All night I dreamt of bonfires and burn piles
and ghosts of men, and spirits
behind those birds of flame.
I cannot tell anymore when a door opens or closes,
I can only hear the frame saying, "Walk through."
―Ada Limón, Sharks In The Rivers
We carry the dead in our hands
as we might carry water — with a careful,
reverential tread. There is no other way.
How easily, how easily their faces spill.
—John Glenday, Portage
.
.
.
.
.
.
He would live.
It was a small comfort amidst all of the death that had come to them in the last few days.
Tephra watched the medics carry him off to the infirmary, and let go of a breath she'd been holding onto for far too long.
"Maker, would you look at her," one of the soldiers said, idling beside the Commander.
Oh, of course.
She realized then, how she must have appeared to them. Dirty and wounded, with bandaged arms and a portion of her hair burnt away above the ear. And the blood — the dried sheet of it running down her neck, and much more soaked into her traveling clothes and armor. Though some of it was hers, most of it belonged to the dead soldier, and to Solas.
Still, it made for a gruesome sight.
The Commander turned to Cassandra, "Is she injured? We received various reports of an incident in the Hinterlands, involving a fire—"
The ambassador also directed her question to the Seeker, "Does she require the healers?"
I'm right here, for fuck's sake.
"She does not," Tephra snarked.
The ambassador looked contrite for having not addressed her directly, as she turned back and suggested, "Perhaps a bath, then, and rest? I could see to having hot water brought to your cabin. And attendants to assist you, given your injuries."
"That's not necessary," she replied. "I can manage bathing myself."
When she'd absconded that first night after attempting to close the Breach, she'd found hot springs nestled near the frozen river. They would serve better than any tub of water, and she would relish what meager solitude she could get before she was required again for whatever tasks they had undoubtedly planned for her.
There was an exchange of looks among the advisers, before the ambassador continued, "There are matters to attend to which require your attention, but as you've had quite the, ah — adventure — take all the time you need to rest."
"Thank you—"
Justinia?
No, that was the fucking Divine, you idiot.
Despite her best attempts to remember them all, the woman's name escaped her.
Shit, what was it? Johanna? Jo—
With some amusement, the Seeker mouthed Josephine.
"—Josephine," she finished, quickly.
"There is also the matter of the dead," Cassandra noted, once again grave. "We lost several in the skirmish, which Solas was wounded in. Four of our soldiers, and two civilians."
"I'll inform the clerics to prepare them for the last rites," Leliana replied, giving a short nod to Tephra before departing for the chantry.
"And I'll see that their families are notified, as well," the Commander said, with a heavy sigh.
"Tell them—"
Tephra hesitated.
What, exactly? That they had died a good death?
It was an insult — there was nothing good about death, and nothing that could soften loss. Not even time.
The Commander gave her a gentle look, before he said, "I will speak highly of their service."
She doubted that would bring the families much comfort, but there was nothing for it.
"Also, speaking of the soldiers, I thought you might be relieved to hear that the templars who'd been assigned with Haven's chantry — the ones involved with the, ah, prison incident — were dismissed," The Commander informed. "Most have returned to Val Royeaux, as far as I've heard. Fallen in with Lord Seeker Lucius's lot."
She felt an old knot of tension loosen in her. It had been hard to let down her guard at all in Haven, as she had not clearly remembered many of the faces of the templars who'd harassed her, and it was easy to suspect just about all them to be culpable, even when they weren't. She couldn't help that they frightened her on some base, primal level, as she could only recall Karsten's mocking face.
"Thank you for letting me know," Tephra replied, and briefly laid her hand on the Commander's shoulder. "It gives me peace of mind to know that."
"Of course, Herald," Cullen replied, looking a bit startled by her gesture. He cleared his throat and averted his gaze briefly, before he inclined his head deferentially, "I will see you later at the funeral, then?"
She gave him a sharp nod, before he departed.
"One last thing, Herald, before you go" Josephine spoke up behind her. "There was a letter for you—"
Tephra turned back to the Antivan woman, surprised, "A letter?"
"Yes, from your... Keeper?"
Her stomach clenched, as she looked at the folded parchment in the woman's hand. The seal had been broken. Of course they would be reading her letters, why would she expect anything less? Yet, she could not bring herself to be particularly angry for the moment, as she took it from the woman.
It was a link back to her old life, before everything had been upended, before everything had went to shit. It was simplicity and routine, and many wandering days on her own, sleeping in trees and watching over the children as they played. It was healing the hurts, and hauling game and foraged food home to her people.
Tephra held the parchment almost gingerly, as she glanced over the words to confirm its origin. She recognized the curving script of her Keeper's handwriting. It was smooth and graceful, unlike her own fitful, sharp scrawl. She would not read it now; she did not want to risk getting emotional in front of the others.
"Please come see me when you're ready to send a response," Josephine urged, before departing for the chantry.
Tephra tucked the letter away into a pocket, before shouldering her traveling pack. The Seeker had already left to assist with the unloading of the bodies. She wasn't sure where Varric had gotten off to, but if she had to guess, she was certain he'd gone to claim a comfortable corner in the tavern to sit and write.
She left before anyone else could seek her out.
The caravan had parked itself near the gates of Haven, so leaving was not a difficult task. She only needed to cut through the training yards to get to the river. Still, there was an abundance of activity around her as people worked to unload the wagons or to practice martial skills, and she could not help but notice the stolen glances at her bandaged arms and catch whispered fragments of gossip.
It really shouldn't have surprised her that word of her foolish antics in the Hinterlands had preceded her return.
She could only imagine what they thought of the mad, foolish woman they'd chosen to call their "Herald."
Tephra caught snippets of the stories among the caravan during the trip back, and the details shifted with each repetition — how much she'd been burned, how many children she'd saved, how many rogue templars she'd executed. None seemed to mention the ones she failed to save, though. The stories only seemed to serve to aggrandize her deeds, to make it more than what it had been, to make her more than she was — much to her annoyance.
"There, look, the bandages—"
"One of the scouts said she was on fire when they pulled her out, even her hair. She burned like Andraste herself!"
Pissing hell.
Tephra resisted the urge to look back at the gossiping workers, as she cut through the training yard. What good would her denials have been? They were determined to make her into something she wasn't, regardless of her feelings on the matter.
As she ducked between the tents and avoided the stares of the soldiers, she heard someone call after her. She turned to see a soldier breaking free from a group in the middle of an exercise. A few instructors shouted after him in annoyance, for having disrupted the others, but the soldier ignored them as he came jogging toward her. He brushed sweaty dark hair out of his eyes, and flashed her a smile.
She returned it with an impatient frown, "Did you need something...?"
"Alleras," he reminded.
It was the medic who'd saved her life at the Breach.
"And no, but I thought you might," he continued, as he gestured at her bloodied attire, before flashing her another grin. "By the look of it, you need me."
Is he... flirting with me?
She was at once amused, and annoyed. She kept her face still, and stared at him until his confidence faltered.
Alleras cleared his throat, before pointing at the band on his arm and giving a nervous chuckle, "A joke, my lady, though still sincere. I heard of what happened in the Hinterlands."
Ah.
Simply being cheeky.
If more of them had acted as casually as he did with her, this whole Herald nonsense would have been vastly easier to stomach.
She felt the nervous twitch in her hands as she replied, "Many things happened in the Hinterlands. Specifics would help."
The medic glanced at her bandaged arms, before quickly meeting her gaze again. "Your, ah—"
She had put fresh ones on shortly before their departure from the Crossroads, but after the attack she had been too exhausted and distracted to change them, or to check the status of her burns. Solas had done what he could to mitigate the damage, especially with her hands, which had allowed her the continued use of them with only minimal discomfort. And truly, through all of the attack and the time after, sitting over Solas as she waited for him to wake again, she had not thought once of them. Had not felt the discomfort, or really, anything, and for that she had not checked her arms since she last wrapped them.
The bandages were filthy and soaked with old, dried blood. If he was a medic worth his salt, she expected he would berate her for so thoroughly inviting infection to root in her burns.
"And what have you heard?" she asked, amused to see what ridiculous new feat had been added to the story.
The medic laughed, "Well, the stories have varied a bit, given your heroics and all. Some swear up and down that your head was on fire. Your hair looks a bit singed, but hardly worse for the wear. And definitely not what "a crown of fire" would have left behind."
For fuck's sake.
She could have laughed at that one, and she nearly did. But there was too much grief in her still to let herself laugh at anything.
"More than a bit singed, you ass," she huffed, as she pulled at the short bits above her ear. She really needed to do something about her hair.
Alleras laughed again, as he continued, "Others said other things. You know how it is. One says this, another says that. The only thing consistent is that you were burned."
"A bit, yeah," she snarked. "Did you come to gawk at my arms like the others?"
"If by gawking you meant was I admiring their form, then — well — yes. Female archers do have wonderful muscle tone." Alleras grinned, "Great shoulders, too."
Tephra fought the flush creeping up her face as she frowned, ignoring his attempt to fluster her, and changed the subject, "One of my companions is a mage. He did his best to mitigate the damage."
"He the one that got knifed in the leg? The scouts have been talking about him, too. My — uh, Kaz says you saved his life," the medic said.
Why were they talking about Solas?
She hoped it wasn't anything that could put him in danger, or to disparage his character. None of them had the right to deny his place here, not after being wounded so badly in defense of their people.
"Your friend helped," she admitted, ignoring the sudden dread creeping through her. "I just panicked."
"He told me how you pinched off the artery. Quick thinking on that one, and smart. Most wouldn't even know how to find it, let alone attempt to," Alleras observed. He gestured at her arms, "I could almost forgive your complete lack of regard to your own wound management, for that one."
Worth his salt, indeed.
Tephra gave an amused huff, "I was a bit distracted, to be fair."
"Let's see the damage, then," Alleras said, motioning at her arms.
Her alarm intensified. She was acutely aware of the stares from other soldiers observing the exchange from a distance. What was being said of the incident? Or worse, of Solas's involvement?
"I'm not taking my bandages off here. You're being ridiculous," Tephra admonished.
Heedless of her discomfort, the medic took hold of her elbow and began rolling the sleeve of her coat back.
"Just a peek, Herald, nothing too invasive—"
He'd begun to peel back a portion of the bandages, which bared the grim sight of her wounds. She was not surprised by the blackened skin and thick crusts of dried blood, but when it began to peel away in thick layers with the bandaging, she felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.
"Well, fuck."
Tephra pulled her arm free of the medic's grasp and replaced the bandages hastily.
The medic gaped at her, incredulous, "I've never—" He stopped short, opening and closing his mouth, before he tried once more, "How in the—"
"It's nothing," Tephra said, as she rolled her sleeve down over the bandages. She did her best to copy Cassandra's sharp, authoritative tone, as she stated, "The burns were minor, and nothing more."
Alleras continued to stare at her as though she'd sprouted a second head. When she turned to leave, he advised, "You should keep that mage close. He's a talented healer."
"I would appreciate your discretion," she said over her shoulder, her anxiety lending an edge to her voice. "For his sake."
Alleras's brows knitted together, briefly, as he nodded, "You have my word."
She ignored the pounding in her ears as she continued through the training yard, and ignored the glances to her bandaged hands. She resisted the urge to shove them into the pockets of her coat, or to pull down her hood to hide the hair that had been burnt away in the fire.
She knew enough of the human world to know that mages often lived within the precarious confines of the Circle, and that those who did not submit to such control often ended up being made Tranquil, or killed. Especially those of great, or uncontrollable power. Companion or not, Solas was an apostate, and he was surrounded by people who feared and likely loathed mages. Solas was a stronger mage than he let on, even she could see that, and he was content to let others make the mistake of underestimating him — a smart fighting tactic, on the field. But here, among so many with ties to the Chantry, to Andrastian prejudices?
Powerful mages were often under the most scrutiny from the Chantry, and healing magic such as this would surely give him away — and possibly put him in danger. She was certain she'd heard of how tightly monitored they were, how they were believed to be some of the most at-risk for possession.
And hadn't the mage who'd brought down the chantry in Kirkwall be a healer? A—
For fuck's sake, what was it?
—Spirit mage?
She could not remember if Solas ever specified what his specialization was, but regardless, she would keep his secrets if it meant protecting him. She would not see him hurt for having helped her, for having once again saved her life; she would need to get ahead of the rumors, and do what she could to discourage further speculation.
The springs were less than two miles from Haven, nestled in a ravine near the frozen river. She'd passed them on her previous excursion, when she had wholly intended to flee the madness of what was now the Inquisition. The heat from the springs invited a small flush of green at the edges of the pools, despite the snow.
She gathered wood and built a bonfire first, not far from the water. The walls of the ravine around her cut off most of the biting winter winds, but she would still need the heat to dry herself before dressing again.
After a quick scouting of the area to ensure her privacy, she stripped down to her bandages. Those she removed more carefully, watching with morbid fascination at the skin peeling away in long scaly strips. Not simply the superficial layers one would expect from a minor burn, or from lingering in the sun too long. Whole chunks of burnt flesh clung to the bandages, which had adhered to the cloth where the blood had pooled and dried.
She brushed away bits of char and clotted flecks of dried blood from her forearms, clearing it all away as she inspected the movements of her fingers and wrists and elbows.
Tephra could not help but gape at her arms in awe; she had seen enough burns in her time serving among the healers of her clan to know that this was not how her skin should look, not after having been burned so severely. There was no masses of scarring, no destruction of the muscles beneath, no contracture of the limbs. She could move her limbs and digits freely, and the skin was smooth and unbroken, but marked by the memory of fire in livid patterns.
Not scars, she realized, as she she brushed her fingertips across the marks. New skin, and startlingly sensitive beneath her touch. Darkest where the fire had burned deepest, and fainter at the edges.
He had done far more than simply fixed her hands, as she'd asked. He had gone beyond what she'd known to be possible with healing magics, and left her in remarkably better condition than one who'd so foolishly thrown theirself into a burning cabin had any right to be. He had not just regrown the skin, but the damaged muscle beneath as well, which had likely prevented her from permanent disability, loss of the limbs, or even death.
It left her reeling, and in awe.
Simple apostate, my ass.
Whatever he was, she hoped that one day he would trust her enough to enlighten her on how he'd grown so strong, so knowledgeable, so—
Tephra flushed, and shook away that train of thought.
Despite what Solas had done, it still did not explain how she hadn't felt the burns. She could only remember two short instances in which she had felt pain during her time inside the burning cabin, and neither had been nearly enough to explain the burns she came out with. She could have chalked it up to adrenaline pumping through her system, but that would not have explained the hand in the darkness she was certain she felt, that had righted her balance and kept her from collapsing and succumbing to the smoke.
That remained entirely inexplicable to her.
Does the weird shit ever stop happening, or is this just what my life is now?
Tephra gave a frustrated sigh and chucked the bandages into the fire.
No use leaving evidence of what Solas had done.
She would put fresh ones on after she bathed, and wear them for an acceptable amount of time to account for minor burns. For Solas's sake, she would discourage any talk of what happened in the Hinterlands, and outright deny being severely burned if she had to. Who could contradict her, when he was the only one who'd seen the extent of the damage?
The stones beneath her feet were warm at the water's edge, and she stepped into the spring carefully. Clouds of steam drifted around her as she lowered herself into the simmering pool, easing her battered body into the heat of the water inch by inch. The natural slope of the rock allowed her to recline, with all but her head and her knees submerged. The skin of her forearms ached and throbbed in the heat, but the pain soon subsided.
She remained like that for a time, letting the heat sap away her tension and aches, before finally sitting up to scrub away the layers of dirt and blood she'd accumulated over the last few days. She cleaned the blood from hair, which had matted and tangled around her ear, and around the laceration. Solas had done a sufficient job closing it, and she suspected it would leave only a minimal scar. She ran her fingertips over the end of her ear, where Varric's arrow had clipped her. The Seeker had stitched it well enough, but the damage to the cartilage disrupted the straight, sharp lines of her ear. There was a furrow in the helix where the flesh had been torn away.
I'm going to have to start wearing more armor, she thought, with morbid amusement.
When she finished, she climbed out of the spring and went to rummage in her pack. She knew nothing of the various customs surrounding human funerals, only that they varied greatly, but she was certain they would require her presence there. The only suitable thing she had to wear was an airy, sleeveless white tunic, with matching leggings. Both were simple and unadorned, and made from undyed Dalish silk. She had brought the attire along with her, as she'd stopped along her trip to attend the rare birth of twins in another clan. She had served as an honorary birthing attendant, which was one of many customs which served to bolster alliances and good standing between the allied clans.
Her people wore white to births as well as funerals, as the color was heavily associated with beginnings and endings — with how each soul came from and returned to the same source.
And it was the only thing she had that was clean, so it would have to do.
She dressed quickly, shivering in the chill as she slipped on her boots and wrapped her arms and palms in fresh bandages. When she finished, she slipped on her coat and crouched by the fire, as she retrieved the letter from her pocket. It took three attempts at reading it over before any meaning seemed to break through the anxious swell of her emotions.
Her Keeper diplomatically expressed greetings and good wishes to the Inquisition itself, but she could sense the quiet anger in the older woman's words. She had not known word of what happened at the Conclave had already crossed the Waking Sea, let alone reached her own people. And they were worried that she was being unfairly kept from her people.
I should have sent word.
She could have spared her people undue worry and anger by sending a letter, by assuring them she wasn't a prisoner. But then, she still wasn't entirely convinced her place here was consensual — it was necessity. There had never been a choice in the matter for her, as she was the only one who could close the Breach.
Was there ever truly a choice, if she could not simply pass the responsibility to another? Was there still a choice in not fleeing, knowing that otherwise she would doom all of the known world to its death? Was even choosing to help a choice, in and of itself, if you were backed into a corner with no other options? Or was this what was meant to have happened, all along?
The questions made her head spin as she tucked the letter away in her pack. She pulled out her dagger; something had to be done about her hair. She'd caught glimpses of it in the water, and it looked ridiculous as it was now. Tephra ran her fingertips through the short bits above her ear; the ends were brittle where the rest had been burnt away.
If her hair had been on fire, how had she not known? And the burns — how had she not felt them?
She was not a creature of vanity, but it did not escape her notice that this was simply another thing sacrificed to this cause. The mark had taken her autonomy, and the fire had taken her hair. The latter being little more than a superficial loss, yet still, it made her wonder — what more would she lose to all of this, in the end?
Tephra gave a frustrated sigh, as she pulled a lock of hair forward and severed it. She was halfway through another bundle of hair when the Seeker spoke up behind her.
"Would you prefer assistance, or do you mean to butcher it all off?"
Tephra blew a frazzled strand out of her face as Cassandra squatted beside her, and said, "It'll grow back."
She was not particularly concerned about her looks, but at least she could give it symmetry of a sort.
"I have shears," Cassandra intoned. "I can also see what I'm doing, where you're only guessing."
Tephra gave a sigh, and relented.
The Seeker brushed her hair back from the ear, and noted, "Your hair is so thick, it hides your ears. It is easy to forget sometimes that you are—"
"An elf? If it bothers you, you could always dock them," Tephra snarked, with dark amusement.
"I would never—"
The Seeker moved to fix Tephra with a sharp look, before realizing that she was being teased. Cassandra made a sound of annoyance, before sitting back on her heels. "Perhaps cutting it short will help the others remember what you are, as well. You are our Herald, but you are also yourself, and an elf. That should not be lost to you, or to history."
Despite the differences in what they believed, it was an attempt by the Seeker to reach across the gulf between the cultures, their histories.
Once again, she found herself surprised by the woman's words, and more so by her own emotional response to them.
And to think, how differently things had been not even a month prior.
They had long since ceased being jailer and prisoner to one another. At some point along the way, Cassandra had stopped distrusting her every action, and she had stopped meeting the Seeker's every question with rebellion. Something had changed, had shifted, and now there was something tentatively amiable between them — something close to respect.
Tephra didn't know how to convey what it meant to her, to have earned such high regard from Cassandra. That the Seeker cared at all to see beyond the power that marked her, beyond the title they'd placed upon her, beyond her ears — something Solas had wisely advised her of, no matter how she'd initially bristled — meant more than she could begin to put to words. That the woman had even managed to coax respect and trust from her, when she had been otherwise so unwilling to give it.
"I had a brother, too," she blurted out, impulsively. "He's gone, and I don't like talking about him either. I just wanted you to know that."
Ah, fuck.
The confession tumbled out of her in a rush, undoubtedly prompted by her growing affinity with the woman.
Tephra felt the Seeker's hands go still in her hair.
It wasn't exactly what she had meant to say, but she could see why her mind had reached for it. It was common ground between them, something dear which had been lost. A sameness that could be shared across what separated them.
It was her own fumbling attempt to reach out to the Seeker, for whatever it was worth.
Cassandra remained silent, as she resumed her work.
For a time, she was content to lapse into silence, and focus on the pleasant sensation of another person's hands in her hair, while listening to the snip of the shears as locks of drifted to her lap like snow. With each cut, Tephra felt the weight of her hair fall away. It was an odd sensation — the sudden lack of it. Her ears felt exposed, left naked to the wind and to prying eyes, but there was also a strange liberation in it.
None would be able to deny what she was, now.
"I was wrong about you," Cassandra said, finally. She sifted Tephra's choppy lengths through her fingers, snipping at bits here and there, as she continued, "You are none of the things I suspected you to be, and you have surpassed any cautious hope I might have had regarding your willingness to help with the Breach, and the people who need it."
"I was wrong about you, too," Tephra replied. She shot a wry grin over shoulder at Cassandra, as she added, "Well, except the stabby angry bits, but that's not a bad thing as long as it's not directed at me."
Cassandra laughed quietly, before clearing her throat. She feigned disapproval as she turned Tephra's head back around with a firm grip, "Be still, Herald. Or I will dock your ears, and it will be no one's fault but your own."
Anyone else would have taken the Seeker at her word, assumed her threat genuine, but she couldn't help but grin at Cassandra's terrible attempt at a joke.
After trimming a few more odd ends, Cassandra surveyed her work and gave a satisfied nod. "That will do," she said.
Tephra brushed the shorn hair from her shoulders as she stood. She ran her fingers through the short lengths that remained, and gave an amused huff, "Now we have matching haircuts. Whatever will they say?"
The Seeker gave a snort and rolled her eyes, "It's not nearly as short as mine." Her sharp gaze zeroed in on Tephra's bandages. "You have not complained much, but surely those must hurt. How are they healing?"
"They're fine," she replied, carefully. "No need to fuss—"
When Cassandra reached for her arm, Tephra could not help but flinch backward. The gesture alone gave away any pretense she may have had.
Shit.
"You're terrible at lying," the Seeker observed.
Why was everyone so comfortable with taking such liberties with her? Was blatant disregard of personal space a human thing, or did they truly see her as something less — as something with less of a right to personal space?
Rebellion burned in her belly, but it was brief. Nothing good would come of keeping things from the Seeker, and she did not care to take a step backward in the progress they'd made. None of this worked — being what they needed, doing what was asked of her — if she could not trust the ones who worked closest to her. She needed to be able to trust her companions, or it would all fall apart.
Tephra relented, and allowed the woman to take her by the arm. Dread washed through her as she watched Cassandra unwound a portion of the bandages.
If the Seeker was surprised by the sight of her healed, hardly-marked skin, she did not show it. "Solas did this?"
"He healed me," Tephra emphasized. "If they had been left as they were, they would have infected and I would have died. Probably. Or I could have lost the arm with the mark." She heaved a sigh of frustration, as she added, "At the very least, I wouldn't be of much use to you anymore."
Cassandra regarded her for a long moment with a tight, inscrutable expression, before admitting, "That is true. It's good that you did not die. However, lyingis not—"
"I was afraid for him," Tephra shot back, heatedly. "He is an elven apostate among those who would readily kill him for what he is."
Surprise softened the Seeker's face, which sent her stomach rolling.
Well, that certainly comes across as—
What, exactly?
Tephra averted her gaze as she fought the flush threatening to creep across her face, and diverted, "I would do the same for you, as well as Varric. It's the Dalish way — you live and die by the integrity of your bond to your clanmates. If you would not protect the one watching your back, why should they risk themselves for you?"
"Solas has proven himself many times over since joining us, there is no need to lie for him," the Seeker admonished. Once again, Cassandra fixed her with a complicated, inscrutable expression as she asked, "Do you trust him?"
"Yes."
That she did not hesitate to declare it surprised her more than it did the Seeker.
"Then I will trust that you do, and follow your lead," Cassandra replied.
Tephra frowned. "Why?"
"It was not just the Divine who was lost at the Conclave," Cassandra said. "Many lost loved ones to the explosion. Nearly everyone in Haven has lost someone."
She's speaking of herself, Tephra realized.
"I'm sorry," she replied. "I didn't know."
The Seeker gave a brittle laugh, "How could you have known? I never would have spoke of it, when I still believed you guilty. I know now that you're not at fault for what happened there."
Tephra regarded the woman with a tight expression, before she said, "For whatever it's worth, I appreciate that you do."
"You did not trust Solas, at first," Cassandra noted.
"I didn't trust any of you, at first," Tephra reminded. She still wasn't sure that she trusted any of them beyond the three companions who traveled with her, and she hardly knew the rest of them.
Something else to see to, I suppose, she noted to herself.
The Seeker's eyebrow quirked, as she asked, "Still — something has changed, has it not?"
When had her disposition to Solas changed? The night he followed her into the woods, to make sure she stayed safe? Or when he shared his stories, and endured her endless questions and mad rambling?
Or was it that last night at the Crossroads?
She wasn't quite sure when, only that it had.
Tephra worried at the edges of her bandages, as she begrudgingly admitted, "Yes, I suppose it has."
"I know how difficult it can be to trust other people's intentions," Cassandra offered. "And you remind me of myself, how I was with—" The Seeker cleared her throat, changing the subject as she gestured at Tephra's bandages, "Wear the them if you must, and address the rumors how you will. I will support you, regardless. And do not worry for Solas — I won't allow anyone to harm him, as long as it is in my power to do so, for your sake. And because he is one of our own."
Tephra could not help the complicated swell of her emotions, nor the growing fondness she had for the woman. "Will you be with me, until the end? Until this is over?"
"I will not abandon you, or my oaths," the Seeker assured. "Wherever this path ends, I will be with you."
A heavy silence settled between them, as Tephra considered the Seeker and how far they'd come since the Breach. It was a tight, complicated thing — whatever this was between them — an alliance of necessity, which had shifted to something more, something that warred between fondness and rebellion in her belly.
Putting a name to it meant an acknowledgment of its reality — it made it real, and real things could be lost.
Tephra thought of him — collapsed and dying, with nothing but the trembling grip of her hand keeping him from bleeding out. How closely she'd come to losing him, how easily it could happen again, to any of them.
She had lost many things over the course of her life, and it had robbed her of her willingness to bond with others, to welcome any sort of closeness, for fear of losing it. Even in her clan, she had kept a practical distance, and she had done her best to keep the bonds to her clanmates superficial. And yet, it was as it had always been — an exercise in futility.
One could not live with others, without inevitably growing close to them. Even if she had fooled many with her aloofness, her solitary nature, she never could quite fool herself.
Tephra gave a huff, before she snarked, "So, are we getting married now, or...?"
The Seeker gave something between a groan and a laugh, as she shoved Tephra in the general direction of Haven.
"Come, Herald. We have work to do."
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When he woke again, Solas found himself in the Haven infirmary.
One of his agents was sitting by his cot, idly playing a round of cards by himself. Kazem did not look up, as he inquired, "Sleep well?"
Solas gave a sharp exhale through his nose, before attempting to sit. Pain lanced through him, shooting up from his thigh and settling like a punch to the gut, which effectively knocked him back into bed.
"I'll take that as a no," the elf said, as he continued his game.
Solas frowned, regarding the elf. He was a competent agent, arguably one of his best, if a bit droll at times. "How long have I been out?" Solas asked, before taking another attempt at sitting. He grunted in pain, but managed to to raise himself up this time.
"A few hours," Kazem replied, unaffectedly. "Probably due to the sedatives they administered."
Sedatives.
It was no wonder he didn't remember dreaming, let alone losing consciousness, not since returning to Haven. He detested sedatives as much as he detested stimulants — they both served to inhibit his ability to dream.
He did not see his pack by the cot. Solas searched the interior pockets of his jerkin for the report, and alarm washed over him when he did not find it.
Kazem held up the small scroll between two fingers as he continued to arrange cards on the small table he was sitting at with his other hand.
Solas grimaced as he reached to take it from him. Every movement of his body seemed to pull at the torn muscles in his thigh.
"It fell from your jerkin while we moved you into one of the wagons," Kazem informed.
"Who?"
"The Seeker, Lavellan, and myself. Lavellan saw it fall, and returned it. The Seeker did not notice, and Lavellan didn't seem tempted to investigate it. Anyone else might not have afforded you the same level of respect," the agent replied, with a note of curiosity. "I took it from you after she stepped away, for obvious reasons."
Fenedhis.
So much could have been compromised over his hesitation to follow his own strict protocol — to simply read the report and destroy it entirely, lest they risk any of the covert communications being discovered. More damning that the report was of pertinent information regarding the Herald, likely in far greater detail than Leliana's people had managed to dig up.
There was a reason why he'd use the dreamers when passing the most important information, and he'd broken his own rules by having not.
He was avoiding invading her privacy, and it nearly cost him everything for it. But the Herald's dreams were still fresh in his mind, and he could not help but worry that she'd discovered his invasion of her person — of the private aspects of her life, which she kept rightfully to herself. For her sake, he did not wish to thieve anything more from her than he already had. He did not want to break the trust that was being built between them.
And he'd seen her fury — he did not wish to have it leveled at himself, if he could avoid it.
As he tucked the scroll away, Solas asked, "You're certain she did not open it?"
"She did not have the opportunity, and her focus was entirely on your welfare," Kazem replied.
Guilt returned once again, slipping between his ribs and stabbing deep.
Kazem regarded him with sharp curiosity, "You instructed for all messages to be destroyed upon reading. That is still your standing order, is it not?"
A flash of annoyance crossed his face, as he snapped, "I was not at leisure to, given my unconsciousness."
"Of course, sir," Kazem conceded. Amusement crossed his face, pulling at the lines of scarification which marked his cheeks, "Regardless, it's a pity you don't trust her, as she clearly puts hers in you."
Solas gave a sharp frown, "Excuse me?"
"Ah, yes of course, you wouldn't have heard — being unconscious and all," the agent continued. "A few of the humans were speculating if you were the Shartan to her Andraste. Rumors of her burns have been circulating quite feverishly, yet she has returned to us quite whole. However she may hide her arms, it is clear to many that she is quite curiously unscathed. So she's been hurrying around Haven all day, dispelling any talk of you healing her. She'd rather let them believe she somehow miraculously managed to not prematurely martyr herself and suffer through their claims of divinity, than to allow scrutiny of your involvement."
Solas's hand fisted on his uninjured thigh. He briefly recalled her forcing her fingers into his wound, and the sight of her holding his life in her hands. It reminded him of the old saying of his people — The healer has the bloodiest hands. It called to mind the promise she'd made, which now was startlingly clear that she'd meant it.
He kept his face calm, despite the sudden conflict of emotions warring inside him.
How far did she intend to go, to keep her promise of protecting him?
It was at once alarming, and pleasing.
He shoved the thought aside, as he motioned at the elf, "Help me stand."
Though he was not quite as tall as Solas, the medic was stocky and strong, and bore his weight easily as Solas leaned heavily on him. Rising had been painful; standing was excruciating.
With what little strength he had, Solas pressed a hand to his bandaged thigh; magic sparked dimly, and dulled his nerves.
Kazem leaned to retrieve Solas's stave from where it stood against the wall, before handing it to him.
With one hand braced on the medic's shoulder, and the other gripping tight to his stave, Solas made his way out of the empty infirmary. Each step was a struggle, and his weakened state was both infuriating and humbling.
Outside, the streets were decidedly empty.
As Solas released his hold on the medic, to stand on his own, he asked, "Where is everyone?"
"At the funeral pyres, I expect," Kazem replied. "Out past the training yards. For the ones who died."
His memory of the attack was muddled after he'd begun to fight the one who'd stabbed him. "Was she injured?"
The medic shot him a wry look, as he said, "Nothing she couldn't handle."
That did little to ease his concern.
Without a further word, Solas left the agent and began to make his way toward the outskirts of Haven. It was a slow, laborious endeavor, compounded by the snow and ice on the ground beneath him.
He could hear the singing by the time he reached the gates, and the slow steady beat of drums.
Out in the training fields, near the river, all of Haven had gathered to honor those they'd lost. As he moved through the crowds, he ignored the occasional glances from the handful of his agents scattered amongst them.
What a sight he must have been — the widely-feared Dread Wolf, inciter of the greatest rebellion known to history, savior and destroyer of his people — leaning heavily on his staff and hobbling along at a glacial pace.
He could have laughed at that.
And it was not that he ever made claims of invulnerability, or godhood, or that he'd never been severely wounded in the long span of his life. He'd seen his share of war and fighting, and bled for it. He still carried scars. But to have been brought down by a simple dagger, to have been so thoroughly chastised by his own mortality and currently weakened state, to have been brought so close to his own end—
It was sobering, to say the least.
While soldiers worked to assemble funeral pyres, the clerics handled the bodies. The dead had been wrapped in clean linen, except for their faces. They lay in rows, together, awaiting cremation. Those whose family resided in Haven were with their dead, offering trinkets and final words to their loved ones.
He was no stranger to death, even in his own world. None had been exempt from it, not even the evanuris, however they labored to appear so. Yet still, it was a rare thing among the immortal beings, and their funerals tended toward more elaborate celebrations — appallingly decadent displays in comparison to what surrounded him.
The mortals were far more tender in their grief, reverently handling the bodies as if they were only sleeping, as if they might wake again.
They sang hymns and mourned their loss in a way that only mortal beings knew how to.
And, of course, that was where he found her.
The Herald was a vision in white among the drab crowds, which made it easier to observe her at a distance. He followed in the wake of her gravity, as she walked amongst the grieving. He watched as she gracefully endured the emotional demands of the mourners, stopping for all who addressed her or reached for her bandaged hands, taking their grief as her own as she offered her condolences.
How small she seemed now, without the layers of armor and the over-sized coat she nearly always wore. Her shoulders were bared to the cold, and far too small to carry the weight of the world.
It was then that he saw that most of her hair had been cut away. What remained framed her face in shaggy waves. Its absence exposed the long lines of her neck, as well as her ears. They were longer than his own, though not as wide — unpierced, and unfreckled, and unsettling in how they drew his gaze.
He'd so quickly admonished her for not seeing past his ears, and yet here he was unable to take his eyes off hers.
Solas briefly recalled her impish smile when she'd wiggled them at him, the morning after he'd collected her from the forest outside Haven. At the time, he'd been too preoccupied with admonishing her to appreciate her humor, or to appreciate the rare sight of her ears at all. Between the wild tangle of her hair and the hood of her coat that she'd often left drawn up, one could easily mistake her for a human. And perhaps their obscurity had made it easy for him, in a way, to dismiss her, even as a shadow of his people, in the beginning.
But now, their sudden bareness struck him as practically intimate.
That the sight of them preoccupied him at all was, to say the least, alarming.
She was becoming increasingly distracting, in more ways than he cared to admit.
Solas forced his gaze away, but continued to drift in the ebb of her wake, until it brought him to her companions and advisers. Just as he had been, they were watching the Herald among the mourners.
"You should be resting," the Seeker noted, with disapproval.
"I have rested enough, for now," Solas replied, dismissively. "And it would be remiss of me to not be here as well."
"Our Herald has a soft heart," the spymaster Leliana observed, still watching as the elf allowed the younger mourners to cling to her in their grief.
"The soldiers and refugees have been passing around stories of your time in the Hinterlands," the Commander said, as he turned to Cassandra. "Of the fire, and of — well, suffice to say, I believe they see it, as well. Her soft heart, that is."
"With you people, all a soft heart is gonna get her is an early grave," the dwarf muttered.
He could appreciate Master Tethras's candor, even if the others did not.
The Seeker rounded on Varric, as if to reprimand him. Her anger was short-lived, however, as she relented and merely stated, "I will not let that happen. Anything that tries to take her from us must get through me first."
Varric gave a sharp, bitter laugh, and said nothing more as he departed. Solas followed after him, preferring the dwarf's company over the rest.
When he realized he was being followed, Varric slowed his pace to match Solas's. "I'm surprised to see you up and about. You were pretty close to kicking off to that Fade you love so much," he remarked.
"Not quite yet, I'm afraid," Solas replied, with an edge of dark humor. All around them, the crowd was an odd mix of emotions, and he could not help but observe, "How quickly they go from mourning to laughing."
The dwarf laughed then, as well, "It's what we do, Chuckles. All the crying, the laughing, the anger, all that shit — that's living. The day we stop doing it, is the day we die."
Even though they were not truly whole, not what he would consider people — seeing their pain firsthand, seeing their losses, and watching them struggle to overcome them despite the terrible nature of their world, inspired a strange sort of admiration in him.
Of course they felt the keenness of pain and loss, even if they were not whole, even if they were not truly people. And of course they laughed and knew happiness and joy, even in this diminished, dying world.
"Well said," Solas conceded.
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She stood watching the pyres burn, until the smell of the burning bodies forced her away. The scent brought back memories of the bodies at the Breach, beyond count and burnt beyond recognition. Brought back memories of the cabin burning around her, and those she couldn't save.
More dead, now.
And how many more would die before the end?
Tephra skirted the periphery of the crowds, seeking a moment of respite before she would be inevitably drawn back to continue as Cassandra had advised.
They needed her, the Seeker had said. And so she let them have her, for as long as she could bear it. She forced her composure, and let them lay their griefs and their anger at her feet. She fumbled her way through the condolences, and offered them what paltry compassion she could. But what were words, in the face of such loss?
No words could ever take the griefs she carried from her; how could she expect hers would take them from anyone else's?
Nothing was more present than the absence of a loved one, and there was nothing she could give them, but the truth.
I am sorry for your loss.
As she wandered past one of the many tables which had been carried out into the field to accommodate those in attendance, she pilfered a bottle of whiskey. A good portion of it had been poured already, but there was more than enough left to take the edge off her anxiety.
As she took a drink and continued on away from the crowds, she silently wished that they had not left the faces bared. It would have been easier to distance herself from the reality of it if she could not see their faces. Yet half of her felt obligated to remember, felt she owed them at least that much — the other half of her sought forgetting, sought numbness in the alcohol.
"He was happy he saved her."
Tephra's step faltered as she turned to see who'd spoken up behind her.
A young man was sitting up on one of the low stone walls which lined the road leading out of Haven. He fidgeted with his fingertips, as he lilted, "It mattered. He mattered." Then, his lilt shifted, as though he spoke for another, "At least they won't forget me for saving her."
Who—?
Tephra stepped closer, and tilted her head to peer under the brim of his ridiculously over-sized hat. She could only see the lower half of his young face and the briefest glance from pale blue eyes behind a thick fall of blonde hair. She didn't remember seeing him among the caravan, but there had been quite a few last-minute tagalongs left accounted for.
She frowned, "Did you come with the refugees?"
"I followed from the fire. You hurt to help them. Helping hurt you, so I took it away so that you could," the young man replied, in a plaintive tone. "I want to help, too."
Tephra gaped at the young man, incredulous. "The—"
And then, she remembered.
She'd nearly dropped the boy, as she scrambled desperately through the smoke, choking and blind, when fatigue and disorientation and desperation overwhelmed her. She had begun to fall, when something reached through the darkness and righted her.
And then how after, when the adrenaline wore off, she realized how despite the pain of her burns, she couldn't remember getting most of them, or at least, the pain of getting burned when it happened — only after it was all done.
Tephra stared at the young man in shock; she had not hallucinated the strange incident. "You were in the cabin."
And there was not a single mark on him, not a single burn.
"Yes," he replied. He tilted his head, as if he were listening to something which only he could hear.
But — how?
Tephra's blood ran cold as the young man began to recite her unspoken thoughts — her griefs, and her regrets.
"He slipped through my grasp, just like he did. If only I had been faster, if only I had seen him," the young man lilted. "But you didn't see. The smoke — choking, charring. It wasn't your fault."
It was as if he'd reached inside her and ripped open every old wound she carried, all at once.
"How could you possibly know that?" she demanded.
"Talking to yourself now, Snowflake?"
Tephra turned to find Varric at her side. Frowning, she said, "No, I was just—"
She turned back to the strange young man, but he was gone from the wall. There was no trace of him in any direction; there weren't even footsteps in the snow, not a single trace of his leaving.
It was as if he'd never been there in the first place.
Tephra's stomach churned, and rolled.
Am I losing my mind?
Varric regarded her with concern, before jesting, "That whiskey getting the job done?"
"No, not near enough," she replied. She ignored how unsettled she felt, and forced a laugh, "Come, let's go find more."
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Most had retired for the night, though the bonfires had been left burning for those who remained. Mostly soldiers and scouts, swapping stories of their fallen comrades and drinking in their honor.
He'd resolved himself to not seek her out, unnecessarily, to avoid complication, to avoid distraction — but it had only been a matter of time until the Herald found him.
She came like an apparition out of the dark; her clothing and hair seemed far too bright in the low light of the bonfires. She crouched near the fire, holding a bottle of mead in a loose grip.
Solas could not blame her for seeking inebriation, given recent events. The brutal realities of this world weighed heavily on her, and had stripped away any lingering naiveté of her youth.
She had finally seen the war she was in, that she was an integral part of — a truth she could no longer deny, no matter how terrible it was to bear.
The Herald continued to stare into the fire, as she mused, "You know, there is this theory that there are some places in the world where the weight of suffering compounded over time weakens the boundaries between this world and the Fade."
"More than simply a hypothesis. It is an observable phenomenon," Solas replied, almost automatically. His pulse quickened at his own willingness to offer her information, to answer her questions.
She hadn't even asked one, not yet.
That she would excited him.
She fixed her impossibly dark, impossibly inquisitive eyes on him as she asked, "Does that mean the Veil will eventually wear away entirely on its own, the way water carves rock? Is that what our suffering does? Does it even matter if I close the Breach, if it'll just happen again in the future?"
Fenedhis lasa.
What in this blighted world was she, to see so clearly? And how could she so deftly wrench grief from him, as though she could see every piece of it in him?
"It would still matter, yes," he replied, carefully.
It was all he could allow himself to say.
She fell into silence for a time, taking generous drinks from the bottle she'd brought with her. Alcohol, presumably.
He found himself unconsciously bracing for whatever she meant to say next, or ask of him. Expectation elicited both fear and excitement in him, as her questions and statements often danced far too close to the truth, and it would be startlingly easy for him to slip up around her.
When she spoke again, she did not disappoint.
"If a spirit is drawn through the Veil and made flesh, when they die do they return to the Fade? Is it really dying, if they were always a spirit before they had a body?" He watched the questions work their way out of her, and at the pleasant way they shaped her expressions. How that sheer curiosity illuminated her face. "Is that what we become when we die? Is "soul" just another word for spirit, or are they separate things? Does anything truly die?"
The piercing rush of her questions sent his pulse racing, beating like a war drum in his head, and he could not help but stare at the naked interest on her face.
It was a precious thing — such seeking of knowledge for knowledge's sake, without bias, or prejudice, or ulterior motives. She was simply interested, and unafraid of knowing the truth.
It had been a rarity even in his own world — the pursuit of truth, as it was and not warped to fit an agenda — but to find it here?
She was an impossibility, and she was marked for death by his Anchor. Each moment brought her closer to that inevitability, and she seemed to burn all the more brightly for it.
Bright, and burning, and full of spirit.
He had not thought he would mourn the loss of anything in this blighted world, had not thought he would find anything worth the consideration.
Yet here she was, impossibly, and more than anything he could have expected.
He felt unmoored and adrift, and the possibilities sent him reeling.
He reached for the simplest, vaguest answer he could give her without lying. "Anything can die, even the world itself."
She grinned, "Ah, good. You're just as grim as I am tonight."
Her smile sent his stomach rolling, and Solas remained where he was, sitting rigidly, as he watched her rise and relocate to sit beside him on the wooden bench. He was acutely aware of her proximity, as she shifted to lean back against the table behind them.
"You should take better care of yourself," she noted, casually.
He frowned at her, "Excuse me?"
Was she suggesting he'd meant to be stabbed?
"Isn't that what you meant?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow. "When you were injured."
"Forgive me, but I remember little of the event," he replied.
"You said, "I woke too weak"," she clarified.
Solas felt his stomach clench, and diverted to a different truth, "I did not sleep well the night before."
It was not a lie.
"Ah, of course it would be my fault," she mused, darkly. "I kept you up with all of my rambling. My mouth gets away from me when I drink, and I'm always saying the wrong things. I do apologize."
"Do not," he countered, a bit too sharply, and a bit too hastily. "Such stimulating conversation is worth a stab wound, or two."
She laughed, and pushed at his shoulder. "You're terrible."
He found himself smiling in response, as she withdrew from him, pleased that he'd elicited her laughter despite her dark mood. There was danger here, in this moment, in this conversation, and yet he continued on heedlessly.
It was far too easy to chase after that feeling she elicited in him — of companionship, of acceptance, of being known.
"Not always," he quipped. There was a sudden stab of guilt, and startling clarity, as he mused, "I had a friend who'd agree with you on that, though. He was fond of hypothetical discussions, and dramatic ironies."
Not a lie, not really — Felassan was fond of such hypothetical discussions, it was only the subject which differed. "Are they not people, even as they are? How certain are you? Can they be made whole? Is there not another way?"
She regarded him with an unbearably soft expression, as she asked, "Had?"
"You know, I suspect you'll hate this, but she reminds me of—"
"Had," Solas confirmed, brooking no further clarification on the matter. "He would have liked you. I am quite certain of that."
"Is that to say you don't? I'm wounded, Solas," she snarked. "Perhaps I should be the one laid up in bed and healing."
It was a teasing jab, but he lapsed into a brooding silence as he thought of his friend.
He imagined that Felassan, whatever might have been left of him, somewhere, was laughing his ass off. It would have been very much like him to enjoy this sort of irony — dramatic, and devastating.
She chuckled, low and pleasant, before remarking, "Most of my clan is convinced I'm completely mad because of the things I say and the questions I ask."
"The Dalish—"
"Let's not, tonight," Tephra interjected. There wasn't a trace of the heat she'd had before on the subject, just quiet resignation. "I've had my fill of fighting lately."
Solas shifted, turning to face her as he leaned an elbow on the table, and asked, "Do you miss them — your clan?"
"Often, if only for the comfort of familiarity," she admitted. "I was often away from my clan, but I always went back. I always had a home with them. Even if they thought I was strange, they still treated me as kin. I was never turned away."
When he said nothing, she shifted to lean her elbows on the table behind her, her arm nearly brushing his, and fixed him with a studious look. He knew what she meant to ask; he'd opened that door.
"Did you lose them?" Tephra locked her dark eyes on him — at once sharp and soft — as she clarified, "Your people. Like your friend."
The heat radiating from her arm to his was decidedly distracting. He looked for the trap in her face, for the deception, for ill-intent, but found none. He knew better than to suspect anything but the honest concern she offered.
Still, his defenses were not so easily breached.
"Why?"
It was the same response he'd given when she asked him to speak of himself in the beginning — of his history, his experiences, his opinions. But it had been suspicion before, distrust. Now it was something else, something better left unsaid.
Why do you care?
"Most people don't choose to be alone, not when they have the choice," she replied. "And I see it in you — the loss."
Solas thought of her, in that forest in her dreams; she had left it long ago, but some part of her was still lost there, in her grief.
Such a small brave thing she had been, to have lived so long alone.
Perhaps that was what afforded her such a startlingly keen ability to see it him, to see right through the mask of composure he wore amongst the Inquisition.
There was not much he could say, without lying. Less so, that wouldn't lead to more probing questions. It was easier to let his silence prompt her onto an alternate path, a little further from the truth.
"You've said that you're neither Dalish, nor of the alienages," Tephra mused. "I can only assume that you've lost your people — whoever they were — so now you are neither."
"I am an apostate," he reminded her. "I have never been either."
That, at least, was a truth he could give her.
She gave an amused huff, "Do apostates spring up out of cabbages, fully formed? Or are you being deliberately evasive to provoke me?"
It was a teasing jab, and the quirk of her mouth as she smiled drew his gaze for longer than cared to admit.
Solas feigned innocence, "Why would I wish to provoke you, Herald?"
Tephra shot him an impatient, if amused look, "Because you so often do."
"Not on purpose."
Her eyebrow gave a dubious arch.
Amused, he conceded, "Not always on purpose."
"Oh no, not you, Solas — you who delight in his superior position of knowledge of all things that ever were," she teased, as a smile burned slowly across her mouth.
His stomach clenched. Was that how she saw him, truly?
Perhaps, at times, his pride could get away from him, but he was not so arrogant as he'd been in his youth. He had learned the mistakes of harboring such pride, such insistence on being right, many times over. The world itself, as it was now, was a constant catastrophic reminder of what his pride had cost him — what it had cost everyone.
The arrogance of one man who thought he could stand against the Evanuris, and save his people from their madness. And in doing so, had broken the very world in which he'd intended to deliver them to their freedom.
She continued, unaware of his discomfort, "And heaven forbid anyone do anything you deem wrong, then it's Dalish this, and humans that, and so on. Which is hardly fair, given that we know so little of you. It isn't as though we can go, "Oh, look, there goes Solas, doing that thing that they do, wherever he's from" now can we?"
"Is that who you think I am? What you think of me?" he asked, quietly. "Someone who delights in superiority?"
He knew that she had meant it as a jest, a teasing jab — but it was clear that she was immediately aware that she'd offended him.
Tephra regarded him for a long moment, as her amusement died away and her eyebrows knitted together. Her face softened, as did her tone, as she said, "I think you're someone who's trying to survive in a world that often disregards and persecutes people who think differently. Who are different. I think you're someone who keeps hidden the things he needs to, to survive, and I don't need to know what they are. I'll protect your right to keep them, however I can."
A dagger of guilt slipped between his ribs, and stabbed deep. But there was also something else — something far more dangerous, which clutched at the confines of his chest.
Hope.
Since waking, he had not dared to hope to find anything resembling the world that was. There had only been ruins and remnants, and the shadows that lingered who wore the faces of his People. A mockery of what they'd once been, of what he'd hoped they would become once again in their freedom.
But she was no shadow, she was—
What, precisely?
Was it the Anchor, his magic, which had made her something more? Something almost—
It was dangerous speculation, and an unnecessary detour from his path. Yet his curiosity — ever insatiable, as it was — demanded to know what he might find at the end of that road.
He had never dared to hope that he could find someone like her in this blighted world — to find someone of such compassion and understanding, of such sheer spirit.
It shook the foundation of everything he knew to be true — a complication which threatened to change everything, when he couldn't allow it to.
Still, he would not labor in ignorance any longer. Discerning the truth of what she was, was the least he owed her. He would not continue to insult her by viewing her as a lesser being, when she was so clearly something more.
Tephra endured his silence until uncertainty crept in.
She averted her gaze, and fiddled with the bottle she held between her hands, "I'm sorry for prying. I just wanted you to know that I understand — how it is to lose people. That I'm sorry you lost yours."
Her compassion — the fact that she felt it at all for him — clutched curiously at his chest, and tightened his breath. She had no idea, no way of conceiving, how utterly short her statement fell. Not simply of his loss, but of himself.
It was a frightening, unsettling, liberating notion — that not only could she see him, but that she could understand him.
It was like finding safe harbor, after centuries of being adrift and apart from anything remotely familiar.
How could he ever hope to keep his distance from her, when she offered such sanctuary in this blighted world?
Solas's gaze shifted to her forearms.
The fact that she was willing to perpetuate a charade to protect him, even going so far as to wear unnecessary bandages and doing her best to dismiss talk of the cabin incident, incited a small riot of emotion in him. He would not have her compromise herself for him, but there was no denying the gratitude he felt for what she did solely for his benefit, or how its warmth seemed to permeate through the cracks in his defenses.
Solas shifted and straightened, taking the bottle from her and setting it aside. However surprised she was that he'd taken it from her, she said nothing, and simply watched his actions. When he reached for her arm, she did not pull away.
That show of trust nearly broke him.
However, when he began to unbind her bandages, she clasped his wrist, and urged, "Don't — someone will see."
Her genuine concern for him evoked a sudden fondness he had not felt for ages — for centuries.
"It is no secret that I am a mage," he assured, not bothering to fight the smile that slipped past his guard.
Her grip on his wrist loosened, and lingered — a momentary hesitation — before withdrawing. The sensation clamored across his nerves, alarming in the way it affected him.
Her arm relaxed in his hold, as she permitted him to continue.
He'd watched her recoil from the well-meaning touches and curious inquiries from advisers and strangers alike, how she had only been willing to endure brief clasps of her hands to theirs. As though each touch had pained her, taxed her — stripped her bare of her own defenses.
That she so willingly gave herself over to him — that out of any of them, she was placing her trust in him — sent an odd thrill coursing through him.
Distance, some small part of him shouted, distantly, but it was far more difficult to dissect his intentions or deny the reality of her with the warmth of her skin against his. And what in the Void was he doing — smiling at her such as he was, while stripping away her bandages, as one would undress a lover?
Simply pragmatic concern for his companion's well-being.
Simply assessing his work, and nothing otherwise.
Easy lies he could tell himself.
You old fool, another part of him seemed to mock.
Foresight demanded an immediate withdrawal, as continued proximity threatened the stability of his defenses. Of walls best left heeded.
Yet he did not retreat, and continued to unwind the strips of cloth, until the entirety of her arm was left bare to him. The memory of her wounds marked her skin, and he could not help but feel frustrated by his own weakness. Had he been stronger, he would have left her unmarked.
He brushed his thumb across the scars on her wrist, assessing his work.
A shiver ran through her, and the Blight take him, he was delighted by it.
"It's still sensitive," she informed. "My clan's best healers are mages, but I've never seen anything like this before."
"Just as with many things, some mages are more attuned to healing magic than others," he replied. Not that he was, particularly, but even in his diminished state his ability afforded him far more skill than many but perhaps the most skilled of spirit healers.
Despite his disappointment in himself for being unable to heal her completely, he could not deny the strange beauty of the marks. They were proof of the compassion that burned inside of her, proof of how far she would go to defend that which was defenseless. And holding her arm, just as he was, elicited the memory of waking in Haven after the bandit attack, after the dreaming. Her concern, her relief, as she clasped his arm.
"Still with us?"
"Yes. With you."
Incoherent as he'd been, it was still a dangerous distinction to make. He had meant—
What, precisely?
The line he was treading was perilous, and it would be far too easy to cross it.
Troubled, Solas pulled his hand away, and noted, "You need not keep pretending to be injured, for my sake. Cassandra knows my strengths well enough."
The memory of touching her burned his fingertips, and would not cease.
"It was the least I could do for you," she replied.
"Your intent is what matters," he assured.
Tephra huffed, "Does it? With everything that's happened, all I've done so far is somehow not get killed."
"Do keep doing that, if you would."
"Well, if you insist," she snarked, as she stood. She reclaimed her bottle of alcohol, and saluted him with it. "If you don't mind terribly, I have a date to finish with this particularly charming bottle of whiskey, and then I intend to sleep. A lot." A moment of consideration, before she added, "Possibly until next year."
"Not at all," he lied, as he very much minded her departure, but said nothing to encourage her to stay.
It would be too dangerous to keep pursuing this casual affinity between them, and the casual touches—
As she moved to leave, Tephra stopped briefly to lean and clasp his shoulder.
Solas fought to subdue the shiver that ran through him, as she leaned close.
"We're still here," she said, quietly. Firelight danced in the dark depths of her eyes as she fixed him with a small smile, and added, "We're not dead yet."
It was nothing more than a small gesture of solidarity — casual, even — and yet he found himself holding his breath until she released her hold on him and withdrew.
He watched her leave, and it took considerable effort to not call her back, to not follow after.
Not real, he reminded himself. None of them are, not really. Not whole, not—
Solas gave a slow, sore sigh.
What had once been such a simple truth to him, was beginning to feel like a lie. The words had gone hollow and brittle, and he was certain the longer he clung them, the harder the fall would be when they broke in his clutching hands.
Somehow, impossibly, she was something more.
Had the Anchor altered her in some manner, or was her undeniable spirit simply an aberration of this world? Some remnant sparking brighter than the rest?
To whatever end the truth led him, he would find out, regardless of how it troubled him.
Perhaps it would lead him to a better way, to an alternative, as his friend had hoped for.
At the very least, he was obligated to try; she was an anomaly that needed to be accounted for.
Solas reached into his pocket and withdrew the scroll case. He turned it between his fingers, contemplatively, before casting it into the bonfire and letting it take whatever secrets of hers it held with it.
He'd been dreaming for centuries on end, waiting to wake and to bring back what had been lost.
Waiting for her to give him her truths would cost him nothing, but what would be gained—
The possibilities were endless.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Author's Notes: As a disclaimer, probably don't go jumping into random hot springs. It's a good way to end up scalded to death.
Also, as far as I'm writing this and how I've interpreted the canon, Solas definitely fell for Lavellan first, hard and fast. We pretty much get his focus/grace/muscles flirt right off the bat, but I'm drawing it out a bit more. He's in it, (as Sera would say), but he doesn't quite know it yet. He's definitely in some stage of denial.