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.

9. The Man On The Island

I shiver,
thinking how easy it is to be totally wrong about people,
to see one tiny part of them and confuse it for the whole.
—Lauren Oliver, Before I Fall

But see—
it's easier to deny reality,
to linger in the dream,
to pretend, to observe.
—Inga Ābele, High Tide

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Solas was awake long before the others, though he'd hardly slept at all.

The innkeeper had given him a room to share with the dwarf for the night. Separate cots, thankfully, and it had been sufficient — if a bit springy. Yet he'd been incapable of settling his mind and had lain awake, tense and restless and listening to the dwarf's snoring as he grappled with Lavellan's words, until he had finally given up any pretense of sleeping. None had seen him take his leave. He sought refuge on the edge of town, hoping that the stillness of the predawn hour would afford him a modicum of peace.

Yet it was no better here, out in the woods on the outskirts of the Crossroads with the sharp chill air filling his lungs, than it had been back in bed at the tavern. The rambling tumble of her words — her observations, her declarations, her fears — continued to turn and wrestle in his mind.

She was nothing he could have expected, nor prepared for. She was entirely outlier. Perhaps at first she was a curiosity, at best, but after the inebriated confession of her perspective and fears the previous night, there was no denying the clarity and depth of her awareness — both of self, and the world she lived in.

By all accounts, it was an aberration.

The state of the waking world separated from that of the dreaming prevented the true nature and capacity of modern elves from existing. They had the form, but not the spirit. They were only shadows of what once was.

And yet, here he was, overcome with doubt.

There had been others who'd lived and died after the Veil had risen, who had been more than what they should have been. Notable figures who did notable things, who'd shook the world on its foundations, one way or another.

It wasn't unprecedented, nor without merit or admiration on his part.

Still, he was not one to aggrandize. He was not fool enough to believe them to be people, not truly. In the centuries that he'd spent in the dreaming, however he might have watched their rises and their falls, he was never fool enough to think them more than poor copies of those who walked in the world before this one.

It was a conviction he'd held so dearly for so long, that it had been worth the cost of a very old and very dear friend. And if that conviction was broken now, then how could he rationalize sacrificing one of his own for it? Was it simply easier to deny their personhood, to make the task at hand less regrettable? Or had his narrowed perspective in uthenera — bound by the biases and perspective of the memories he gleaned from the sleeping minds of mortals — limited his ability to accurately judge the modern beings in their entirety? So few of his people lingered in the waking world, and fewer still brought knowledge to him after the fall of Elvhenan.

"They're stronger than you think, you know."

Felassan's words came back to him more and more these days, and however he might have dismissed them before, it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so in the company of the Herald.

It had been his mistake, in expecting so little of her in the beginning. Yet each provoking conversation or argument threw him entirely off-balance, it forced him to reconsider his position, his long-held convictions about this world he found himself in.

It pleased him more than he cared to admit.

And her fury—

For her people. For her own plight. For what was lost.

However unintended his intrusion, he'd seen part of her past, part of what shaped her to be the woman she was now, if only at an incoherent glance. Had seen the implications of all that she had lost, and continued to lose. Her family, her people, her identity, her potential — all that she knew or ever held dear, taken from her.

And yet, there was no defeat in her. The world could've swallowed all the light in her and she would still be full of fire, and fight.

"I'm so angry, all the time."

It had left him all but mute as she carried on the night before, seemingly oblivious to the effects her statements had on him, as she laid out his transgressions in a neat little row before him.

However necessary that raising the Veil was in stopping the evanuris from destroying the world in their madness, in their insatiable hunger for greater and greater heights of power and control over the people, the cost of such was entirely his to bear. The loss of their connection to magic, to immortality, to their very nature, their history and culture, their very being — that loss was entirely his doing.

In saving his people from the evanuris, he'd destroyed those who came after the fall. Whatever they would have been or done, their potential, had been stolen from them before their very birth.

It was a knowledge that had nearly driven him to madness in the dreaming, and a weight he carried ever since.

It was no surprise then, that he'd reacted as he had when she parroted the absurd Dalish folktale of himself. After such pleasing conversation — intelligent and engaging, with no lack for curiosity on her part — to hear that tumbling out of her in a jest had been like a knife to the throat.

Of course, she could not have known the significance of it — could not have known she was addressing the person responsible for much that she raged against, and sorrowed for. He had made a crucial mistake in inviting it in the first place, and it had been entirely masochistic of him to stay and listen. What did it serve, but to reignite his grief and his guilt? Or worse, to shake his foundations, to threaten his resolve — to make him doubt.

And yet, he found himself wanting to return to her, like a penitent prostrating oneself to their potential redeemer. To further provoke her and to hear her lay out the charges of his crimes, and to be held accountable for them.

It was a particularly self-destructive desire.

Perhaps she would understand; perhaps she had the capacity to. And in that, perhaps he could find understanding and forgiveness for what he'd done, for what had to be done — and for what he still must do.

Or would she deny him that? Forsake him, as all the rest had?

Only a fool could hope to be forgiven for destroying the world, he mused, darkly.

Or perhaps this was his punishment.

To see the potential, to see what was lost, to see what she could have been — and all of it thieved away by his arrogance, by his own hand. To feel an affinity with her, to feel the sudden shock of being connected to another person again after so many centuries in relative solitude, to be known and to be understood. To meet this young, vibrant, emergent spirit — to watch her wither and die a slow, lingering death, and to know that it was entirely his fault.

"Generations of us. All the way back to Elvhenan."

All that they had been, or could have ever been, destroyed by an act of desperation meant to save them.

One tragedy, traded for another.

The truth of it left a knot in his throat that he could neither express, nor undo.

That is how the agent found him — leaning heavily on a tree, as though the weight of the world bore down on him.

The elf inclined his head, before quirking an eyebrow, "Long night?"

"Something of the sort," Solas conceded, as he straightened and composed himself. "What brings you?"

The agent produced a small object from his sleeve — a scroll case. Small, made of unadorned wood, and entirely unassuming. "The report you requested on the Herald."

Such a small thing, yet it felt curiously heavy in his hand as he took it.

"Ma serannas, Kazem," Solas replied, as he tucked the report into an interior pocket in his jerkin. He ignored the odd tremble in his hands as he moved to clasp them behind his back. "I did not expect this so soon."

"The agents in the Free Marches were able to gather the information quickly enough, once they knew where to find it," Kazem informed. "The clans there are unsettled by the events here, and the capture of one of their own. It was not difficult to press for information using the marked agents. They've proven useful."

Of the Dalish among the ranks of his agents, only a few had chosen to keep their vallaslin as it allowed them move among the clans freely.

Useful, indeed.

"It appears so," Solas agreed.

The agent idled, before asking, "Did you have further instructions?"

Solas regarded the elf with a brief, sharp glance.

Kazem was one of his most competent and efficient agents. He'd risen to that particular position when Felassan had unfortunately vacated it. He had easily infiltrated among the ranks of the Inquisition recruits on merit alone. Due to his current placement, he'd been among the reinforcements that had arrived toward the end of the fighting in the Crossroads the previous day, assigned to one of the many squads that were working to establish Inquisition camps and outposts in the Hinterlands.

"Continue as you've been instructed, for the time being," Solas replied. "Assist the Inquisition, and do not draw undue attention to yourself."

The agent ducked his head again, before departing.

Kazem's demeanor was surprisingly more sober than it generally was, and showed none of his usual irreverent sense of humor. Then of course, with much of the Hinterlands thrown into chaos and bodies rotting at every turn, he imagined few could maintain their sense of humor amidst such sobering sights.

Idly, his hand was drawn to the lump in his jerkin where the scroll rested.

What secrets of hers would he find there, were he to read it?

Something had shifted in him between the time he'd issued the order for this information, and now. Something too small to be put to name, or clearly discerned, but present enough to elicit a strange guilt which stayed his hand.

One late evening with her had given him far more than he'd ever expected to learn of her, and it had come because it had been earned and not simply taken. Something had changed in her, too, and opened her to him in a way — however small.

This exchange of information and conversation between them was far preferable to subterfuge.

Pleasing, even, if he were honest with himself.

Still, it did not surprise him how quickly his agents had gathered the information, given that his network was bolstered by dreamers. It provided a means of disseminating orders and information at a speed and efficiency far superior than by any modern means.

Solas had attempted to recruit amongst the modern dreamers before he woke, as dreamers would be an essential function to his network of agents and their effectiveness. The ability had nearly become extinct amongst those born in the Veiled world, as with each generation the connection to magic was further and further diminished. Even the most talented of mages in this age still lacked the ability to dream lucidly, or with any control over their dreams. Of those he did find, most had been too frightened when he'd approached them in the Fade to be recruited to his cause.

The stigma of myth was too great to be overcome.

It was of no matter, in the end, but it had forced him to wake those amongst his own people who'd been hidden away and left safely in the dreaming. Necessity called them, and they had answered. They were now positioned strategically across Thedas to best be utilized to pass information among the various enclaves of his people. Intel could be relayed much more quickly from one dreamer to the next, and then passed onward until finally reaching him. Until he could reclaim the Eluvian network, it was his most effective means of receiving information and dispensing orders. If pressed, he could contact individual agents himself through the dreaming, but he reserved that for more exigent circumstances.

As it were, dreaming was now more a refuge to him than it ever was, reserved almost entirely for respite. It was often difficult to resist the urge to slip back into the Fade, as often as he could, to find a reprieve from this strange world he'd awakened to. He knew much of this era — its politics and customs, strifes and conflicts — but it was all secondhand knowledge, viewed through the lens of dreaming. The personal biases of mortals often made parsing the truths of their memories rather difficult, and even the most practical assumptions he'd made of the world before he woke fell vastly short of the reality.

He'd caught glimpses and fragments of memories of the world as he slumbered in the millennia after raising the Veil. At first, the dreams came to him bright and shining with the hopes and aspirations of his people, newly-freed from the tyranny of the would-be gods. But it did not take long before the nightmares came on a tide of confusion and anger, as the world built on the foundation of magic began to crumble in its absence, as their panicked fear clawed at him to wake and answer for what had been done But he'd been too weakened by the vast endeavor of raising the Veil to wake, he'd had no choice but to remain in the dreaming and confront each stark new horror as it came to him.

Just as he'd imprisoned the evanuris, he found himself in a prison of his own making, if only temporary in comparison to their eternal torment.

In time, he learned the truth of it, as the memories came to him and as he conversed with those he met in the dreaming. Of the fall of Elvhenan, of all the great cities and wonders of his people that began to crumble without magic, and to political upheaval, and to invasions. And worst of all, the unavoidable truth of the true extent of the severance of his people from the Fade — of their quickening into mortal beings. Dying in numbers as they never had before, with fewer in each following generation. Dwindling and dying in subjugation. By the time he'd awakened, what remained of the elves were only shadows of what came before, hardly recognizable as kin in their ignorance.

It was a grief that would have driven him to madness had he not his path, nor his companions in the Fade. It was the knowledge that he would fix what he'd done, that he would secure a future for his people, that kept him centered and focused through the centuries as he waited and recovered his strength.

In uthenera, he'd gathered many agents through the dreaming, and through them had begun to set in motion what needed to be done to further his intention to bring down the Veil upon his waking. Many of his agents did not know him directly, not even by face, and many were still extricating themselves from the myths they grew up on of the Dread Wolf. They were eager enough to serve his plans, though, to reclaim the world that was — the desire for a better world helped them to overcome their initial fears and superstitions. Yet still, they frightened easily, even when he came to their dreams as he presented himself now — in simple attire, without the pretense of power.

No matter his form, the Dread Wolf cast an unmistakable shadow over the elves of the modern world. Whatever scorn the evanuris hoped to evoke with their propaganda, it had come to its truest fruition in the modern age, stoked by centuries of vicious myth.

In another world, he had been uncomfortable with the veneration that came from those who followed him. He had never wanted that, only their freedom. Yet whatever discomfort it brought him, it was nothing compared to this — to misunderstanding, to hatred, to alienation, to the complete assassination of his character.

In this world, to the few who did not turn him away, he was met with the same unwanted awe that his title had brought him before, but also coupled with fear. They saw him not as himself, but as a terrible absent god who'd returned, who sought to restore Elvhenan, the world of the Elvhen People — whose salvation might also mean their doom. He was a trickster, was he not? But what alternative did they have in this blighted world, but to place their faith in the Dread Wolf? The alternative was to continue to linger in misery and subjugation, in a broken world, severed from the Fade.

And he could not give them any promise or certainty that his plans would not mean their demise. After the catastrophic miscalculation of what effect the Veil would have on his world, he would make no such promises again.

He had gambled on prideful certainty in the past; he would not do so again. Yet, the greater his silence on the subject, the greater their hopes swelled.

It was not unlike the path the Herald walked.

Despite the Chantry's fear-mongering, it did not stop the tide of hope that was rising among those who met her and witnessed her deeds. Hope, which would certainly soon turn to devotion.

If anyone could understand his discomfort at being deified, it would be her.

As the Inquisition continued to grow, so too would her reputation, her renown — her power. Already, people looked to her with veneration and fear. Already, she was trapped by a purpose beyond herself, a cause that called her to be what they needed, to take on the mantle of savior.

Many who would have found themselves in her position would have reveled in the sudden exaltation, the sudden elevation to a position of power over the ones who'd previously subjugated them — and yet she did not. From the beginning, she had resisted. She balked at the title thrust upon her, the role of savior, at the power afforded to her by those who needed the Anchor. As their adoration of her grew, at each Herald and Your Worship, as she was saddled with the responsibility of making choices for people — matters of life and death — she became increasingly distressed. Despite her carefully crafted mask of impassivity, he could see the weight of it all crushing down upon her, sending her further into herself. Sending her scrabbling for what small comforts she could find — a few too many drinks at the tavern, disappearing off on foraging trips without notice, the repetitive stroking of a necklace not-quite-hidden beneath her tunic whose significance eluded him.

It explained her intensity the night before — how she unfurled like a breath held too long.

"My name is Tephra."

She was trying to hold onto what she could of herself, as the world around her took everything else.

And had he not done the same?

"My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions."

He'd come to the Inquisition as himself — no farce, no fake identity. Simply himself — an apostate, with knowledge to share and a desire to close the Breach. Though he'd omitted his true ambition, he chose his words carefully to avoid lying, when he could. And there was an odd liberation in it, to be able to put down the title and simply be himself. It also showed him the nature of these creatures, these shadows — who looked no further than his ears or his status as an apostate.

Until her.

Perhaps she had only seen the ears, in the beginning, in her fumbling grasp for something familiar. But it was clear that she felt a deeper empathy with him, perhaps more than she even understood herself. She had come to him, without pretense or preconception, and sought his wisdom — sought connection.

That was the absolute cosmic irony of it all — that of all places he would find kinship in this terrible world, and with someone he wouldn't even consider a person. Someone who would understand what it was to be made into myth, to be mistakenly gifted with godhood, and it was his fault that she was put in that position in the first place. It was his fault that she was dying. That the world, as she knew it, would likely die alongside her.

It seemed a fitting punishment, for him to find a kindred spirit amongst the wreck of the world he'd created, and for her death to be by his hand.

He had bought her time, but in the end the mark would consume her and she would become one of the many whose deaths laid at his feet.

It had been one thing, to have caught glimpses of this blighted world in his dreaming. But waking and seeing the stark, catastrophic whole of it had been another thing entirely. In the dreaming, the distance diffused the catastrophe; he could only wonder at the extent and wander the Fade in search of answers. Waking had left no distance between him, and what he'd done. No space between the ship, and the wreck.

The weight of it all — the reality of it — had all but broken him.

It had taken time to accept what he'd done, to give up his attempts at accepting a world that did not accept him. It did not matter how good his intentions had been, nor how desperate in the face of no good choices left to make in dealing with the evanuris, the world was what it was because of him. In the end, he buried his grief. Not to forget what he'd done, but to distance himself from it — a sort of firebreak method to contain the agony. It had been the only way to move forward, to keep moving forward — to stay focused on the endgame.

Despite his miscalculations and the unseen ramifications of the Elder One's actions, the aftermath, his working with the Inquisition — it had all only served to strengthen his resolve to see his plan through. All that had died for his foolish pride only propelled him forward, to make it right — to pay what he owed. A debt which he knew would surely claim him, in the end.

It was simply a cruel turn of chance that brought her path to his — that she would be the one to die, and not the magister. That she would be anything more than the rest of them. That she would be a spot of light in very dim, dull world. That she could be something more, something real—

He needed clarity. He needed some means of stepping back, and assessing what was before him in an objective manner.

He needed his friend.

He needed Wisdom.

But it had fled with all the rest of the gentler, rarer spirits, to hide in the furthest reaches of the Fade. A part of him was glad for that, that it had sought safety far from the Breach, and a part of him mourned the absence of his friend and its unwavering insight.

If Wisdom returned, perhaps it would be able to provide a better perspective on this situation, one without bias or complicated by emotion.

If Wisdom returns, perhaps she would be amenable to meeting it.

The thought bolted into his mind, unbidden.

It alarmed him that it had occurred to him at all. Exposing his friend to an unknown was dangerous— however curious Lavellan was, she had not given her personal stance on spirits and demons. For all that he knew of her, she could have been saying precisely what she needed to say to elicit whatever truths she sought out of him. Her declaration at the gates of Haven, of wanting to meet his spirit friends, could very well have been simply a gambit to win his favor, his trust.

It was easy to suspect duplicity; it fed into his need to denounce them all, to dismiss this blighted world. It would have made things so much simpler if she had been what he'd expected of the Dalish — stubborn and close-minded, full of suspicion and fear. Exposure to such a mind would surely corrupt the nature of one of his dearest and oldest friends; it was a risk he was unwilling to make. Yet as much as it would have aided him in keeping his distance believing that, she had never tried to deceive any of them to the best of his knowledge. If anything, she only kept her silence when she refused to give information regarding her clan, to protect them, or of herself, to hold onto whatever remained to her that hadn't been stripped away already.

And he really could not fault her for omitting such things, for the sake of self-preservation, as he was doing precisely the same.

Yet the alternative was worse — cruel, even, in that she had been entirely sincere. That her interest, the intensity in which she engaged him in conversation, was neither dishonest nor anomalous, but real. Not a trick of the light, but rather the turning flash of a lighthouse in the deep dark signaling safe harbor. And in that, the possibility of affinity and understanding, kinship and camaraderie — freely given.

All of the things which were missing from him in this blighted world, and all of the things he had not known for a very long time.

He had not expected it; he had not expected her.

How could such a broken world produce such a promising spirit? It called into question everything he knew of this world, and of its inhabitants. It seeded doubt, which he could ill afford.

Denial was the safest route, and yet he could no longer deny her gravity, her weight, her existence.

Possibly, even—

No.

The thought came like brand across his mind and he banished it abruptly, like releasing hold of an overheated pan, lest he be burned for it. He was risking too much considering such things. He could not afford to let his alienation and loneliness make him weak, to make him falter. Even if he was wrong, there was no better option, no other path to take but the one set before him.

Even if—

No, distance was what was needed. For the sake of his mission, he needed to remain detached, and she needed to be the Herald.

Nothing more.

Not Tephra, not—

Real.

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The laughter of children echoed through the ravine, as they waded and splashed in the shallows of the stream.

Tephra watched them, for a time.

There were dozens of them, and hardly any were over the age of twelve. The few older adolescents watched over them like shepherds tending their flock. Some were skipping stones across the stream, while others shucked their boots and splashed in the knee-high water despite the chilly weather. They were Ferelden children, through and through. Sunlight poured down through the thick canopy of the trees that grew atop the ledges and shelvings of rock along the top of the ravine, and the song of countless jackdaws and magpies filtered through the branches.

For the moment, she could forget where she was and the events that had brought her here. She could pretend that she was back home with her clan in the Free Marches and watching over the little ones. Teaching them how to forage, and how to track and catch rabbits and pheasants. Teaching them how to play Andruil's Hunt, and Halla and the Wolf, and Demon's Run.

But these were not the children of her clan, these were orphans and refugees, wounded and wary. Human and elven, elf-blooded and dwarven. There was even a Qunari girl — an orphan taken in by one of the families seeking refuge. For the moment, here in this quiet refuge of the wilderness, they forgot their grief and remembered how to play. Even the ones she'd plucked from the fire stepped lightly through the water, chasing after the small silver fish that darted between their feet.

They were not the sons and daughters of the Dalish, but she had made them her own nonetheless.

The truth of it settled heavy in her chest.

In saving them, she had taken responsibility for their safety. She had doomed herself to caring, to tethering herself to their fate.

As the stories of her arrival in the Hinterlands spread, more people showed up to volunteer or to seek safety among them. Even in the Crossroads, their modest band had grown into a full caravan overnight. By the time she'd dragged herself down to breakfast, Cassandra informed her of the crowds idling outside to seek audience with her. Young men and women seeking to take up sword and shield against the unrest, refugees seeking peace and safety from the conflict — she'd counted sixty-two of them, not including her own companions and the apostates and their children they'd saved the prior day. A merchant family among them provided several wagons, to transport supplies for the Inquisition, as well as to serve as transport for the ailing and the wounded and the very young.

How could she have turned them away?

From the start, she had done her best to distance herself from the unfortunate fate that had befallen her, from the title that had been thrust upon her which she did not want. Yet however much she tried, she could not distance herself from the strange magic that burned in her hand that tied her to the fate of everything — to these people and to the world they lived in — nor from the fact that she would never be free again, not until she could close the Breach.

Perhaps not even then.

She had come to accept that truth, to stop entertaining daydreams of escape, of returning back to the simplicity of her clan and her life before. Yet however much she'd allowed herself to accept her circumstances, she had steeled herself against those who surrounded her, who sought to use her or manipulate her, who saw her simply as a power to be used for their own purposes. She knew too little of their petty politics and wars to allow herself to be wielded like a weapon against one group or another, not without learning all that she could to even begin making choices that were thrust upon her, much to her bewilderment and resentment.

Who was she to make those choices?

Still, however much help they proffered, she did her best to know nothing of those who called themselves her adviser or companion, choosing instead to be little more than a brooding shadow amongst them. Always watching for the threat, distanced and wary, waiting for impact.

The time she'd spent locked in the chantry cell had reminded her how to survive — how to be silent as a shadow, slipping between the trees. How to be the unseen dagger, slipping between the ribs. That her only true safety was in solitude.

Yet, as the days and weeks passed, it forced her into the reality of proximity. She could not overlook nor ignore the increasing familiarity of those who spent their days at her side, travelling with her to fix the wrongs and save what they could. Who offered their protection and support, their advice and opinions, day after day. And as the list of things asked of her to accomplish grew, as their Herald, she knew that they would continue to become more than just strangers drawn into this stranger fate with her. And with that, came the risk of caring — about their welfare, and their fates.

They had thrown their lot in with her, for better or worse.

And she retreated from it, like an untamed beast shying from an outstretched hand.

There was a part of her that would always be a bit too feral, and half-starved. She'd spent too much of her life alone, and hungry, so all that she knew existed in the extremes — too much, or too little. That fact had presented itself when she'd been discovered in the Planasene, when it had taken weeks for the Dalish who'd found her to coax her into returning to civilization. A careful dance of flight and approach, as they found her again and again, no matter where she fled. Not as a hunt, but as a plea to return. And then later, as she was passed between clans on a slow journey back to her mother's original clan — Clan Lavellan — finally, back to those who mourned the loss of a family who had long-since vanished, and rejoiced the return of their still-living child. Theirs. Not just her parents, but theirs as well.

And no matter how many weeks and months and years it took to learn how to be a person again, to belong, it existed in those extremes. Leaving and returning, hot and cold, shallow and bone-crushing deep. Until it finally settled into something comfortable, and natural, and normal. So she knew now — as she had learned all those years past — that if she cared for them, for these people who were not her people, she could do no less than care absolutely.

And opening oneself to such caring was akin to setting oneself on fire — in the end, it could only destroy her.

Yet despite her best attempts to remain distant, she found herself softening to them. With each small gesture of kindness, she wavered. Perhaps it was homesickness, a need for things to be simple again — ordered, and predictable. It would be too easy to slip back into the role she'd served among her clan, the one she'd first taken up long before she had known anything else — protector, and caretaker. First to her brother, and then later the children of her clan. Brothers and sisters not of blood, but of choice. They'd chosen her, and she'd chosen them back.

Watching the children playing in the creek, she knew it would be far too easy to care. To throw herself into that role. It was the only familiar thing in all of this mess — a neat and tidy role to play. Something to hold onto.

And if you fail, like you did before, you'll have to carry that weight.

And she knew all too well that the littlest bodies were the heaviest to carry.

Tephra tilted her head back and let out a slow breath as she willed herself to not think of such things. She let herself be calmed by the warm touch of the sun, and watched the light scattering and glittering between the leaves above.

From her peripheral, she could see that the apostate was watching her again. Yet as she turned to meet his gaze, he was already absorbed with helping the scouts reload water casks into one of the supply wagons.

He hadn't said a word to her since the night before.

Prudently, she considered that the hasty manner in which their caravan departed the Crossroads to be the reason for that. Even the first few hours on the road had been hectic, as they worked out a pace that accommodated all parties without putting undue strain on the injured, as well as charting a path off the main roads to avoid conflict to their best ability.

Yet, as the day wore on, it was harder to ignore Solas's distinct silence. Especially when it seemed that he spoke to nearly everyone, but her.

At first, it had been easy to assume a dismissal, as before. Or to think that she had simply said too much, that she had overstepped and overshared, and once again earned his disapproval. To think she had rambled on like some mad person, on such subjects that were generally considered taboo or to be avoided — gods and spirits, death and politics. Things that had no place in the conversations of casual acquaintances.

What had she been thinking?

She had, perhaps, been far too permissive the night before and not just in conversation ― she had not drank like that, not since she'd left her clan months ago. And even then, she rarely let herself drink to that degree ― it left her too open, too unguarded, too free with sharing her thoughts and opinions. Yet grief had driven to seek oblivion in inebriation — to rid herself of the memory of the boy she couldn't save, and of the young templar she'd so viciously killed. She had not anticipated that Solas would linger, let alone provoke her into conversation. And for it, the night had unfolded into a spectacularly embarrassing display of the kind of foolish rambling she was prone to, when her inhibitions were compromised. The fact that Solas had endured it at all still surprised her, even if he'd remained largely silent during the whole of it. She was used to being shut down by her clanmates, chided for her foolishness, for her grim interests. Yet Solas had done nothing to stop her rambling; he'd encouraged it, and even in his silence he'd afforded her nothing less than his full attention, even if he did not share his opinion in return.

That he'd listened at all had meant more to her than she cared to admit.

It was only after the fact that she better remembered his distinct silence as she went on about their people, about their history. How he seemed to retreat further into his chair, under the weight of something she couldn't begin to fathom. Given their short history of exchanges, she'd expected his criticism and judgment, yet he'd remained curiously silent throughout her grim spiel. And the more she rambled, the more he looked stricken. Perhaps she had crossed a line with him, or perhaps he thought her just as mad as her own people did.

Or perhaps it was something else entirely.

When it came to Solas, she was never quite certain of where she stood with him. He was impossible to read, at times — barely fathomable at the best of times. Like trying to work out a puzzle with only half the pieces. Whatever it was, it was reflected in his body language now, in his purposeful avoidance of her gaze. In how he seemed to skirt her periphery, somehow managing to avoid direct interaction with her throughout the day.

Realization came abruptly; this was neither dismissal, nor disapproval.

It was a retreat.

He was an apostate — a hermit. She knew that meant he spent the majority of his life away from people, from civilization. He'd even confessed that most — if not all — of his friends were spirits. She could only wonder at how little he interacted with flesh and blood people before joining the Inquisition, if at all. And despite being a recluse, despite being an apostate, he'd thrown himself into the center of this sprawling mess of saving the world. Among people.

Loud, messy, demanding people.

His forays into conversations were often exploratory — a question here, or observation there, to prompt others into speaking to better gauge them. She'd watched him with Varric and Cassandra, carefully provoking them into divulging more of themselves, of their views of the world. But in return, he gave little of himself. Yet the conversations between them had been far more provoking, and he'd been far more permissive in speaking of himself and his views.

That, in and of itself, spoke louder than his current silence.

It was a curious thing — like a stone in her boot, impossible to ignore — that he came most often, and most openly, to her. And something had shifted in her, had come to expect the surety of his approaches, that in its absence it was easiest to assume she'd done something wrong. That she'd chased him off. Yet—

It dawned on her that she hadn't offended him, or earned his disapproval — she had overwhelmed him.

She was ashamed she hadn't recognized it sooner.

When she'd first rejoined her clan, she had often and easily been overwhelmed by the sudden shock of connection, of conversation, of people — which was easy when you'd had nothing but the company of your own thoughts for so long. It had taken her a while to remember how to be a person again, for her to feel safe and welcome among them.

And she could see that now, in him. What he needed was patience — a hand held open, without expectations or demands.

She watched as Solas helped another scout lift a heavy crate into the back of a wagon. When they finished, he excused himself and disappeared among the bustle of the caravan.

At least, she hoped it was simply that.

She was starting to enjoy the sudden occurrence of these extended dialogues with him, which swept in like a sudden storm when she least expected it. Speaking with him, as she had — without fear, or pretense — had been a reprieve she had not known since before the Breach. Perhaps even longer than that, if she were honest with herself. The sudden catharsis had stripped away her defenses, her practiced indifference — what little armor she had against the forces at work around her, which were steadily stripping away her freedoms and identity. He'd seen her, truly, as none of the others had, and for it the possibility of being dismissed by him would have been crushing.

Tephra gave a sharp sigh, and dismissed the worry tugging at her thoughts. Until Solas said as much himself, she would not let her sudden insecurity sabotage her composure.

"Lady Herald?"

Tephra turned to see one of the children she'd pulled from the burning cabin, the elder of two sisters.

Her name is Audra.

Tephra had made a point of asking their names, and of remembering them. Names of those they saved, and those they lost. How long would that list become, in the end? Perhaps it meant little in the long run, but it mattered to her, to remember.

Audra was the oldest of the apostate's children at ten years. She held out a palmful of kumquats. "I found them by the water," the girl said, looking immensely proud of herself.

Tephra accepted the offering with a small smile. "A good find," she said, as she tucked the fruit away in her coat pocket.

Audra shot her a curious look, "Were you watching the birds? He was liked watching the birds, too."

She knew the answer as the weight of it settled in her gut. Yet still, she asked, "The one who died?"

"He liked them," the girl said, as if it were nothing and everything. "His name was Orin."

"So did my brother," Tephra replied impulsively, as she felt a boneless wobble shiver through her knees. She ignored it, as she continued, "He was very good at imitating their sounds, so they would call back to him."

She never spoke of her brother. Not even after she returned to her clan. Not once, not to anyone. As though speaking of him would somehow make his death more real, more tangible — a weight she couldn't bear.

And yet fate had aligned just so — so that this girl could say precisely the right thing, in precisely the right context, to pry the silence from her grief.

Blessedly, they were too far from the caravan for anyone else to share in the confession.

The girl gave a sudden smile. It was crooked, and dimpled her cheeks. "What was his name?"

"Tern," she replied, and the sound of his name in her throat was a raw, quiet thing.

"Like the bird?"

She gave a stiff nod, as she said, "We were camped by the sea when he was born. My mother labored all night, and the sounds of the terns nesting nearby calmed her. When he came in the morning, that's what she called him. He was our little bird."

The girl was quiet a moment, before she asked, "Did he die, too?"

She did not look at the girl, and kept her face very still as the familiar wash of pain ebbed over her. When it passed, she could not speak her grief — only nod.

"I'm sorry he's gone," Audra said.

Tephra rose, and cleared her throat, before she said, "Watch over your little sister. Keep her safe. And stay with your mother."

The girl stiffened and straightened, before giving an approximation of a curtsy. And then she shot off like an arrow, jumping back into the creek after the other children.

Tephra couldn't help but think again of the boy lost to the fire, and the one she lost to the water, long ago.

There was a common saying that time thieved away all sorrows, like a stone worn smooth by the river. Tephra did not find that to be true. Her grief had followed her through her years, made and remade anew each night she sank down into her dreams. Horribly familiar in their frequency, yet over time they became as commonplace to her as the rising and setting of the sun. As familiar as the functions and sound of her own heart.

Grief had stitched itself into every part of her being, and she didn't know who she was without it.

And in that way it was as if she'd never lost him, because he was always waiting for her there in the place of dreaming. Long after she had forgotten the faces of her parents, she stilled remembered his because it greeted her each night when she closed her eyes.

She knew that Varric was estranged from his family, and that he'd lost a brother. Cassandra had lost her parents, and then later her brother. It was an odd thread of sameness, of unspoken grief, stitched between the three of them.

She idly wondered if the apostate had lost his family, as well. Or if he was simply away from his people, estranged or exiled or—

Tephra drifted back toward the caravan, skirting the edges until she caught sight of the elf again. He was with Cassandra, as the Seeker dealt with some sort of disagreement between the refugees and the soldiers.

She regarded him with a new perspective, re-evaluating everything she knew of him.

There was something about him that caught at the eyes, like a trick of the light, that preceded his visage of humble wanderer. Smooth water hiding unimaginable depths.

Neither city elf, nor Dalish, but rather something else — something unknown.

He'd mentioned being born in a small village, but failed to mention where, at least to her. He never spoke of family, or friends, or of any sort of attachments. Even his accent stumped her. As subtle as it was, she could hear it especially when he spoke Elven. He spoke their language in a manner and cadence that she'd never heard before; even his pronunciation was different. She'd traveled quite a bit with her clan and spoke to elves in many different places, but none had spoke it the way he did. With Solas, it carried the lilt of a song — long-forgotten and half-remembered in dreams — which burned at her ears, at once familiar and foreign. As though there was something more behind the words, but she lacked the ability to grasp it.

She could only wonder at his origin, of what clan he'd come from to be so different than any elf she'd ever met. Perhaps he'd come from the west, or some other far-flung corner of Thedas; the Dalish knew very little of the elves who'd fled into the further fringes of the world. And once, these lands had belonged entirely to the elves; it was not such a leap to think many might yet linger in far-off places, hidden from those who would enslave or subjugate them. Neither Dalish, nor city elf, but different.

He was an unknown, and it made her terribly curious.

He even looked different than any elf she'd seen before. Sturdier than her kin, and taller by far — at least a head taller than her, much to her annoyance. She'd been considered tall for a woman among her people, often eye-to-eye to her clan brothers. He was easily as tall as any human, if not taller, and that she had to nearly crane at times to hold his gaze was something she wasn't at all used to.

And however varied the Dalish wore their hair, she'd never known any to shear it entirely. It seemed more a statement than anything, one that he did not seem bothered to elaborate on. And the lack of hair on his head only served to throw his features into stark contrast. Sharp, and striking — absurdly angular, with impossible angles.

A ridiculous face.

"You're gonna burn a hole in the back of his head, you know," Varric piped up, suddenly at her side.

Tephra flushed, and huffed, "I'm still just trying to figure him out — his part in all of this."

Not a lie, truly. Despite the reasons Solas had given for approaching the Inquisition, she couldn't help but feel there was more to it, that there was something he was omitting. It was as curious as it was unsettling.

The dwarf gave a laugh, "Good luck, Snowflake. Even Leliana can't figure the guy out. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd popped out of the Fade itself, like you did — as much as the guy goes on about it, and all."

The observation felt startlingly, almost true — like an arrow hitting just off-mark.

He was a dreamer who studied the Fade, and a friend to spirits — essentially everything the Chantry denounced. Perhaps he hesitated revealing the full breadth of his knowledge on such subjects out of fear of persecution, as it was so easy for an elf to be blamed for all the ills in this world — especially when knowledge could be so easily lumped in with culpability.

What did that say of the world they lived in, that the pursuit of knowledge itself could be a death sentence?

For that, she could not blame him for keeping certain things to himself. Not when she'd been tossed into a cell with little more than a mark on her hand for damning proof to suit their damnation of her.

Tephra cleared her throat, and shifted the conversation away from the apostate, and asked, "So, are you alright? Last night, Cassandra—"

The dwarf gave a dismissive grunt as he waved her off, "Forget about it. She was just diggin' up ghosts. Nothing good ever comes from that. She just knows how to get my goat."

She knew little of Kirkwall and the start of the mage rebellion, or his involvement in it. At times, she caught fragments of their arguments, but it meant little to her without context. Perhaps in time she would hear the full story, from either of them. Perhaps then, she would understand this complicated, tight thing that existed between the two of them.

Again, she found herself unsettled by her own propensity to ask far too personal questions of her companions, questions she really had no business asking in the first place. What was it her business, to know what it was that clutched and clawed so tightly between them?

She shifted to something simpler, more casual, as she shot the dwarf a curious look, "So why "snowflake"?"

Varric chuckled, and quirked an eyebrow, "Have you ever heard the saying: a snowflake never falls in the wrong place?"

"I can't say I have," she replied.

"I don't put much stock into fate and providence and all that shit, but you being at the Conclave — that was something," he said. Varric huffed, "I couldn't begin to tell you what that something was, but you being there—"

"Oh, please don't do that," Tephra groaned. "Don't be like the rest of them."

The dwarf gave a gravelly laugh, "All I'm sayin' is you being there, getting that mark on your hand — it gave us a chance to fix it. To fight back. There's a reason for it all in there, somewhere."

It occurred to her, then, that she would never escape the title that had been placed upon her. She would always be this to them — never just herself. Never just a Dalish hunter hailing from the Free Marches, who'd never been anything more than just that — just herself.

"That's a lot of meaning to put into a ridiculous nickname," she remarked, dryly.

Varric gave a shrug, "I'm a writer, kid. I'm used to grasping at straws for meaning." Sensing her unease, he shifted and gestured at her bandaged arm, "How's that doin', anyways? Did Chuckles heal you up good? We can always call him over if you need a top up."

She hadn't thought about the burns since Solas did what he could for them, and she hadn't checked under the bandages since the previous night.

To be fair, she'd been rather distracted and rather drunk.

At times, there had been minor pain or discomfort, but it had mostly felt warm, with an odd persistent tingling sensation radiating up from her hand — from the mark. It had stopped at some point in the night, and she had felt nothing at all since they left the Crossroads. There was only an odd tightness, a sense of pulling, like fabric caught up on a rough edge.

"They're fine, I suppose. Not quite as charred as it could be." She flexed her bandaged hands for emphasis.

Varric gave a snort, "In Kirkwall, we call that a barbecue. Though we generally stick to cattle and poultry. No matter how much the humans enjoy burning their prophets."

She laughed, despite herself. It had been a horrible thing and she still felt the weight of her guilt in failing to save the boy, but the dwarf pulled the laughter out of her as none of the others could. It made the weight easier, if only for a moment.

The dwarf clapped her shoulder, "When we get back to Haven, we'll have a proper barbecue — Kirkwall style. I'll show you how it's done."

She wasn't terribly well-versed in events outside of her clan, beyond the sparse news brought in from those they traded with, but she'd heard of the Kirkwall rebellion. Tephra quirked an eyebrow, "Didn't Kirkwall burn?"

"Only part of it," Varric griped, before laughing despite himself. "We throw better parties than we do rebellions, fortunately."

"Do you have family back there?"

Varric exhaled audibly through his nose. "No. Not the blood relations sort, anyway. More of the found-and-forged-in-fire type. Really only the one, but he's not there, he's—" He stopped himself, to glance about the caravan warily for the Seeker. He huffed, and sighed, "It doesn't matter where he is, only that he's safe."

The dwarf was quiet for a time, lost to his memories, before he asked, "So what about you, kid? Got family waiting back home for you? Friends?" He gave an exaggerated, playful wink, "A lover, or two?"

Children dashed past her, as exasperated parents and caretakers herded them into the wagons. The rest was over, and they would be leaving soon, as there was still many miles to go to return to Haven.

"Gone."

How could one word hold so much weight?

"I, uh—" Tephra cleared her throat, faltering over her own memories, "—I rejoined my mother's clan a while after. They became family, and friends, of a sort."

Varric lapsed into silence beside her, as they watched the bustle of the caravan readying to depart. After a time, he nudged her arm with his elbow, and gave a gravelly chuckle, "Didn't hear you denying any lovers, Snowflake. So let's hear it. Lurid details, shenanigans, tragedy — all the makings for a good story."

She gave his shoulder a shove, sending the dwarf hopping and hooting with laughter.

"What's this about lovers, Varric? Are you harassing the Herald?" the Seeker cut in, a bit too loudly. She'd seemingly appeared from nowhere, and stood towering over Varric and looking as if she could cut him down at the slightest provocation.

Tephra's face began to burn as she felt far too many eyes turn toward her. Even Solas was looking, now.

"Well," Tephra said, as she made a show of sighing and throwing her arms around Varric. "It was only a matter of time before she found us out."

Now it was the dwarf's turn to blush. A fitting punishment for inviting this embarrassment in the first place. He laughed awkwardly as he disentangled himself from her arms, "This dwarf is already taken, unfortunately for you, my lady Herald."

She gave an overly dramatic sigh, "Whatever shall I do now?"

The Seeker rolled her eyes and gave a snort of annoyance, and the scatter of laughter from the scouts diffused her embarrassment, until she saw more than a few glances of interest shot her way. That invited a new wave of discomfort.

"It is time to continue on, Herald," the Seeker said. "You should get ready to depart."

Tephra gave a sharp nod and began toward her own mount. Her face was still burning as she passed by the soldiers and scouts. Most were human, save for one elf, and most of them pointedly avoided her gaze. Except one of the humans — he smiled at her boldly.

"Maker take you, you can't look at her like that," another soldier chided him. "She's Andraste's chosen, you fool."

She turned her gaze forward as she continued on, pretending as though she could not hear them. She was thankful for the thick cover of her hair, which kept her ears concealed from sight. She could feel the heat spreading from her face to them; she was not accustom to this sort of attention.

"You forget, my friend, that Andraste was a mortal's wife once," the bold soldier laughed, in response. "The Maker didn't give us bodies to not use them."

"She's an elf, as well," another noted, with a mockingly scandalized tone. The dart of his eyes from her face to her hidden ears to elsewhere, was an intrusion which left her feeling intangibly violated.

How observant of you.

"Maker take you all," the first soldier cursed.

Tephra quickly waded through the caravan and toward her mount, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the laughing soldiers.

She wasn't sure what bothered her more — being deified and being seen as untouchable, or being deified and being seen as an object of taboo interest. The title put upon her had set her apart from them all; despite being in a position of service to the Inquisition, she was aware that the mark had afforded a position of power among them. And that had guaranteed that none of them would see beyond the mark she carried, not to the person she was. It created a distance between herself, and the rest of them. Even the dwarf, whom she'd grown the closest to, whom she felt the most at ease with, sometimes looked at her with that same reverence as the others.

It left her feeling isolated, and frayed.

Tephra held out a hand as her colt moved toward her in a playful trot; he bumped his face against her chest. She stroked the long line of his nose and patted his neck, before pressing a quick kiss between his eyes. She had not thought to name him, but he was a fine horse — fair-footed and agile, if a bit rambunctious. Still, it had not taken long to retrain him in the Dalish way.

She fastened her gear to the back of the saddle, before hoisting herself up. Tephra shot a look back to the Seeker, only to be met by the many faces of their caravan — soldiers, recruits, refugees, and tag-alongs.

Awaiting her command.

The knot of anxiety in her stomach greeted her like an old friend, but the Seeker caught her gaze. Sitting atop a black gelding, Cassandra gave a reassuring nod.

She wants me to lead.

There was an odd sort of pride that came with the Seeker's support.

Tephra cleared her throat, and called out to the caravan, "Let's go."

.

.

.

.

.

.

Engaging the dwarf on the subject of his kind — of the Stone's call, of the downfall of the Durgen'len empire — had proved to be a fruitless endeavor. Varric was not what he should have been, either. The dwarf was cut off from the Stone as much as the elves were cut off from the Fade. Yet Solas could hardly fault him for that — the dwarf was so far removed from the sundering of the Titans by countless generations, that he could not possibly conceive of what had been lost to his own people, to himself. It made Varric and his people something new, he supposed, though it grieved him to see it as it grieved him to see the fall of the elves.

To think such atrocity could come from seeking to give freedom.

They'd sought to free the Stone children from their mindless toiling beneath the pillars of the earth, in their pursuit for the power the titans carried within them. Some had wondered if it would bestow power over the dwarves, while the others simply cared to snatch the boon that beat within the titan's chest. Whatever the intentions, they'd rendered them thus — the death rattle of a fractured empire. Though it wasn't as though he could heartily delve into who was at fault for it either — that he knew well enough. Still, he endeavored to parse the nature of the dwarf, to evaluate the degrees of his sentience and self-awareness. It was truly remarkable — the likeness and appearance of life that he possessed, his nimble wit and the depths of his character.

But then, the Stone Children had always had a way of exceeded his expectations and shaking his worldview. That they could be so much, without the innate connection to magic — to the Fade. It staggered him that they were capable of such ingenuity without it. He was often curious about what wonders might lurk in the earth, shaped by their hands, and far beyond his dreaming.

He could not walk where they did not dream.

The caravan was moving at a slow but steady pace, given that most were traveling on foot. Mounts were in short supply, and two of the three wagons were dedicated to transporting supplies. The third was an armored carriage, which carried the wounded and the very young. Still, they managed to cover a good distance over the day's course. Daylight waned, and soon they would stop to make camp along the shore of Lake Calenhad. The rocky shore was not ideal for camping, but it was safer in that the guards could better see the approach of bandits or dangerous wildlife.

Varric piped up suddenly, as he guided his horse closer to where Solas walked, and asked, "So what's with you and the doom stuff? Are you always this cheery or is the hole in the sky getting to you?"

"I've no idea what you mean," he replied, promptly.

It had been some time since he'd recounted the story of the man on the island, shortly after departing from the Crossroads, and it was evident in Varric's heated tone that he'd been stewing on the subject the whole time.

Despite her air of casual indifference, the Herald had not-so-surreptitiously listened in on the exchange, and when he'd caught her watching him he'd been surprised to find not judgment but simply curiosity in her sharp eyes. He could see her working it out in her mind, making the connections without asking who and what he'd lost.

Once again, he'd found himself startled by the notion that she could understand him — his predicament. And that was the trap, which threatened to ensnare him.

He would have to be more careful around her. Very little escape her notice, her inevitable scrutiny, even when it was masked so deeply in metaphor and transference.

"All the "fallen empire" crap you go on about," the dwarf continued. "What's so great about empires anyway? So we lost the Deep Roads, and Orzammar's too proud to ask for help. So what? We're not Orzammar and we're not our empire. There are tens of thousands of us living up here in the sunlight now, and it's not that bad. Life goes on. It's just different than it used to be."

He could not keep the vehemence from his tone as he retorted, "And you have no concept of what that difference cost you."

Whatever wondrous contraptions their hands had built over the centuries, it was merely a candle compared to what they once could do. His people once shaped it as though it were merely clay in the hands of children, had once shook the very foundations of the world itself.

"Oh, I know what it didn't cost me," Varric assured, heatedly. "I'm still here, even after all those thaigs fell."

Solas could not accept the dwarf's apathy towards the loss of his people's history — their empire, their way of life, their connection to the Stone. Had the dwarves fallen so far as to lose their sense of commonality, of kinship — of their true nature? "You truly are content to sit in the sun, never wondering what you could've been, never fighting back?"

Varric gave a sudden laugh, "You've got it all wrong, Chuckles. This is fighting back."

Solas shot him an incredulous frown, "How does passively accepting your fate constitute a fight?"

The dwarf regarded him with a measured look, "In that story of yours — the fisherman watching the stars, dying alone — you thought he gave up, right?"

"Yes."

"But he went on living," Varric insisted. There was something charmingly earnest in the dwarf's words as he continued, "He lost everyone, but he still got up every morning. He made a life, even if it was alone."

Ah.

The dwarf's tone was far too impassioned for simple debate. Solas had the sneaking suspicion that he'd been found out, in some small way. Master Tethras had no way of knowing the truth, even in part, but he was a storyteller — he knew metaphors and allusions. He'd framed the questions in allegory, seeking to understand why a dying race would not fight to reclaim itself, its glory — yet he wasn't surprised that the dwarf picked up on the most basic similarity between them and himself.

Varric looked on him and saw what all the rest had seen — an apostate, who wandered the world alone and kept to himself. Severed from a people he neither named, nor claimed. It would be very easy for them to assume that he'd lost his clan, his people. It was an easy assumption make, and not truly off the mark.

But he was not the man on the island, and he could not afford giving up and going quietly into annihilation. If that man he'd seen in Fade, alone on his island, had the power to erase the calamity that took his people in the first place, if he could unmake the world of ruin he'd wrought — what then?

He would certainly bring back his family, his people. He would set things right.

Who wouldn't, in their grief?

But Solas could not ask that of him, no more than he could take the dwarf's advice. There were no other solutions, no better way. In the end, he knew what he would have to do, and he could only hope to do so as peacefully as he could for them. Even if they weren't people, they deserved that much — peace, and a merciful end to the vast suffering wrought by his own hand, and the many hands since after the Veil rose.

He could see it in them, all around him — those who'd lost everything, or near enough — as they trudged onward to Haven, in the hopes for something better, for some small reprieve from the horrors and the pain they'd endured. It proved his point, did it not? That even these lesser beings knew to fight for what little they could get, to seek out what comfort they could in such a terrible world.

He looked ahead, to the Herald — why had she not spoken up? She had begun to warm to her companions, and often barreled into discussions with curious perspectives and questions. Why had she not, this time? She was no stranger to loss, of that much he knew.

Wouldn't she seek to bring back her brother, at the very least?

Yet she merely sat rigid atop her horse, her knuckles white with tension as she held the reins and swallowed her opinions.

He silence pulled at him, catching on the frayed parts of him.

Wouldn't she understand?

He very much wanted to ask them of her, to be scathed by whatever furious vexation lay locked behind her teeth. Yet he was certain that she harbored no alternatives, no advice that he could partake of, either. Not for the answers he sought, impossible answers to impossible questions, far beyond her knowing.

No, there was no use in further continuing the analogy, and doing so risked giving away too much of himself. He kept his silence, and let the dwarf continue.

"That's the world. Everything you build, it tears down. Everything you've got, it takes — and it's gone forever. The only choices you get are to lie down and die or keep going. He kept going. That's as close to beating the world as anyone gets." The dwarf heaved a slow sigh, as he added, "Sometimes there's no going back, no matter what we lost. Sometimes all we've got is to keep moving forward."

There is no path, but forward.

Solas could have laughed at how close the dwarf's words had struck to his own mantra. "Well said, Master Tethras. Perhaps I was mistaken," he conceded.

There was wisdom in the Stone Child's words, but none that Solas could partake of. He could see the bravery in a mortal accepting the world as it was — fickle and finite and often cruel — of finding meaning in a life, even alone. But he was no mortal, and he was not the last of his kind. There were those waiting for him, those to whom he had a responsibility in fixing the world. Further, he could not ask the dwarf for alternatives, or what-ifs, without outing himself in some manner.

His gaze returned to the Herald, riding ahead of them among the caravan. Still silent and stiff-backed atop her horse, as though their conversation had vexed her on some level. He couldn't help but wonder if some aspect of it had unsettled or perhaps offended her. He silently willed her to join in, to share her perspective, but she kept her silence and did not look back at them.

Solas could not help himself; he nudged the horse beneath him to quicken its pace, until they were riding side-by-side. There was a strange tension settling over him as he cast her a curious glance, "And what do you think, Herald?"

Her tone was stiff as she replied, "I think that sometimes we don't have a choice about what happens to us. Things can just happen, like an earthquake or a terrible storm. Sudden, and complete." She fell into silence for a moment, before quietly adding, "Sometimes we don't have a choice about being alone."

Once again, it was difficult for him to fully assess her emotional state without the ability to simply sense them. There were so many subtleties and nuances to conversation, to true understanding between his people, that were simply lost in this world. It hindered him greatly at times when approaching her in conversation, making it far too easy for him to provoke her, or for her to provoke him — just as she did now.

"There's always a choice in that," he replied, a bit too heatedly, thinking of those who awaited him in their dreaming. Waiting to awaken in a world made whole. "In giving up. In giving oneself over to despair. In settling for less than one should."

She shot him a dark look, which seemed to pierce through his core, "Is there, truly?"

Solas recalled her dream, of what she'd lost, and it was like a stone dropping into the pit of his stomach. He said nothing as she gave her horse a kick and galloped ahead, clearly done with the conversation.

There was much missing, and he did not know the whole of it, yet it was clear that she had lost much. One after another — a family, or perhaps an entire clan — until it had just been her alone in the forest as a girl. She'd survived — miraculous, for one so young — but he could only wonder at how long she had remained there, unfound. How many nights had she curled up alone, with nothing but terrible dreams chasing at her heels? Why did she not seek out the others of her kind? Surely she had been capable of leaving, and yet she had not — at least, not until she was found.

Had she simply given up hope?

He briefly recalled the sight of the feral adolescent, cornered and ready to fire on her own people.

What had coaxed her from that terrible solitude?

The mystery of it pulled at him and he found himself worrying at the small bulge in his breast pocket, where the report remained unread. He wasn't sure what kept him from reading it, except for the intangible feeling of something having shifted — having changed.

When he'd made the decision to approach the Inquisition, it was only after his agents had gathered a great deal of information and provided him with detailed reports on all of the major players involved — and that was before he'd ever first stepped foot in Haven. An impressive feat, which had devoured the first day he'd received word of the Herald's survival, but it had been crucial to know exactly what he would be walking into, and with whom.

Was it really so different, now?

She wasn't just a player amongst the Inquisition, though. She had become that which the whole movement hinged upon. Prudence dictated that he should have full knowledge of the one who carried his Anchor, to better understand and guide her — to make the best use of her in this unfortunate situation. He needed to know what he was dealing with in all aspects, yet still, he hesitated.

It seemed an intrusion to simply read the report, when he could take the time to build a rapport and ask her such things.

Time.

So terribly fleeting, always swiftly slipping away from him in the moments he turned inward. Time was nothing to the immortal, when time was not a commodity. But here, it was fragile and thieved itself from him at dizzying speeds.

You sentimental old fool. The thought came to him in a contemptuous self-reprimand.

There was no way of knowing how much time any of them had, when death came so swiftly to those around him and the Breach remained in the sky. And the Herald — her penchant for putting herself in life-threatening situations did not help quell the sense of urgency in needing to know exactly what he was dealing with when it came to her. It was only an odd sense of sentimentality that provoked his hesitation — a old preference for treating those beneath his rank as people, and not simply tools to be used.

Still — he would have preferred the luxury of taking the time to learn her truths through voluntary means, through the privilege of gaining her trust, and not from surveillance. Through more conversations like the one they'd shared the previous night, that left him shattered and shaken and — admittedly — desperate for more.

Varric had wandered ahead while he was lost to his own thoughts, and rode now side by side to the Herald. It was hard to not notice that her stance had relaxed, if marginally.

For a time, she simply rode beside the dwarf, saying nothing. Despite all of his ridiculous swagger, he was keenly aware of the Herald's mood, and remained tactfully silent.

"I went on living, too," she said finally.

She'd spoken so quietly that her words were nearly lost to him in the commotion of the caravan around them.

Varric had no way of knowing the context of her statement, yet he gave her a gentle look as he reached over and clasped her arm. "Yeah you did, kid. You're too stubborn to just lay down and die."

As though startled by the weight of her own admission, or perhaps to avoid any probing questions, she pulled her arm free of Varric's grip and gave a sudden laugh, as she said, "I'm starting to think I've been cursed with not dying, however close I get to it."

There was a delightfully husky pitch to her voice, which deepened when she laughed. It was something he'd overlooked before, but was become increasingly hard to ignore.

"Careful now," the dwarf warned, with dark amusement. "The powers that be might hear you and take it as a challenge."

She gave another laugh, as she brought up a hand to worry at the choppy lengths of hair around her ear, where the fire had burnt it away. The Anchor glimmered softly in her palm.

Would she too burn away in the fires of the new world, when the time came? Or would some other threat claim her life sooner than that, such as his Anchor? Or would her own foolish need to throw herself into danger to save strangers from their fates be her undoing?

A fatal flaw that had nothing less than his complete admiration, however foolish it was.

Solas could not account for the odd sadness which suddenly settled in his bones, unwelcome and impossible to ignore, at the thought of it, at the thought of losing—

None saw the arrow until it struck the Herald in the shoulder and sent her toppling off her horse, nor the following barrage that arced over the caravan.

Chaos erupted as they found their targets.

Cassandra's horse buckled beneath her as an arrow sank deep into its flank, sending her toppling unceremoniously to the ground. The Seeker barely avoided being crushed by her mount as the horse rolled and flailed to get its feet beneath itself.

She was on her feet in a flash, and drew her sword as she shouted, "To your positions!"

Others around him fell to arrows, but Solas's focus was entirely on the Herald as he fade-stepped and crossed the meager distance between himself and to where she'd fallen.

Tephra was on her feet by the time he reached her, yanking the arrow out of her armor. He was relieved to see that there was no blood on the arrowhead. She threw it aside and fixed him with a furious gaze as she snapped, "Barriers — now!"

Solas turned his focus to the wagons; they'd already been pre-warded. All he needed to do was to activate them. Through them, he could maintain a sizable barrier to cloak the wagons, and several of the apostates worked to assist him, bolstering and strengthening them. The drivers had pulled the wagons together, as planned, and the refugees were scrambling into them as the arrows began to fall once again. Soldiers and scouts flanked the wagons in a defensive position, just within the safety of the barrier.

The Herald had suggested using Dalish tactics, which had long-served their caravans of aravels from those who'd attack them. She'd patiently walked through the rehearsal with the fighters and the civilians several times, until each knew precisely what to do in the event of an attack, in the hopes of preventing as many unnecessary deaths as possible.

He took a breath, and on the next exhale magic poured from him and through the connected wards. The barrier snapped neatly into place. Arrows hit the shimmering veil and sparked into brief bursts of fire, before raining harmlessly down as ash.

The arrows ceased shortly after the barriers rose, and there was an exaggerated moment of silence as the fighters stood rigid, with their weapons drawn. Daylight had fled and despite the torches, the forest loomed dark and impenetrable around them.

Idly, he wondered how long they'd been followed for such a timely and convenient attack.

Battle cries tore out of the darkness as the bandits struck from the east, blitzing into the caravan in a hail of frenzied magic and shouting. There were only a few attackers that he could see, yet the shouting came from all directions. It effectively disoriented the fighters and mages, as their own people began firing arrows and magic in all directions, frantically trying to ward off the attack despite their disorientation.

It took most of his focus to maintain the barrier, given its size, but he kept a careful watch on his companions as they scrambled to intercept the attackers.

Cassandra met the first bandit, sword to sword. The Seeker was a brutally efficient fighter, and her technique was without flourish or ego as she easily overtook him. She drove him back from the caravan with a flurry of strikes and blows, which the poor fool only barely managed to deflect.

Varric had taken up a strategic position atop one of the supply wagons, perched behind the thick framework of the roof, to provide cover fire for the civilians as they continued to pile into the armored carriage.

He scanned for the Herald, but could not find her among the chaos. His concern was short-lived, as he caught the brief shimmer of her cloaking spell as she darted through the caravan with her dagger drawn. There was an urgency to her movements; he followed her projected path and saw the young girl who'd frozen up amidst the clamor and fighting.

The Herald was too slow, though, as one of the soldiers bolted to the child and scooped her up. He used his shield to provide her cover as he bolted for the barrier, covering her completely, and risking fire at his back with every step.

It seemed that the Herald's earlier command — to save them all, especially the children — had been passed along, and taken to heart.

As the soldier made his break for the barrier surrounding the wagons, one of the bandits — a mage — turned their focus on him. There was a brief, staggered moment of understanding as the soldier caught sight of the mage as she loosed her spell, as he saw his own death hurtling toward him.

If he dropped his focus, he could easily intercept the spell, but he would leave the entire caravan vulnerable.

Sweat trickled past his ear, but Solas held the barrier.

The soldier shifted his weight mid-step and hurled the child through the barrier and into the waiting arms of a civilian. The spell crashed into him on the next step, sending the young man tumbling to the ground in a boneless heap.

The mage was struck down by a retaliation of arrows, most of which he was certain came from Master Tethras.

Tephra came to a skidding halt next to the fallen soldier, as her cloak wavered and dissipated. It was clear that she lacked the discipline to maintain her focus. She'd lost her grip on the spell the moment the soldier went down, and now lingered there foolishly with no cover and paying no heed to the arrows whizzing past her.

Fenedhis. He would have to—

The Herald was off again, spinning away on her heel after her attention was diverted to another attacker, who was quickly advancing on the Seeker.

Cassandra's full attention was on the bandit she was fighting; she did not see the second assailant charging from behind. Solas was half a breath too slow as he sent a blistering spell hurtling toward the advancing bandit, missing him by a hairsbreadth.

The barrier wavered, and Solas forced himself back into focus.

It mattered little, though, as the Herald bowled into the bandit and sent them both tumbling to the ground. They grappled in the dirt, but the bandit's larger size was an easy advantage as he kept her pinned simply with his own weight. Tephra managed to crack her forehead to the bandit's, just as he slammed an armored fist into the side of her head.

Panicked anger flashed in him, as he left his position and rushed towards them — leaving the apostates struggling to hold the barrier.

He could not cast another offensive spell without taking the risk of hitting her with friendly fire. His stride felt staggered and slow, as he watched the bandit slam his fist into the Herald's again. The Seeker had neutralized her opponent, and turned a slow circle on her heel as she watched Solas rushed past her, still unaware of the threat. He assumed the urgency was clear on his face, as the Seeker quickly followed and spotted the Herald struggling beneath the bandit.

As they reached the struggling pair, the bandit stilled suddenly and went limp. With great effort, the Herald rolled the man off of herself; her dagger was sunk deep into the apple of his throat. The Herald remained there, supine, as she caught her breath, and the blood splattered across her chest was not her own.

The caravan had fallen silent.

The barriers still stood, maintained by the apostates. The soldiers and scouts remained in position, but began to relax as it became evident that the battle was over.

"Check for casualties!" the Seeker barked, before stalking to where the Herald was beginning to rise from where she lay on the ground.

Cassandra hauled the Herald to her feet and began to meticulously look her over, checking for wounds, but the elf waved her off. Blood ran down from a scalp wound on the side of her head, staining a path down the side of her neck, and a deep bruise was beginning to flush at the center of her forehead. Yet she paid them no heed as she walked to where the soldier had fallen before.

Solas was surprised to see that he was still alive, but given the young man's wounds, it would not be for much longer. The spell had blown the young man's chest cavity wide open, leaving a red ruin of charred armor and torn flesh. There was nothing the medics or the mages could do for him, but give him peace.

The Herald knelt and settled on the ground beside him. After a moment, she reached to gently pull his cloak over his chest to cover the grievous sight of his dying body.

The soldier sought her gaze earnestly, as he said, "I'm sorry, my lady Herald. I was too slow."

Solas watched as understanding bloomed in her dark eyes, as she remembered her own words.

"Save all that you can."

Her expression softened, as she brought a hand to his face and smoothed the hair back from his forehead. "You have nothing to be sorry for. What's your name?"

"Bjorn, my lady," he replied, between slow ragged breaths. He began to lift an arm, reaching aimlessly in his growing disorientation. "The girl—"

"She's fine," Tephra assured, as she took hold of his hand. "You did well, Bjorn. Rest now. Your fight is over."

The silence of the caravan was deafening. Solas could not help but be staggered by the silent reverence of the soldiers and scouts, of the refugees, as they watched the gentle way in which the Herald tended to the fallen soldier.

Once again, he could not help but think of the purity of purpose reflected in her, which mirrored that of spirits. Her actions reflected Compassion, and its resulting effect on those around her echoed Hope. It ached in his chest, like an image from a time before the Veil.

The Herald leaned down over him, and spoke quietly to the young man. She held his hand until his grip loosened, and death took him. She stayed with the soldier until the medics came to collect his body.

When she stood, she met his gaze with a haggard expression, "You were right. It doesn't get easier."

It wasn't often that he wished to be wrong, but watching this world — this war — slowly destroy what innocent naiveté she had left to her was something he took no pleasure in.

"Come, let me see," the Seeker ordered brusquely, as she took hold of the Herald's arm and turned her so that she could better see the elf's head wound. Cassandra gave a frustrated huff at the sight of the blood matted in her hair, and batted the Herald's hand away as she reached to feel at the wound beneath with curious fingers.

"It's just a scratch," the elf grumbled.

Cassandra looked to him, and asked, "Can you close it? I will stitch it, if you cannot."

"I can manage it," Solas replied.

The Seeker turned a sharp look on the Herald, as she reprimanded her, "That was foolish of you, Herald. You cannot risk yourself like that."

"So you're allowed to risk yourself for me, but I can't cover your back?" Tephra shot back, heatedly. "He almost had you, and you didn't see him."

"Do not do that again," Cassandra warned, as she moved to leave Solas to the work of seeing to the Herald's wounds.

"Try and stop me," the elf grumbled, stubbornly.

The Seeker gave a disgusted snort, but could not quite hide the smile pulling at her mouth as she turned to stalk away. She shouted after the soldiers, and began the process of assessing the wounded.

"Well, here we are again," the Herald mused, as she watched his approach.

Solas ignored the momentary flutter in the pit of his stomach and took a quick visual assessment of her wounds, before he gently touched her forehead and felt for swelling. The center was flushing a deep shade of plum. His fingertips were inexplicably drawn to the lines that marred her skin — twining branches of grey ink approximating antlers.

Unlike other species of deer, female halla grew antlers, which were no less impressive than their male counterparts. And they were just as quick to use them in defense of themselves, or their young. He'd seen many predators impaled upon them, having foolishly believed them to be easy prey. "Despite your vallaslin, you are not actually a halla. There are better ways to disorient your opponent than headbutting," he advised.

"Perhaps," she conceded. A wry smile pulled at her mouth, as she said, "But not quite as fun. They always have this brilliant look of disbelief in their eyes right before my head slams into theirs."

Solas gave weary sigh, before turning his attentions to the bleeding wound hidden in her hair. He worked on her a bit more slowly than he could have — he took the time to inspect her scalp thoroughly, sifting through her thick hair for any overlooked injury, trying and failing to ignore its soft texture against against his calloused fingers. He checked behind her ears — stubbornly ignoring their elegant length — and then probed at the back of her neck for any swelling or sign of discomfort.

Each press of his fingertips into her skin burned across his nerves, and lingered.

He returned finally, to the source of the bleeding, satisfied that there were no hidden wounds to see to. As he parted her hair away from the laceration and laid his glowing palm over the wound, he said, "You should not act as though you were invincible."

She laughed, "Why not? I have you."

It was a flippant, off-handed jest, yet his stomach rolled and clenched at her words.

There was danger there, in such a declaration, however idle and harmless her intent.

Solas cleared his throat, and chided, "I will not always be around to heal you when you act foolishly. You should exercise caution, Herald."

She regarded him a moment with disappointment, before averting her gaze and sighing, "Are we back to that, again?"

Distance, he reminded himself.

Distance was what was needed, and using the title afforded him that.

"Titles are unfortunately difficult to discard of," he replied.

As he finished sealing the wound, Tephra frowned, and put a hand to her temple.

Solas turned her face to his, scanning for any hints of an overlooked wound. "Are you in pain?"

"No, it's—"

The Herald tilted her head, as though she heard something which no one else seemed to. She winced, and put a hand to her temple. Her frown deepened, "Something's wrong. Don't you feel it?"

Solas pressed his fingertips to her forehead and cast a scanning spell — had he overlooked something? Perhaps it was a closed head wound, something far more dangerous than a simple laceration. Or perhaps, it was—

"No, it's not me, Solas, it's—" she winced again, before she continued, insistently, "There were only five of them."

"Five," he echoed distractedly, as he continued to probe the delicate structures of her brain. He did not sense swelling or bleeding, or any further signs of trauma.

Then what ailed her so?

"Solas."

His eyes snapped to hers.

"The bandits," she clarified. "Why would they attack us if they were so clearly outnumbered?"

Because they are not, he thought with sudden, cold clarity.

He did not have time to shout a warning. The barriers had been dropped. Refugees were assisting the soldiers with loading the newly-wounded into the wagons. The bandits spilled out of the forest in greater numbers than before — a sudden, rushing tide savagery.

Solas had only just begun to raise his staff to restore the barrier, when the Herald lurched ahead of him. She buckled over, grabbing at her head.

And then, suddenly, he felt it — the heady, pulsing weight of the Fade pressing where the Veil had worn thin.

He'd been too distracted, too focused on her, to feel it pressing in around him.

Magic cracked like lightning, arcing in torrents over the caravan.

All eyes turned to the sky above, as it split open and demons began to rain down upon them all.

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Author's Notes: I am alive and kicking. Despite the lateness of this update, I have not stopped writing this fic, nor intend to in the future. I've had a bit of personal upheaval in my life in the last few months, but things are beginning to settle down again. Hopefully I will be able to regain my previous rhythm, and keep updates flowing.

I'm trying to avoid from quoting too much straight from the game, beyond what is crucially important. Also, I generally do not use epithets so often as this, but from Solas's current POV, it fits with his not really viewing them as "people", except for the moments when unavoidably he does, and it will shift over time as he begins to reassess his original assumptions.