en ma halani," he urged, gently.

His hands remained held out to her, patient and waiting; pale blue magic flared and danced from his open palms. Concern was etched deeply in his face, and it opened something in her.

Tephra relented, and let him take her by the arms. Healing magic washed over her skin as he gently braced his forearms beneath the length of hers, his long fingers cupping her elbows.

The sudden cessation of pain elicited a gasp of relief from her, and she sank forward against him. Her forehead rested on his shoulder as he held her arms gently, letting the magic work through her and repair what damage he could.

"That was a reckless thing to do." His voice was low, almost gentle in her ear.

"It was the only thing to do," she replied defiantly, as she pulled herself back to sit on her heels.

He regarded her with a tight expression, "And no less reckless for it."

Silence settled between them for a time as she watched his hands as they moved over her arms, hovering but never quite touching. The blue magic whispered through the wounds, dancing like fire that didn't burn. The magic dampened her nerves and lessened the damage, soothing the intensity of the burns, but it could only do so much until salves and bandages were applied.

"It's always the same," she said, finally.

Solas did not look at her as he worked his magic over her, and asked, "What is?"

"Conflict," she replied. "No matter the justifications of either side, it's always the children who pay the price. It's always the littlest ones who face the injustices, the suffering, the terror — alone."

Solas looked up from his work to regard her with an intense expression, and once again, she felt as if he was actually seeing her and not simply looking through her. As though much of the time, he wasn't quite here. As though he stood, with one foot in this world, and one in another.

It was such a strange, unsettling feeling.

Was he even aware that he did that?

Looking at him, she could see that he wasn't without wounds, either. There was a large bruise blooming up from his cheekbone and blackening the underside of his left eye. She was surprised that one of the templars had managed to get close enough to him to do that.

Unsettled, she cleared her throat, which only prompted another series of ragged coughs. She could still feel the pain in her lungs from the smoke. "I need to be able to fight. Can you fix my hands?"

"Yes, but it will be unpleasant," Solas replied.

His honesty was oddly refreshing.

"Many things are," she said.

Solas drew his arms back, and held out his hand with the palm offered up. Tephra placed her marked hand into it, and he laid his other hand over hers.

He held her gaze as the magic ignited between his palms. She swallowed the sounds of the sudden agony that tried to claw its way out of her and kept her eyes trained on his, refusing to let herself submit to it. The eye contact was reassuring, and she didn't break it, even at the height of the pain.

When he released her hand, the blisters were gone.

Her breath was quick and uneven, and she nearly tipped forward into him. He steadied her with a palm to her shoulder, and gave her a moment to recover before withdrawing and offering his hand once more.

Her other hand trembled when she laid it in his, in anticipation of the pain. He repeated the process efficiently. This time, her resolve broke and she relented to the pain, striking at the ground with her free hand and let out a string of curses. By the time he was done, she was shaking, but her hands were were unburnt and shiny with new skin.

It was an utterly bizarre sight to behold.

"Ma serannas, Solas," she said, as she flexed her hands. The movements came easily, and without pain, though the skin felt strange and foreign to her.

She hoped that feeling would pass quickly.

"Herald."

She was surprised by the sharpness in Solas's voice, and her eyes snapped up to meet his.

"If you die, we all die," he said, in a grave tone. "You cannot save anyone if you throw yourself upon the pyre."

Despite the hard set of his features, she was certain there was concern lurking there. Distress, even.

It elicited something soft and fluttery, somewhere deep behind her ribs.

She surprised him with a wide smile, as she declared, "Then I won't die."

Tephra stood, soaked from the waist down. She made her way back to the others as Solas followed after her.

The medic was looking over the woman she pulled from the cabin, as well as another who had survived the battle, both of whom were silent with shock. Upon her approach, though, both clutched at her as their words bled together in a frenzy of raw emotion as they tried to express their gratitude. Despite how uncomfortable it made her, she endured it.

Finally, Tephra extricated herself, and went to speak with the medic. "Are they okay?"

The woman gave a stiff nod, "They got the worst of it. That one you pulled out tried to get the door open until the fire forced her back. The other got it pretty bad from the templars. They'll live, though."

"And the children?"

"Some minor burns, but mostly smoke sickness," the scout replied. "It's hard to say yet. If their lungs last the night, I would say its safe to trust they'll live."

Inevitably, her gaze was drawn back to the toddler. He was still where she left him in the grass.

"He was Marya's," one of the women said, a great deal more composed than she had been before.

It took considerable effort to look away from the boy, as Tephra asked, "And where is she?"

The woman looked to the burning cabin and said nothing. She didn't need to.

"Then we will put her with him in the ground when the fire dies," Tephra replied. "They should be together."

Cassandra spoke up behind her, "This area is unstable and dangerous, Herald. We should not linger here."

She turned to face the Seeker, with the memory of all those bodies left to rot along their way, and firmly insisted, "We're burying them."

An inexplicable emotion crossed the woman's face, before she relented, "As you wish."

"The cabin is still very much on fire, as it were," Solas observed. "It will be hours before it dies out."

Tephra followed his gaze to the cabin. She was surprised to see a jagged bloom of ice impaling the door.

Had that been what caused the cabin to shake and nearly come down on her?

Tephra looked back to Solas, and simply said, "Then you should help it die faster."

The apostate sighed, before moving toward the cabin.

Varric spoke up beside her, as he watched the made depart, "You got a death wish or something, kid? I mean, shit."

She was still looking at the ice that had impaled the door of the cabin. "Did Solas do that?"

Varric gave a grim nod, "First time I've seen that guy lose his cool. He tried to blast down the door with that damned ice. The Seeker clocked him for it. He could've brought the whole cabin down on you. What was it he said after? Something like, "I am not known for making the wisest of decisions under duress," or thereabouts."

She watched as Solas began to cast freezing spells on the burning structure, and suppressed a smile. Jumping into the cabin may have not been her brightest idea, but it amused her to know that the lofty apostate wasn't above bad decision-making either.

When the medic was done tending to the children, she allowed the woman to apply salves and bandage her forearms. The burns had been rendered minor compared to what they'd been before, thanks to Solas's work. When the medic finished, she relocated her coat and weaponry. While she was tying up her hair, she realized that a portion of it had been burnt away on one side, leaving choppy, frayed clumps.

A small price for five lives, she thought, grimly.

It took less than an hour to dig the grave and retrieve the mother's body. They found her where she'd curled up against a wall near the bed, with her back to the fires that had claimed her.

Tephra bid the medic to swaddle the toddler in clean bandages, as she could not do it herself. They did not have enough cloth for the mother, so Tephra pulled the blanket from her horse and gave it to the scouts to wrap her in.

The mother was placed into the grave first, and then the Seeker placed the boy on her chest. She adjusted her arms so that she was holding him, before closing the blanket around them.

Tephra resisted the urge to look away, and steeled her face. She reached for the closest companion to steady herself — she had thought Varric was still beside her, but she grasped Solas's arm instead. Her hand fisted in the fabric of his sleeve, holding on for ballast. He said nothing, and did not pull away. She was grateful for that, at least.

After a moment, she let go of him. She let out a slow breath, pushing away the emotions raging inside of her.

She needed to acclimate herself to tragedy, as this would not be the last. And if every tragedy broke her heart, then there was no way she could survive however long it would take until this bloody work was done and the Breach was closed.

While the scouts worked to fill the grave, Tephra left to search the immediate area until she found what she was looking for. She uprooted a young sapling and brought it back to the gravesite and waited for them to finish filling the grave.

It was something she needed to do, even if the others didn't understand.

Solas was blessedly silent about her actions, as well. If he had any criticisms about Dalish funeral rites, he kept them to himself. Yet as she finished planting the sapling, patting the soil down firmly, she caught him watching her with an expression that seemed almost approving.

"Ea revas," she said quietly, as she finished packing the soil down around the base of the sapling.

They were free now, at least from the horror of war, which never seemed far away in this world. She hoped that they would find each other in the Beyond, if there truly was such a thing.

"Ea revas," Solas echoed, in a solemn tone, and it heartened her to hear it from him.

By the time the horses were relocated, the Seeker was organizing the scouts to escort the apostates and their children to the Crossroads.

"No," Tephra said suddenly, surprising the Seeker as well as herself. "Send the scouts to the Inquisition camps. I want orders to evacuate all civilians and survivors and their children to Haven, or wherever else it is safe for them to go. I want all that ask for help to be put under our protection."

The scouts looked between themselves, as one carefully said, "We cannot save every child—"

"You could at least try," Tephra shot back, as she straightened and steadied herself.

"But, Herald—"

"Act as if they were your own," she barreled on, hoping to shame them into action. "Save all that you can. Even if there is no guarantee of a future for any of us, they are the future. They are what lives on after us. If you would not throw yourself into the fire for them, then you can leave the Inquisition."

The Seeker's tone was surprisingly gentle, as she said, "Herald—"

Frustration flared in her, as Tephra cut the woman off, "What is the fucking point of saving the world if I can't save them, too?"

Cassandra gave her a strained look, but kept her silence.

Tephra turned back to the scouts, and continued, "Go to the Inquisition camps and tell them to sweep the Hinterlands for all survivors. Especially the civilians — especially the children. If any rebels surrender, then take them too. Take them all to the Crossroads, or on to Haven, under full guard."

She had no idea what she was doing or if it was even possible with their few numbers, but she needed to do something.

"As you command, Herald."

The words twisted uneasily in her gut, but they settled at the sight of Cassandra giving her a measured look and the ghost of a smile. "And these survivors?"

Her gaze swept over them, and then to the scouts, before finally settling on her companions.

It was a curious realization, that they were all waiting on her command. It made her feel both heady and sick, at once, and there was nothing for it but to continue on.

"We'll take them to the Crossroads ourselves," she replied.

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Author's Note: I've been out of town for work recently, so that is why there has been some delay in updating. I have two more out-of-town work trips this month (last two weekends of November), but I will try to keep my updates as consistent as I can otherwise.

This chapter was difficult to write, on a number of levels. Writing Solas is a challenge, as I imagine at this point he was still very much withdrawn into himself, seeing himself as surrounded by Tranquil, by non-people whom he couldn't possibly relate to, so I am trying to reflect that in his POV sections. He is very much entrenched in himself, and needs prodding and provoking to get him moving towards the truth that he is in fact quite wrong. I'm not sure if my interpretation of him is quite right, though I suppose that is fairly subjective among fic writers in general. Any input on that would be greatly appreciated.

Also, when I stumbled across that cabin in the Hinterlands where the apostates had locked themselves inside for safety and the templars had set it on fire, I knew I had to write about that.

Sathan, en ma halani. — Please, I will give you help.
Ea revas. — Be free.