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.

19. Once One Begins, ThereAreOnlyEndingsPtII

The wolf runs.
It runs three legged,
like all damaged creatures,
across the snow.
She thinks: this is true.
She thinks: this is a life.
She thinks: I do not want to die,
but my life will always be like this—
wounded and animal, lurching against white.
—Lidia Yuknavitch, The Small Backs of Children

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"You have to get up."

A memory winked into her awareness, like a dust mote catching the light — and promptly departed. It was replaced with pain and darkness and bitter cold, and all of it had burrowed its way down to the hollows of her bones.

The only source of light in the cavern came from the mark on her hand.

From what little she could see of it, the hole she'd fallen down had collapsed behind her. She'd rolled clear of the mass of dirt and rock that had plugged it, though whether by luck or providence was anyone's guess.

When she moved to rise, she was met with resistance. Not by gravity, or by debris weighing her down, but rather something else. From the position she'd fallen in, half of her face was pressed into snow and ice. All the rest of her seemed to burn from the cold, but her face felt nothing. It had long-since gone entirely numb. When she tried to move, she felt a tug at her ear, which seemed to have adhered to the cavern floor by blood and frost. When she pulled again, she felt something give way.

There was no pain, only the numb chill radiating through her cheek and a sudden rush of warmth down the side of her neck.

Tephra shifted and pushed off the ground in an attempt to sit, but her arm buckled uselessly beneath her. The mark flared in her palm, stirred from idleness. The magister's fumbling attempt to pry the mark from her left the limb feeling as though it'd been flayed to the bone, and scoured with salt for good measure.

Anchor.

That's what the Elder One had called it.

She clung to that scrap of knowledge like a lifeline, and to the scant information she'd gleaned from Corypheus's insane ramblings. She repeated it like a mantra in her mind: Anchor, Tevinter, Corypheus. A years-long ritual to sunder the Veil; the golden city; the throne of the gods — which was also empty?

Her head throbbed.

The odds of survival were dismal at best, yet knowing that it meant helping her people spurred her into motion. It burned in her belly like spite. He'd demanded her death, and that was the last thing she intended to give that wretched creature.

Tephra tried once more to move — to roll into a sitting position — but was stilled by sudden pain knifing through her core. When she slipped a hand inside her coat, around her side and to her lower back, she felt the warm slick of blood coating the outermost layer of her clothing. Investigating further, she felt the jagged end of an object jutting from torn flesh. A fragment of a shattered plank of wood, daggered deep. Her hand slipped back around to her belly, and found the other end. Her fingertips carefully investigated the wound site, slick with blood.

A grievous wound, but bleeding slow and it would not kill her any time soon — or so she hoped, as there was no knowing how long she had lain bleeding while unconscious. For the time being, it was wisest to leave the fragment where it was as removing it now would only hasten her death.

She turned her focus to sitting upright instead.

Debris slid away from her body as she rolled slowly into a sitting position. Tephra clutched her gut as she did so, as it felt as though it would split right open if she didn't. Briefly, she considered packing and wrapping the wound. But it was a useless pursuit as she realized her traveling pack was missing, which meant no bandages or medical supplies. It also meant no food nor water, and the loss of her bow and quiver meant that she had no means to protect herself.

Whatever she had now, was what had remained on her person during the her fall down through the earth and into the mine. That was where she assumed she was, at least. She knew there were tunnels and mines honeycombed all throughout the foothills and mountains surrounding Haven, having been used to dredge up stone for the temple, and for various outlying settlements like Haven.

A sudden flare of urgency gripped her as she felt at her chest, seeking the familiar presence of the moon snail shell. When she felt it there against her sternum, tucked safe under her armor, she let out a slow breath and turned her attention back to assessing what she'd squirreled away into her pockets.

A few coins, a bundle of twine, a fishing hook capped with wax. No matches, no firesteel or flint. Nothing to make a torch, let alone to light it.

Nothing to help her survive, but the grit of her own will.

She turned her attention to assessing the rest of her wounds.

Shucking off her gloves, Tephra felt at the numb span of her ear as she gently sought the source of the bleeding. Horror set in at the sudden feeling of absence.

Frostbite had taken more than half her ear.

What remained was a jagged mess of unfeeling flesh and bony cartilage.

It's only an ear, she told herself, dimly, as her breath came short and swift, hitching in her throat. Her fingers trembled as she wiped the blood from them on her coat. Her eyes burned with grief and frost. It could be much worse than just an ear.

The last area of concern was the pain in her foot, and when she looked she found that there was a hole in her boot.

Closer inspection revealed that a chunk of debris from one of the barrels of pitch had burned its way through the thick leather. She carefully felt inside and dislodged a chunk of ashen wood, which had long-since cooled. As she idly considered putting it back to plug the hole in her boot to keep the snow out, it crumbled between her fingers.

Well, that's not good.

She slipped the scarf from around her neck and began to rip it into haphazard strips, trying not to think of the small part of her which had been torn away. When she finished, she rolled two strips and used them to pack the hole. She wound the remaining strips around her boot and tied them securely.

It was a pitiful excuse for a solution, but she had no other means to seal it and was in no position to treat the wound which afflicted her foot. And if she happened to make it above ground, she would need to keep snow out of her boot until it could be treated.

Tephra stood slowly, grasping at her gut. Holding pressure there eased the pain and the terrible sensation that all of her viscera would spill right out of her if she didn't.

When she moved to leave, a sharp pain shot from her heel and straight up to her knee. She nearly buckled back down to the frozen ground from the shock of it, but instead she caught herself on the wall of the mine and grit her teeth as she let the pain pass through her. Carefully, she eased weight back on the foot. The pain remained, but grew duller. With one hand on the wall, she moved forward.

It was a small mercy that the first step was the worst. Each that followed seemed to lose their edge, as the foot grew numb and dead to the pain. She did her best to keep her weight off the ball of her foot, which is where the pain rooted deepest, and it made leaving a slow and arduous task.

Tephra did not want to think of the severity of the wound, or its possible lasting effects. She did not want to think of the dismal odds of her survival, or how moving might exasperate the wound in her gut and hasten her death. She did not want to think of how there might not even be anywhere for her to go if she were entombed beneath Haven with no means of escape. Or that if she did manage to find her way out, that there was still untold miles of frozen wilderness between her and anyone else — friend, or foe.

All that she wanted to focus on was getting back to her people, and making sure that they were safe. Whatever the pain or difficulty, there was no choice but to keep moving forward.

She would not die down here in the dark.

She would bring what she'd learned of their enemy to the Inquisition.

She would do what needed to be done to keep them safe, and to see the Elder One stopped for good. And she would—

Her heart stuttered over the thought of Solas, and all she'd never said to him.

Solas, who kept himself so carefully apart from others. Who dwelt more in the land of dreams and spirits than that of the living, and who was so terribly and obviously lonely, often as though to spite himself. A self-imposed exile from companionship, from the intimacy of being known.

And if she died down here, he would never know that he mattered to someone, at least, that she—

Focus.

As she walked, Tephra examined the wall on which she leaned against. It wasn't a natural cave, but rather hewn by intelligent hands. Shaped. Vaguely, she recalled Cassandra's stories of the mining activities in the mountains, and of older tunnels that ran deeper — tunnels built eons ago by dwarves that had long-since been abandoned by their descendants. There was no knowing where she was, though, or where she might be headed to. Blessedly, there was only one path to follow and no forking tunnels to get lost in. But the path took her down further into the earth, choking out any hope she had of ever finding the way out.

Was this the way her people had come, or had she fallen into some long-lost mining cavern?

Time crawled, became indiscernible but for the spaces between her haggard breaths and uneven steps as she limped through the dark.

At times the cavern grew wide and disorienting; at others, alarmingly tight, forcing her to wedge her battered body through impossibly tight passages. Her lungs burned as she willed her chest to flatten, and shale crumbled beneath her grip as she as she scrabbled her way through.

Tephra stumbled against the cavern wall, before turning and letting herself slide to the ground in a squat to rest. Her chest heaved as she choked down stale air, and pushed hair from her sweat-slicked face. She wasn't sure how long she sat there, but she knew she had to keep going.

What would they think of her, if she gave up now after everything that'd happened?

If she let it end here, how terrible would that be? What would become of the Inquisition? How would the Chantry twist her story?

She shivered to think she'd likely be martyred in the name of the Maker, paraded for this or that cause, with no say in it from the Beyond. Likely sanitized, as Shartan was, with her ear docked to suit the Chantry's palette. Or perhaps she'd simply be an odd footnote in some dusty Andrastian tome in some forgotten library, outshadowed by the events of the Breach itself.

But the Elder One had not been stopped, and he'd proclaimed his intent to find another way to sunder the heavens.

Her thoughts washed red with memories of that dark future, and spurred her to rise once more to her feet.

There was no knowing if what they'd done so far had been enough to avert what Corypheus sought to bring about. They'd closed the Breach, but who was to say it couldn't be opened again? Or that the Elder One wouldn't concoct some other terrible nightmare to swallow up the world? And she had no right to giving up, not after her giving her word to those closest to her that their deaths would not be in vain.

She had to keep going.

One exhausted step after the other.

Down and down, until mortared stone became solid rock carved from the mountain itself.

It was only then that the path shifted. Not upward, but outward — leveling and opening up. She could not see how expansive it was, though, as the light of her mark was too weak to illuminate more than a few feet around her. She could not see the cavern walls, nor if there were more than one tunnel branching from this chamber. Despair had begun to set in with the sudden fear of getting lost, but in the dank stillness she felt a sudden breeze brush across her face, faint as a whisper.

Fresh air, she realized, with sudden hope.

It wasn't much, but it was something.

Tephra followed it with careful steps, stopping every few feet to test the air and shifted her course accordingly to follow it to its source. It led her into another passage, which snaked upward at a gradual pace. The air steadily grew crisp, and her eyes began to pick up on the subtlest fractions of light breaking through the abject darkness. Another winding curve in the passage brought her squarely into a dimly-lit chamber.

Torches burned in sconces along the far walls. Most had burnt out some time ago, while a few persisted.

Still, someone had lit them — possibly her own people.

Ahead, she could see an opening — an exit — which meant she'd finally found a way out of the godsforsaken tunnels.

However, her elation was short-lived.

Sighting movement ahead, Tephra sank into a crouch and pressed back into the cavern wall. Made herself small and still, as her eyes strained to discern whether they were friend or foe. Her heart hammered painfully in her chest, and a cold slick of sweat ran the length of her spine as she realized that she didn't have the strength to slip into being unseen, and was entirely unarmed.

The forms shuffled and lurched in awkward movements, and when one turned toward her all she could focus on was the gut-wrenching sight of its face. No eyes or discernible nose, simply an expanse of its gaping mouth and teeth.

An eater of sorrow.

The demon did not need eyes to sense her despair.

It emitted a high-pitched screech, which tore through armor and skin and bone and rooted her where she crouched.

Tephra's mind screamed at her to rise, to run away, but her body remained stiff and unyielding as the demon began to shuffle towards her in an unhurried manner. The other bobbed its head, as though it somehow also scented her despair, and followed after the other in that horrible shambling manner in which they moved.

Panic set in when she realized that there was no rift here, that there was no way to send them back to the Fade.

Get up, she berated herself. Do something.

But what could she do? There was no rift to banish them through, let alone to disrupt and stun them with. And for fuck's sake, if she could only move.

All sense of survival seemed to have fled her, and left her body statued and shivering in the dark.

The acrid scent of the demon's breath overwhelmed her as it leaned close and wrapped its bony fingers around her throat. The demon inhaled deeply, and with it, she felt an inexplicable pull as it drew something intangible from her. With each inhalation, it screeched that terrible noise that made her blood run cold. Fear washed over her in brutal waves as her breath caught like a stone in her throat.

She couldn't breathe, and she had the sudden inexplicable sensation of sinking.

Of drowning.

Images of her greatest loss seared through her mind as the demon drew despair out of her with each languid breath, savoring her pain as one would a particularly decadent wine.

Her gloved fingers scrabbled uselessly at the demon's wrist.

The edges of her sight began to blacken, and she could feel herself slipping away.

Anger set in.

Not here, she thought. Not like this.

The mark flared, hissing and spitting with magic. Her skin prickled with a strange sensation that there was something just beyond the demon. She could feel its weight — heavy and swollen and unseen — pressing against her senses.

And then she remembered that night before the Breach, before they'd gone to seal it, when Solas had taught her how to use the mark to sense the Veil.

To part it, as one would a curtain.

Instinct urged her hand as she released hold of the demon and reached over its shoulder. Veins of energy snaked up her arm, burning bright but oddly without the pain as before. She felt invigorated, even as she felt the Anchor sinking its roots further into her being as she reached—

Reality split and yawned into a burning fissure, as the rift bloomed and filled the cavern with the terrible light of the Fade. Pain shot straight through her eyes and deep into her skull. Blinded, Tephra jerked away and buried her face in her arms as she curled against the wall. After so many hours stumbling in the dark, the sudden brightness was nothing less than daggers in her eyes.

As the rift grew, Tephra felt the sudden pull of its gravity. As though it hungered, and meant to take them all.

The demons howled, tearing at the air as they sought purchase to keep them rooted in the waking world. Tephra's boots scraped uselessly along the ground against shale and ice as she felt her body pulled along with them. She flailed and kicked, searching for anything to grab hold of, but every jut in the shale crumbled beneath her weight.

Close it.

She had to, before the damned thing swallowed her up alongside the demons.

Rocks dug into her back as she was dragged toward the thrashing creatures, as she tried to focus her attention on the rift. But the demon nearest her scrabbled at her boot with its talons, and the gravitational force pulling at her body seemed to threaten to split her torso in half, no matter how tightly she held her stomach.

Tephra thought of Solas and of what he'd taught her, as she kicked herself free of the demon's grasp. She took a deep, shuddering breath and focused. Even as her body continued to be dragged towards the rift, she forced her focus from fear to resolution as she kept her grip on the rift through her marked hand.

She felt the heavy weight of it in her core, and when the demons finally crossed the threshold between the waking world and the one of dreams, she pulled.

The rift collapsed, and silenced their wretched shrieking.

Panting and exhausted, Tephra rolled and pushed herself up off the ground. Cold sweat slicked her face, and the faint breeze blowing in sent a fresh chill through her as she limped to the opening of the tunnel.

Whatever she'd done, this was something new.

There had not been a seam, like before. No, she had cleaved right through the Veil itself and sent them back on will alone.

She wished Solas was here to explain it to her, however he could. She wondered if it would have surprised him. She wondered if he was even alive to tell it to, or if anyone had survived, but her. She clutched her coat tighter around herself as she stepped out of the cave and into the storming night.

Ahead, the dark spine of the Frostbacks split the horizon. Behind her, there was nothing but death, and all around her the world blew white and blinding across the snowfields.

I can't go back.

Not simply just to Haven, but also neither to her clan or to whatever little life she had before all of this. Whatever she was now was was not what she'd been before.

No matter how she'd tried to ignore or deny it — her power, her title, her purpose — she was a different person now. The foolish child in her who'd thought she could escape this, who thought she'd spirit off back to her clan again some day when the leash of her title slipped — just enough, when no one was looking — that foolish child had died in the fall of Haven.

There was a strange sense of lifting — a lightness that came with epiphany. Simplicity. And with it focus.

There was no path, but forward.

Into darkness, unafraid.

The signal flare burned in her memory; the smallest spark of hope, but she clung to it fiercely. Her people were out there somewhere in the dark foothills of the Frostbacks. Safe, and waiting for her. She could already hear the reprimands of her advisers and companions for her actions, however they may or may not have attributed to their escape from Haven.

They're waiting for me.

And even if it was a lie, it was the only thing she had left to hold onto.

They were out there, and so was he.

Solas.

Was he out there somewhere, thinking her dead?

Briefly, she recalled the panic and sense of urgency she'd felt when he had been near-mortally wounded in that bandit raid and the hours she spent keeping watch over him on their slow trek back to Haven. She hated the thought of him being burdened by loss, like he had in that terrible future. He'd mourned her there, had held onto her memory to keep what shred of sanity he could, even as he lingered in a slow death. All those days spent in that derelict prison, slowly eroded by his grief and the red lyrium.

Was he mourning now, in this world?

Her heart wrenched with the knowledge that she hadn't told him. Not of the kiss, not of how it felt to watch him die in that world, not of how crucial and important he'd become to her — not once of how she felt about him.

The events at Redcliffe had solidified her resolve to tell him, whatever the outcome. But grief had hobbled her, had left her mired and reclusive, as though she had the gift of time to indulge it. That she hadn't, that she had foolishly carried on as though she had all the time in the world, made her feel as wretched as he'd sure must have felt in that other world.

She refused to think of dying before telling him.

She refused to think of leaving her people without knowing their enemy, without helping to end his mad crusade before it ended the world.

She refused to think of her death waiting for her out there in the snowstorm.

There was no path but forward.

Well, if you're going to make a hopeless act of defiance, at least make it a good one.

Tephra clutched her coat tighter around herself, and headed out into the fury of the storm.

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The world around him was tinny and distant.

Ash and snow blurred his vision, and it took everything in him to not turn back to Haven.

Not yet — not in present company, where his absence would be immediately questioned. He would slip away when he could — collect his agents and mount a thorough search — but for now he turned his attention back to the argument currently transpiring amongst his companions.

"—unable to reach her, the fire—"

He could still taste the ash in his mouth, the heat and choking dark as the fire raged around them.

"That fucking dragon blocked us, we couldn't—"

Blighted with red lyrium, under the complete control of the Elder One. It was not a true archdemon, of that he was certain now. A pale imitation, like many beings in this world. It had harried them back, effectively keeping them from her, until the fire forced them to flee outright or risk death.

"—monstrous. Whatever it was, it wasn't human. Not anymore."

He'd only glimpsed the Elder One briefly, whose face and body were ravaged and twisted by growths of red lyrium. His pulse thundered in his ears as he realized just who — or rather, what — he'd given over his orb to.

He'd expected some egomaniacal magister, someone who was decidedly human, not whatever this Elder One was.

"We could not help her, Cullen," Cassandra explained, cutting through the clamor with the simple statement of fact. Her tone held a calm which did not quite reach her eyes. In them, there was only grief. "We were cut off from her by dragonfire and driven out by red templars. It is only by the grace of the Maker that we made it out before the mountain fell."

The Seeker paused a moment, struggling with some internal conflict, before adding, "It was on her order to see them safe which kept me from staying to the end. She knew what she asked, and I followed her order."

That truth hollowed him out entirely.

Of course she had.

"Of course it was," the Commander sighed, as though echoing Solas's thoughts. "By her grace, we've managed to save most of our people. For the moment, at least."

Dorian was outraged. "By her grace — you say that like she's already dead! I suspect you're already composing her eulogy in your head as we speak."

"She brought half the mountain down, my dear," Vivienne reminded, though her tone was not unkind.

Dorian was undeterred. "She could have survived!"

"Nothing could have survived that," Cullen gestured in the direction where Haven once stood. It was too dark to make out the destruction, but for the few remaining fires dotting the horizon. Everything else was buried beneath rock and snow and the black of night.

"So we just leave her back there? Is that what we're doing?!"

He had not known that Dorian was so fond of the Herald, nor close enough to warrant such emotion at her loss. Did the man mourn the loss of a friend, or the loss of an admired figurehead? It was difficult to say with any certainty, but the raw nature of Dorian's grief seemed answer enough.

"You do not mourn alone, Dorian," Cassandra admonished. Though her tone was stern, it was clearly her means of maintaining her own composure. "But we must remember that we have a duty to our people — to those who remain to us."

"That is my friend we've left back there!" Dorian's voice broke around the words, and he stopped to compose himself however best he could. "Kaffas, I will never forgive myself if I don't even try to look for her." He looked accusingly at the Commander and asked, "Will you?"

Cullen said nothing, but it was clear by the man's expression that he would not either.

Solas thought of those left behind after Mythal's fall, and how many blamed themselves for her fall — including himself. It was not an uncommon phenomenon in the wake of the loss of a beloved leader.

Cassandra's jaw worked silently, before she said, "It's what she wanted."

"Piss on what she wanted!" Dorian bellowed, unsettling the horses nearby.

They whickered and shuffled in place, before settling once more when their handler scrambled to collect their reins and pat reassuringly at their necks.

Just as quickly as it came, his anger deflated. Dorian gave a shuddering huff, as he smoothed his coat and composed himself. He cast one more rueful look at the Seeker before taking his leave without further argument.

As Cassandra and Cullen began to discuss evacuation strategies with Leliana and her scouts, Solas found his thoughts turning once more to Tephra.

To how she grabbed hold of his collar when the warning horns rang through Haven, as though she meant to drag him to safety herself in that moment. As though her first thought in the face of sudden danger was — out of anyone, even herself — was to save him. To the memory of her forehead pressed to his, and the quiet urgency as she commanded him to survive.

But what of her?

He'd warned her to not take risks, warned her to keep close so that he could protect her to his best ability, but he had not commanded her to live as she had him.

Why had he not done the same? Would it have mattered?

That particular notion was a new torment — that he'd left everything unsaid, left unclear to her. Not simply what he felt, but everything — his history, his role in her accidental inheritance of his power, and what it would do to her in the future. What he would do to the world as she knew it to be.

And when the Elder One finally made his entrance, accompanied by his blighted dragon, he'd fled alongside all the rest. He had left her to face certain death alone, like a coward.

Though Cassandra had done her job well in keeping them from turning back for her, deep down he knew had he truly wished to go back that none of them could have stopped him. But like a coward, he'd assured himself that she was capable enough to survive and retreat. How many times had he watched her dance to that precipice, and come back?

But when the mountain came down and swallowed Haven, it took her with it — and any trace of the Anchor.

Though he was weakened, though it would be years before he'd come close to what his true power was, he could still sense the Anchor no matter where in the world she was. Like a pinprick in his mind, like a compass needle drawn ever north.

And now its absence gnawed at him and his hands shook with the knowledge that all of his plans — ever-changing and adapting to the uncertainty of the present — and any power to shape what was to come had spiraled entirely out of his control with the arrival of the Elder One.

They'd been separated from the Herald when the dragon set fire to everything around the catapult and effectively cut them off from reaching her. Cassandra had ordered their retreat, but it wasn't until that separation occurred that anyone noticed that the Herald wasn't with them, and by that time it was too late. The only option was to flee. The last remnants of the Elder One's army had hastened their exit from Haven, harrying them even as the mountain came down, and each step he took further from her was heavier than the last.

His every instinct had been to abandon his companions and follow her into the abyss in whatever foolish, mad attempt at a rescue he could muster. It would not have been the first time he'd pulled someone back from the Void's clarion call. But the Seeker ushered them from the ruins of Haven — bodily, at times — and would not let them go back, not even for their Herald.

There was no arguing with her resolution to see them to safety. He'd suspected that Tephra had commanded the Seeker to do such, so Cassandra's confession did not come as a surprise to him. Out of all of them, he did not doubt the woman's faith in the Herald as she would have been the first to throw her life away to save her.

But Cassandra was nothing, if not a woman of her word.

Despite his panic, he followed them out and into the foothills of the mountains. It was only the knowledge that he would slip away once they'd rejoined the Inquisition which calmed him. She never would have forgiven him for leaving their companions during the calamity, not even for her.

Still, time was short, and death was so final.

He needed to find her.

Solas had not sensed Varric's approach until the dwarf sighed audibly beside him.

"She should have stayed gone," he said. When he did not reply, Varric clarified, "That night we went looking for her in the forest. It feels like a lifetime ago now, but she should have run all the way back to her people. I should have told her that. Maybe she'd could of — maybe she'd be—"

The dwarf's words whittled away to nothing, and he sighed heavily.

Solas eyed the haggard dwarf. "It was her choice to stay," he noted evenly, regardless that he agreed with Varric on some level. The foolish part of him that wished she could return to her old life unscathed, the part that wished he could change her past if only to rid her of her grief.

The dwarf fixed him with a strange expression, something between grief and amusement, "Do we ever really have a choice when it comes to shit like this?"

"There is always choice, Master Tethras," he advised. "Even when it seems there's none."

Varric watched the distant fires with a strangely reverent expression, before musing, "Do you really think she'd make the same choice if she knew it'd only bring her to this end?"

Of course she would, he mused to himself. And with great indignation.

He was certain she'd given the Elder One nothing less.

"We have both watched her throw herself into the fire for another's sake, time and time again," Solas reminded. "Compassion has always been her fatal flaw."

"I never said she was smart," Varric huffed in defeat. The conversation died once more, for a time, until the dwarf sighed again. "She should have stayed gone," he said once more, though more to himself than Solas. With that, he wandered off much like Dorian, in his own haze of grief.

The others were still occupied with evacuation strategies, stymied by the fact that the wagons had become mired in the snow after a brief blizzard, but it would not be long until they settled on a plan of action.

The time to act was short.

There was nothing to gather, as what little he possessed he perpetually carried on his person. And he did not need to issue a command, or even alert the attention of his own people as they had long since learned to read his body language amongst the Inquisition.

Leaving itself was his command.

As the others were occupied with assisting the injured or organizing those who were not, attempting to formulate some plan of action to move the people from the open fields and into the foothills in search of any measure of refuge, Solas slipped amongst them like a shadow.

He edged his way back towards Haven, adopting the guise of assistance as he went. He carried supplies from one scattering of people to another. Assisted the moving of an injured elderly man, working with a medic to ease him inside one of the few ramshackle tents erected for the neediest amongst them — though few who entered the tents left alive. They were more for comfort in the final moments, than any real hope of saving them, as some were simply far too injured to survive transport and the Inquisition was woefully ill-equipped to help them in this terrible moment. For that, Compassion was busy at his work, slipping silently between those who needed his attention most at any given moment.

Was that why he'd come? Had he sensed the gravity of loss awaiting the people of Haven?

Solas did not linger to ask.

The caravan was scattered over nearly half of a mile, ferrying help between the clusters of people who'd pitched tents to tend the wounded. Some of the civilians tended bonfires, trying to keep themselves warm while others cooked for the hungry. There had been a commotion at the back, when the dragon flew overhead earlier in the night, but he had not seen what had transpired. He was keen to find out, as the bulk of the caravan's resources lay in the wagons which had taken up the rear position.

He ducked between the crowds, easing through as unobtrusively as he could — taking care not to be recognized or to be roped into further assisting those who had need of it — so it came as a surprise when a sudden force thumped his shoulder, as someone collided into his path to stop him — seemingly unintentionally, and yet not.

Solas turned to find Kazem at his side.

Haggard, but whole.

The agent met his gaze only briefly, and gave an imperceptible nod as he passed. He gave other such gruff displays as passed the other soldiers, so that the exchange would not appear to show favor or deference, simply camaraderie. Curiously, that changed once his agent seemed to catch sight of something of interest.

Solas watched as Kazem pushed through the soldiers, before he stooped to a haul a medic up from where he'd been sitting in the snow and sorting supplies. He watched as they met forehead to forehead, each holding the back of the other's head. The human laughed, as only something finite and fleeting could laugh having faced death so closely and slipped free.

He'd been aware of their bond, and he felt a sudden stab of envy at his agent's reprieve. Despite having cautioned his people — those amongst his agents who'd survived the raising of the Veil — from bonding with those who did not share in their mortality. He'd assumed it was part of Kazem's cover here in the Inquisition, to live amongst them as one of their own

Yet there was nothing false in the look of relief and the shadow of delayed-grief on the man's face. Relief that he lived, and the brutal reminder of the precarious reality of mortal life. Kazem had his lover now, but now was a precipice. All that was mortal was fleeting, was uncertain — was like trying to hold onto water.

None knew that better than those who lived outside of time.

And yet, Solas could not fault Kazem for his loneliness. A mirror to his own, in a way, yet the one he cared for was not here.

Her absence stole the breath out of him, but her loss meant more than the grief of his own heart.

Without his orb, nor the time to amass the power it had taken to construct the mark which resided in her hand, her death ensured that the Anchor would be irretrievably lost to him. And with it, any hope of repairing the breach in the sky should the Elder One find another way to open it. Whatever dark future the Herald had met with in Redcliffe and attempted to prevent would surely befall them, or possibly something far worse.

That truth spurred Solas onward, as he left his agent to find what little peace he could in the chaos.

When he reached the rear of the caravan, he saw what little remained of the supplies they'd brought with them piled in the snow.

Of all the wagons they'd brought with them, only four remained. The rest were charred or reduced to simmering ash, their fires having long-since been extinguished.

Civilians and soldiers alike worked to remove what they could of the salvageable supplies, but much had been lost to the fire. What remained was undoubtedly too little to sustain the survivors for long. All but two of the cattle had been roasted alive.

A parting gift, courtesy of the Elder One.

Solas snagged a spare cloak from the back of one of the remaining wagons and shrouded himself. It offered little more than obscurity, and hardly any protection from the cold. It was fortuitous that he'd long since learned to regulate his own body temperature with his breath alone, channeling mana where it was needed most to keep his limbs immune to the frost.

She would have no such luck.

He hastened his pace, and ducked into the night.

There was not much cover between here and Haven, but for the rise and fall of the hills. Still, the winds were picking up and flurries of snow followed with it. Just enough to obscure movement in the distance. An oncoming storm snuffed the stars from the sky, and clouds wreathed the moon in warning.

That would keep them busy, and hasten them on into the mountains. His absence was unlikely to be noted, not with the chaos of confusion and fear of the refugees as they battled through the elements.

Part of him felt he should stay and see them safe, but the Herald's pardoning of the mages had bought their respect. Even now, they worked to burn the path clear for the wagons, and to keep the elements at bay the best they could. And despite their losses, many of the soldiers remained. Whatever the tensions before, they worked together now to support each other and the civilians — joined on the common ground of survival.

The further he distanced himself from the caravan, the more recklessly he ran. At times, skidding over loose rocks or slick ice without a second thought to his own well-being.

All he could think of was getting to her too late, of finding her broken body buried beneath the rubble of Haven. Her life snuffed out far too soon, even for a mortal.

And with it, the Anchor.

His mind was a schism between head and heart — between duty and love — but for once, those paths were the same. And he could no longer deny the catastrophe of it all — the tragedy of it. He loved her, but he could neither keep her nor ever deserve her if he could. He loved her, but she was lost somewhere beneath the mountain — dead, or dying.

He loved her, but he'd never once told her, and now he never could.

It was only when he reached the far limit of Haven's environs that he stopped.

All that remained to mark where the settlement once stood were the spires and tips of the steel banner poles jutting from the snow, and what stood of the furthest outlying walls that once guarded its citizens.

All the rest lay buried beneath the mountain. There was no movement in the smoldering ruins, and the Elder One was long gone.

It would not take long for his agents to catch up.

While he waited, he took great care to compose himself. He resisted the overwhelming urge to tear the ruins apart looking for her, and ignored the tremble in his hands as he slipped off the cloak and adjusted his jerkin. In the end, he simply clasped his hands behind his back to cease their shaking.

As he watched the scattered pillars of smoke drifting from the ruins, he knew with devastating clarity that he could not bear the loss of her.

He'd born many losses in his time — it was an inevitability, even for the immortal — but it was the loss of Mythal which had changed him most, had worn him down to something brittle and bitter. She had made him more, raised him above others to serve, had given him purpose. The loss of her made him question the foundations of their world, to rage against those who'd taken her out of it.

He'd only just began to soften again through the Herald's kindness and consideration of him, through her quiet affection — however unspoken. Even before he'd slipped into uthenera or before Mythal's demise, it had been ages since he'd been close to enough to another to be vulnerable with them. To be himself, and not a title or a leader or a myth. She had woken something in him that had been sleeping for millennia, that had slept through the rise and fall of empires, that had grown so quiet in him it was a wonder he had felt anything at all when he'd woken in this broken world.

It was the tiniest flicker of life in this dead world, and he had recognized it the moment they first locked eyes in that cell beneath the Haven chantry. How could eyes so dark, be so bright? And the days and weeks and months after, each encounter with her had only fed that flicker until she was too bright to ignore, or deny. Not just for her sharpness of wit or turn of mind, but her compassion and her unyielding spirit which had lent her the ability to overcome all that had been thrown at her. Impossible odds, and yet she continued to surprise him by simply refusing to submit to defeat, or to death. And now, it was unthinkable to consider it gone. She was hope personified to him — for a future, for redemption, for the chance to fix what he'd broken, for whatever attention or affection she chose to give him.

When the Breach first opened and all of his calculations and the care he took in planning how the magister would handle unlocking his orb proved fatally wrong, he'd nearly collapsed in despair. To have centuries of refining strategies and planning for contingencies undone in a single moment had been devastating, to say the least. But amidst that tragedy — the loss of life and well-laid plans — she'd given him a gift simply by surviving.

She'd given him hope, and he refused to face the possibility of its loss — of the loss of her.

In another world, perhaps that was what she would have been.

Hope.

More, and whole, and more precious than any other spirit. The light which banished the dark from a soul, which could bring life back into even the most broken of spirits, the tiniest spark in the grimmest moment that could turn the tide.

He'd been sleeping through centuries not simply to regain his strength, but it had also distanced him from the fallout of the choices he had to make. He could only watch, and reach out in dreams to his people as they withered and dimmed, and even though they shunned him and cursed his name, he kept trying. It was a strange sort of madness, watching his world die. In a way, it became a prison of his own making and with each age that passed, fewer of his people remained and even fewer spirits untouched by this broken world and its people.

And he could do nothing, but despair.

He could do nothing but ruminate on all of his failures, all of his mistakes, on all of the ways he could have done things differently. And though he had not been present for Mythal's betrayal, the thought that he might have been able to stop it had he'd been there was a notion that had haunted him as he dreamed in the dark. He'd sworn to himself to never bear such a loss again, and yet he had done nothing for the Herald.

He had fled alongside all the rest.

He was no better than the followers he'd shamed who had done nothing for Mythal in her hour of need.

Fled, alongside the mortals, as though he were no better; though considering his current state, he truly wasn't. His power was no better than the best of them, and less in the face of the Elder One.

Still, even a futile gesture would have meant more than simply leaving her to her fate.

How little she must of thought of him, watching him leave with the others. How alone, and abandoned.

"My lord?"

Solas was silently thankful to be drawn out of the mire of his grief by one of his agents, as he turned to acknowledge them.

He kept his tone clipped and even, despite the hammering of his heart, as he asked, "Their army?"

"Fled, just before the mountain came down," she replied. "Whatever was left of them, at least."

"Casualties?"

"None of ours," she assured.

Leda.

One of the newer ones, and mortal, but loyal to a fault. It was difficult to dispel the myth of grandeur with the younger ones, and she was still unlearning much of what her culture got wrong of their history. Still, for her he was nothing short of a living god, so it would take time for her to see him simply as what he was.

His jaw worked silently a moment, before he asked, "And the Herald?"

"Buried," Kazem piped up, as he wove his way to the front of their little group. He was composed, without a trace of the emotional display that Solas witnessed earlier.

His stomach gave a sick lurch at the truth so simply stated, and there was a distant ringing in his ears. "You witnessed this?"

Kazem busied himself with tying his dark shaggy hair up into a knot atop his head, taking his time to secure it without acknowledging the question. Solas was certain the man meant to vex him with such a display of informality, as he so often did.

Still, it mattered to keep up the appearance of control, however much he labored to dismiss his own godhood to the mortals.

Mortal or not, they would not follow a fool.

"Leda saw the ground give beneath her, just before the avalanche," Kazem replied, finally. "It seems likeliest that—"

Anger came sudden, and unbidden, as he rounded on his second-in-command, "I am not interested in what may seem."

"Ma serranas, hahren," Kazem deferred, ducking his head low. Sincere or not, it was an adequate display for the younger elves.

He took a breath, to ease his nerves, before commanding, "Comb the ruins and the caves beneath Haven. The importance of the Herald's survival is not to be questioned. If she dies, the Anchor dies with her."

As for himself, he would conduct his own search.

Though he could not feel the Anchor, he was certain if it remained he would better sense it in his other form. He needed to be more, and this form was too slow and too limited for the task.

As Solas pooled his mana, and felt its hum in the deep of his core, he said, "Look also for any information that can be gleaned from the dead of our enemy. Correspondence, documents, whatever may be found."

It took everything in him to shift, to don the mantle of Fen'Harel.

He wasn't sure he had the strength to transform, as he had not attempted it since first waking more than a year prior. The dreams had been enough to secure the the mortal agents he had before waking, drawing them close to aid him in those early days when he was at his weakest. Some of the dreamers woke with him, others had been awake for some time. Rumor and myth enticed the rest.

Solas drew not only from what remained of his mana, but on all those of his agents who were mages themselves. This was not the first time he'd done such, and the long-standing consent had been given — as well as their inherent right to refuse, should they wish it.

None resisted.

They staggered to theirs knees around him, as he drew the energy into his core. There it coalesced, compressed, before hurtling out to consume his form. He fell forward — not to his knees, but to four legs stretching far below as he towered over them. His form became spectral, formed of air and will, something close to what he could be in the world that had been lost.

Though only an imitation, pale and inferior, it was nonetheless effective.

Several of his agents cried out, as they scrambled back in terror and awe. All but Kazem, who was well acquainted with this form, who had fought along side this form in battles long before the first mortal elf ever gasped their first breath.

It was pride there in his gaze, not fear.

But of the others, there was only the reverence that fear brought as most of his agents — present or not — had never seen it but for glimpses in dreams long before he ever woke from uthenera.

An effective tool, if anything.

Still, the form was stunted, and he wasn't entirely corporeal. He was not strong enough to conjure its entirety, not yet. And he did not have the strength to hold the form for long — an hour, perhaps two. He could only hope to find her swiftly, before either of them succumbed.

He would have to act fast, to find her.

"Dismissed."

The voice which left him rang out and thundered over the snow, and caused his agents to shudder visibly. From wonder or terror, he could not discern, nor cared to. He left them there as he turned, and leapt toward the smoldering ruins of Haven.

It had been far too long since he'd run on four legs, and not two.

It felt good in a way that was difficult to put to words. Less the actual act than the state of being — with a form more spirit and magic than flesh and blood.

He missed the time when slipping between them was easier than drawing breath. He missed the world in which he'd been whole, and complete. It was that which drove him to restore it, not simply just for himself but his people — and all who survived it.

When he reached what he estimated to be the site where they'd left the Herald — or a close enough approximation — he stopped and sat on his haunches. Solas closed his eyes, and focused, searching for any trace of the Anchor's power. He knew its song as closely as his own heartbeat, and its absence left him feeling gutted. It made focusing difficult, but still he endeavored to calm himself and empty his mind so that he could concentrate better.

It was like having a foot in either world, both waking and dreaming. At once, solid and formless. Stone and aether. Around him, memories sprouted like wild flowers. Bursting into life and death, clamoring for his attention. He focused closer still, on the memory of Tephra — her bright dark eyes, and the treasured gift of her laugh. She came to him as all the rest died away, a scattering of memories until his focus snatched the most recent into solidity.

Her slight form, standing against the Elder One. Unbowed, and defiant. He was nothing but twisted shadows towering over her, with one massive hand closed around her throat. She did not fight to free herself, but kicked — one last futile act of defiance as she set off the trebuchet. And then the mountain came down around them, and Solas watched the ghost of her falling into the earth beneath him, as the mountain entombed Haven.

Buried.

But, then—

A sudden breath in the dark as she woke.

Relief flooded him, and it took great effort to not break his concentration from the sudden tumult of his emotions.

Spirits often followed her closely in the Fade, so although their reflection wasn't an exact memory, it was close enough to discern her activities after waking — tending to herself, as she was seemingly wounded, then moving onward through the tunnels.

The tunnels.

They were likely the same, or connected to the ones the people of Haven had used to escape, which meant there was only one exit through which she could have passed.

Though he could not yet feel the Anchor's presence, this gave him somewhere to start.

Shaking free of his lucid dreaming, he bounded off northward toward the tunnel's exit. Though his every urge was to move as quickly as this form would allow, he was careful to gauge his steps as the ground beneath him was dangerously unsteady. Though many structures had been leveled, there was still the danger of voids created by the debris beneath the snow.

Even in this form, a great fall could do him great harm. He could not help her if he recklessly threw himself into danger.

When he neared the rocky ledge overlooking the foothills, just above the tunnel's exit, Solas stepped gingerly down to inspect the area. If she'd been there, she was long-gone now. The winds had picked up, and any trace of her tracks had been swept away.

Despite that, he could sense the afterburn of magic somewhere inside the entrance of the tunnel. Demons had recently dwelled there, and been dispersed.

A rift.

He marveled that she'd had the strength to close one at all, let alone banish demons back through it to the Fade.

Solas took a breath, and focused once again as he reached for the Anchor.

He felt the faintest tug of his own magic singing back to him, and the shallow tremble of her tired heart. It came from some indeterminate place out in the foothills.

Exulting, he was at once overwhelmed with emotion and the urge to rush off into the night looking for her, but he forced himself to remain there and compose himself.

Solas pulled at the Anchor, trying to discern her location, but the labored beat of her heart did nothing to calm his panicking nerves. She was alive, but fading fast. He channeled his mana into the fragile connection, trying to boost its strength, however brief.

Though he remained sitting there, still as a statue, he felt himself flying across the snowfields, tracing a disorienting path through rocks and snow, dips and divots, until finally—

His eyes flew open, and without a further moment's hesitation he bolted off into the foothills.

He let go of his composure, and let his emotions run free. The panic and fear of losing her only hastened his pace. There was none to see, nor judge him as he became undone by the fool he'd become.

He knew that when he found her, he would tell her — however he could.

Neither doubt nor truth could change his path now, but they served as a warning — as a sign of what would be sacrificed on the road ahead.

He'd been warned, hadn't he?

"This will be the hardest thing you will ever do, my friend."

Wisdom had been right — as always — and he was the fool.

Yet still, he would throw himself over that precipice if only so that she knew that he loved her.

And it would be the ruin of him.

He could only hope that he wasn't too late.

It serves nothing to lose faith in her now, he chided himself.

How many times had he watched as she barreled into the face of death, only to dance away nearly-unscathed?

"How do you mean to defy your own mortality?"

The memory of her defiant grin burned in his mind.

"However I have to."

He could only hope that she would face certain death with that absurd defiance once more. He could only hope that she could hold on long enough for him to get to her.

This was not the first time he'd almost lost her, but this was the first time it had become unthinkable. Desperation drove him forward, and he could no longer tell himself that it was for the Anchor, or for his mission.

It was for her.

It may have not been in the beginning, but it was now.

She was the slow arrow that he had not expected.

Struck deep, and irretrievable.

.

.

.

.

.

.

None could feel this cold and live.

Of that, she was certain.

It tore through her, through every layer beneath her coat, down to the marrow of her bones. It stripped her bare of thought, bare of any hope of ever being warm again.

She needed more layers; she'd learned long ago that was how to keep the cold out of her bones. But there was nothing here for her, no reprieve nor sanctuary.

The only path was forward.

Half-choked by the freezing wind and the ragged pull of her hood, Tephra stumbled forward, keeping a haggard pace. She'd somehow found her way into the snowdrifts, which increasingly deepened no matter which direction she chose, so she was attempting to reach higher ground for fear of slipping too deep and not having the strength to climb her way out.

There were always bonfires burning in Haven — all over — and no fireplace was ever left cold. She could drift between them, and never linger in the cold longer than she cared, and for it she'd grown too complacent in the human settlement.

And now she was paying for it.

By some mercy, she crested the hill without incident. The winds had begun to die down, but in their wake left a snow haze white as bone. The sky was beginning to clear, just enough for some measure of moonlight to break through and illuminate her path.

"Path," she huffed, with a delirious laugh.

What path?

There was nothing but white all around her, and dark where the light could not pierce.

She dared not linger, as even the brief pause seemed to cause her legs to stiffen. In a panic, she stumbled forward, simply choosing to keep going the direction she was faced with no real indication of what cardinal direction she was headed.

There was only forward; she could not go back, and she could not stop.

On some primal level, she knew that if she stopped she would surely succumb to the cold. She knew that her muscles would lock up, her knees would buckle, and she would tumble down into the snow and slip away.

She had to keep going, because it was death that followed in the wake of her footsteps.

Her fevered mind conjured a shadowy beast — wolf or bear or whatever great predators lurked in the Frostbacks. Close enough that she could feel its breath on the back of her neck. The terror of such a thing drove her recklessly forward, as she remembered one winter long ago.

She had been very sick, delirious with fever. With what little strength left to her, she'd gone in search of a willow tree with her brother in tow. She remembered learning that their bark and leaves could be used to brew a tea to banish the fever, but for the life of her she couldn't remember what the tree looked like. She'd circled for hours until she collapsed in the snow with her brother pulling at her and yelling at her to get up. Pleading to go back home, when home was just a hollow in the ruins, some memory of her people left to rot in the forest.

He'd only been five years old that winter, and far too small to help her up no matter how hard he tried.

All she could think of through the delirium was that she couldn't die and leave him there alone. If she died, he died. She could still feel his little hands grasping urgently at her, and the feeling of drifting away.

She never remembered how she got home, only that she woke later by the fire with her brother sleeping fitfully at her side.

The fever had broken, and later she dimly recalled dreaming of her father's face — but her father's face was a child's approximation as she only remembered that his hair was white like hers, and his eyes just as dark.

It could have been anyone's face, and no one's.

Yet she strangely recalled it, leaning over her many times, as she veered in and out of dreamless sleep. She remembered the movements of his mouth, but not the words, or if she'd heard anything at all.

When she had asked her brother, he'd said there had been no one but the ghost. Later, she simply chalked it up to fever dreams. She must have made her way home in a haze, and slept until the fever broke.

It was a wonder that she hadn't died that winter — sheer dumb luck — or that her brother survived so long, having been raised by a child hardly older than him. A stray illness or predator could have ended them any given day, and yet it was the waters that took him and left her to linger in his wake.

It made her angry now, to remember.

What had her parents been thinking, dragging such young children along with them on their travels? If they'd love their children, they would have left them safe with their clan, not abandoned and forced to raise themselves.

She was not sure how long she waited, expecting someone — her parents or someone from their clan, or even a stray ranger out hunting — to come looking for them. Staying in that part of the mountain afforded little shelter and sparse foraging, and yet she waited. Nearly four days before a change in the weather forced her to seek better shelter for herself and the baby.

It was the loneliest thing in the world — waiting to be found.

I'm not waiting this time, Tephra thought, as she struggled to wrench her boot free of the icy muck.

The morning rains must have mired the low ends of the foothills, churning mud and ice into thick sludge. She had not seen it because the blizzard had blanketed everything with a soft, thick layer of snow.

Tephra veered towards a copse of withered trees, hoping to find stable ground and any sign of her people having passed through.

There had to be a trace of them somewhere. She'd seen the signal fire; she knew someone survived.

Or maybe you hallucinated that.

Her pulse pounded in her ears at the thought.

She had hit head just before, and head wounds notoriously affected one's memory.

Tephra hurried faster to the little circle of trees, but all that awaited her there was the scattered remains of a campsite. It could have been from her people, or some other hunter years ago. There was no telling, and panic seared its way to the forefront of her mind.

Keep going.

She scrambled onward, despite the overwhelming fatigue and the stiffening pain in her legs. She tried in vain to distract herself, to think of a better time — anything to take her focus off the urge to stop and rest.

It would have been so easy to simply sink down into the snow and go to sleep.

After, she thought, furiously. Sleep after.

That had been the worst — after.

Alone on the beach, rudderless without the weight of him at her side, steering her choices and careful planning to keep them alive.

What had been the point, after?

He had preceded everything in her life. His needs, his safety, his happiness — all of it came first to her, and without him, she was lost.

What was she now, in his absence?

Not a protector, not a caretaker, not a sister.

Nothing.

Survival was a strange thing.

She found that it had not been a conscious choice made, but rather an automatic function of the body — like breathing. Choosing to live came long later.

The first winter alone was the hardest.

It came three weeks after her brother died, and whatever head start she'd gained in preparing for it had been lost in those days that followed after. A whole week alone lost sitting on that beach, unable to leave it — to leave him — until a sudden storm forced her inland.

The walk home was a numb haze.

With her brother gone, the stored rations had become more than enough to see her through, but she never once could bring herself to eat what had once been rationed as his. Tephra reckoned that they were still there, in that crude cellar she'd dug out to store provisions. Hardly more than waist deep for a child of ten, and a few feet wide. She'd latched thick tree limbs together with sturdy vines to make a heavy covering to keep animals out.

The shelter was little more than a crumbling stone alcove, part of some greater structure lost to time. They'd fashioned thick canvas across the top, to keep out the rain. They had found it one day while exploring the beach, some remnant of wreckage on the sandbar. She'd latched together limbs and fashioned a door of sorts, little more than a board to close them inside their shelter at night.

After he was gone, everything felt wrong. Their little sanctuary was all at once too large without him, and far too quiet. And when she lay down to sleep at night, all she could do was curl around the absence of him.

She was shaking harder now, and not just from the cold.

Tephra put a hand to her chest. Though she could not feel it there beneath the layers of her coat and armor with her hand, she knew it was still there nestled against her sternum, and the thought comforted her.

It was all she had left of him, beyond the memories. And even those she was certain had began to quietly slip away over the long years since his death, like sand thieved away from the beach by the tide.

Something shifted beneath her boot, and sent her scrambling to keep herself upright as her boots slipped in slush and gravel. Her body jerked and twisted as she overcorrected in an attempt to catch her balance, sending her face-first into the snowbank.

Tephra rolled, groaning breathlessly at the pain ripping through her torso. Panting, she felt at where she'd left the dagger of wood in her gut, making sure it had not become dislodged. When her fingers brushed against it, it sent another — if lesser — jolt of pain through her gut, but also relief.

It was still there, and still controlling the bleeding from the best she could tell.

She held it in place as she struggled to sit, gritting her teeth through the pain, before rolling onto her hands and knees. Her head swam and her vision blurred briefly, as she closed her eyes and rested in that position until the dizziness passed. With one hand, she brushed the snow from her face, dimly aware of how numb it felt in the process.

Would be nice to have that scarf just about now, she thought, grimly.

Distantly, she was aware that slogging through the hidden slush beneath the snow had wetted her boots. Particularly of concern was the damaged boot plugged with cloth, but her foot had been numb for so long that she could not discern how damp it was or if frostbite was setting in. She was thankful that at least her hood was deep enough to protect her ears, and pinching the sides together and holding it closed had afforded her some protection through the worst of the storm, but still — she would not last much longer out here, unless she could make it to some form of shelter.

As she rested there a moment, she felt a sudden shiver run up her spine as the howling wind seemed to grow and shift into something unnatural. More than just the torrent, but something living.

A howling — not from the wind, but from some terrible beast, and it was close.

Fear coiled like ice in her gut, and panic compelled her to her feet as she staggered forward in a panic over the snowbank.

Tephra did the only thing she could, and ran.

She barely felt the agony of her half-frozen legs or the pain in her gut, as terror served as its own analgesic. The primal flight-or-fight response overwhelmed all of her instincts and propelled her onward.

The storm seemed to pick up around her, and a sudden gust ripped the hood from her head. She fumbled to pull it back over into place as she stumbled, snow-blind, choking on the gusts of frozen air blasting her face. Her sight blurred and her eyes watered from the endless assault, and the world around her vaulted between the seemingly infinite black of night and the blinding white of snow.

She was not particularly well-versed what beasts inhabited the Frostbacks, as all of their travels had been along the main roads which had been generally safe from much beyond the occasional bandit or two. Whatever it was, it wasn't a bear, or one of the feline beasts.

Red lions, she thought dimly. But lions didn't howl.

It was almost certainly a wolf, but by the sound of its cry it sounded monstrous. It was not a normal wolf, but something other.

Dimly, she recalled the demon-possessed wolves in the Hinterlands. Distorted and empowered beyond their normal strength, and driven mad by the desires of the demon that controlled them.

Was it something like that, or something worse?

The lack of clarity only fueled her fear, as she moved as quickly as she could through the snowdrifts.

Somewhere far above in the rocky expanse of the base of the mountain, she caught a glimpse of something massive moving through the torrent. It seemed little more than a pale shadow passing across the white of the snow and into the deep black of night, but it moved like a living thing.

Tephra rubbed at her eyes, trying to clear her sight, but it was no good. Whatever it was, she couldn't be certain.

Her breath was labored, and whatever burst of energy that panic had afforded, it was beginning to ebb away. It had led her out of the smooth rolling foothills, and up into the rockier base of the Frostbacks.

Whatever it was, it had the advantage of a higher position and a clear sight of her. An ambush was not only likely, but certainly imminent. That knowledge sent her veering from her path, back down towards the valley.

Not knowing where it was, or if it was behind her now, spurred her to look back over her shoulder — just to be sure.

That decision proved to be disastrous, as she stumbled into an area with sharp inclines and sheer drops. She only just realized her mistake when the world slipped beneath her.

Tephra scrambled for purchase against ice and shale, but it was no use as she slid towards the ledge. There was nothing to grasp hold of, nothing to brace her boot against. It was a slow, inexorable descent, for which she could do nothing but wait.

She could only hope that the drop wasn't too severe.

Tephra grasped at her midsection, trying to hold the shaft of wood stable to prevent further trauma, no matter how futile the attempt seemed. Her body picked up speed as she neared the edge, and before she knew it she was tumbling through the air in a sickening plummet.

She landed meters below, in a deep snowdrift. The depth thankfully broke her fall, but as she began to sink further and further, it seemed less a blessing and more another sort of danger. Panic set in as her head dipped below the top of the snowdrift, and she lost sight of the horizon.

The snow was not packed, but rather loose and unconsolidated all the way to the rock below — wherever it was. Her boots had yet to meet it, and the sudden fear of being buried and suffocated began to set in.

A stray thought whispered, You should be afraid.

She struggled to claw her way out, kicking her feet the way a child would having tread too deep in the water and searching for solid ground. It felt like a different kind of falling, as she sank further and deeper into the drift. Snow pressed in, blocking her face and stealing her breath.

You're going to die out here.

Tephra swept her arms frantically, reaching for anything to grab hold of. When she found nothing, she did her best to simply swim her way out. It seemed a mad, ridiculous thing, but when it began to work it was enough to spark a surge of adrenaline. It was just enough to get her to something solid. She pulled herself up and rolled onto a rocky ledge, shaking and spent.

Distantly, she knew she couldn't stay there. Without cover, she was well and truly fucked.

You're already fucked. You were fucked before you ever left that cave. This is just an exercise in futility.

It should have frightened her, but fear was a concept drifting somewhere beyond her immediate reach.

It was almost peaceful, lying there, and giving up would never have been as easy as it was in this moment.

What was there to get up for? Why was she trying so hard to get through this?

She had yet to find any sign of her people, of their survival. No tracks in the snow, no lights in the sky to signal their path. There was no indication that they'd even made it this far, or if they had gone this way at all.

Perhaps this was it.

Perhaps she had gone as far as she could.

And hadn't she done enough?

Couldn't she just rest now?

The Breach was closed. There was nothing left that she would regret leaving undone, not truly, except—

Tephra thought of him, and the stolen kiss in that aborted future.

But it would never come to pass and she would be the only one to remember it. And in dying, unmake it altogether. There would be no one left to remember it.

In dying, she was leaving him to never know that she cared for him, too.

That she would regret.

But what could she do? She could barely keep her eyes open.

I'm sorry. I tried.

Snow had begun to pile once more around her, but it was almost warm. Almost like settling into bed after a very long day.

It was only when she heard another howl — closer still — that she began to move again. She rolled, shaking and exhausted, but pushed herself to rise again.

It was a primal fear, from the dawn of her people.

Beware the Wolf.

She did not know how she made it to her feet, but somehow she did. The mark on her hand had flared so brightly now, that it shone through her glove and lit her path.

Did it sense that she was dying? Was this its way of panicking, of self-preservation? She wondered if it would die with her, or if it would simply flit away like an ember on the wind.

She was vaguely aware of moving, and the world seemed a dreamy white haze around her, flanked by abject darkness. It seemed to encroach on the white with every step, and she wasn't certain if her eyes were playing a trick on her or not. The world rocked and lurched around her with every heavy step, as though she were inebriated.

Though she was arguably still fleeing the beast in some manner, all she could muster was an ambling pace as the world swayed about her with every step.

Soon, she could hear nothing else but the thundering pulse inside her head.

She felt nothing, and her body had long ceased its shivering. And with slush-soaked boots, Tephra knew that she had to keep moving, as it was either keep moving or die. Despite the haze which had settled over her consciousness, there was still some small part of her fighting to stay alive.

When the wind tugged the hood from her head once more, she made no movement to fix it. The effort alone seemed too taxing, and if she didn't focus strictly on staying upright, it wouldn't matter what the state of her hood was.

She could barely feel the wind cutting across her face, and she imagined it stripping her of skin and polishing her bones. Imagined animals scattering them, until nothing was left but the memory of a foolish elf who wandered too far from home.

She imagined her soul departing, carried off into the Beyond. She imagined her brother there, having waited all this time.

Barren trees shifted about her, blurred verdant and bright, and the air seemed to warm around her.

All of a sudden, her face felt flushed and slick with sweat despite the cold.

Had the sun come up? It seemed so much brighter than before.

The heat poured in, heavy and thick. As though she stepped from one climate into another, just that swift.

Tephra yanked at her collar, and shrugged free of her coat. She left it where it fell, and began to work at the latches of her armor.

It was simply too hot.

She'd only worked her way through one latch, when the world tipped and spun around her. It sent her reeling, until she found herself face-first in the sand.

She felt the sudden lap of surf around her, and she pushed herself up from the water.

Disoriented, she scrambled back onto the shore.

It was not snow beneath her, but sand, curiously absent of its tawny color and dark as coal.

And the surf was not as she remembered, but grey as a winter morning. Despite how the edges lapped towards her bare feet — when had she lost her boots? — and the rest stretched beyond the horizon and was as smooth and still as a mirror.

There was a strange sense of heaviness here, and a curious pull towards the horizon. As though there was something beyond it, beckoning her to come.

A small dark form moved in her peripheral and when she turned to meet it, she knew that it would be him.

Of course it would be him.

Waiting here for her all this time.

His small face was edged with darkness and decay, and his eyes were brighter and greener that they'd ever been in life, but the ache in her soul only knew that it couldn't be anything else but him.

Her hand trembled when she reached for him and pulled him down into an embrace.

"I'm so glad you're here," he told her. He pulled back to look at her face, and asked, "What took you so long?"

Tears fell freely down her face, as she trembled and shook her head, "I'm so sorry, little bird, I tried—"

"Why did you stop looking for me?"

It was a simple question, and it broke her entirely.

"I never—" she choked on the word, because she had.

It was either let go, or die with him.

Maybe in another world, she did. And maybe in another, they lived. But in this one, it was just her and she had carried that weight the best she could.

"You were gone," she croaked, overcome by shame and grief.

"You didn't try hard enough."

"You know that I did! I tried so hard to hold on, but you—" Tephra wavered, breath hitching as she fought the urge to sob, "I couldn't—"

The boy watched her with impassive, burning eyes, "But you left me there."

"I had to," she reasoned, though her voice was breaking around the words. "I would have died, too."

"Are you going to leave me again?"

How could she?

He held out his little hand to her, and she took it.

Tephra let him pull her to her feet and into the water. She let him lead her onward, to whatever lay ahead.

As they walked in silence together, she was surprised to find that the water rose no higher than her ankles and it did not react to her footfalls. There was a small, quiet part of her that sparked in alarm — that intrinsically knew what this was — and yet she kept walking. She kept letting him hasten her onward.

Time seemed indeterminate here, as they could have been walking for moments or days, and yet she wasn't certain she would have known the difference. The shore had long-since vanished, and yet the horizon never changed.

She did not ask where they were going, because it didn't matter anymore.

She'd finally found her way back to him, and he was all that mattered in the moment.

He would forgive her for letting go, and they would be together again.

It was only when the light of the world began to dim, that she realized they had arrived.

How had she not seen it?

They'd been walking towards it the whole time, and yet she only noticed it when the boy let go of her hand.

A yawning abyss stretched before her, as wide as the world and stretching far beyond seeing.

Even the light fled from it.

And now that her eyes were laid upon it, she realized she could not look away. She was frozen there, toes curled at the edge of everything and there was nothing beyond it.

Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls.

But these waters were not emerald, and there was no one waiting to embrace her.

Tephra felt her breath hitch and catch in her throat, as fear swelled in her chest.

No, this was the Void.

And she had come willingly.

"Do not fear it," the boy assured, somewhere behind her. "It is only an ending."

She should have known, but every fiber of her being had wanted it to be him. How long had she hoped that road to the end of her life led to him?

"I'm sorry," the boy confessed. "I am always what is wanted most in their last moment."

Why couldn't she speak? Her voice was a stone lodged in her throat, as her hands clawed uselessly at its hollow. She wanted to protest, to go back — she wasn't done yet.

But she could not move, could not go back. Somehow, as she teetered there, she knew the only move she could make now was forward.

The Void would not release its hold on her, it would simply wait until she gave up and let go.

"Some go quickly, and some linger as long as they need," the boy explained. "In the end, they always let go."

This can't be it.

Her breath hitched swift and panicked, and she dared not move an inch. Yet as her fear swelled and her body trembled, she was certain that she would fall any moment. The slightest twitch could send her tumbling over.

A sudden light flickered past her face, catching her eye.

A single white moth, flickering in the dark.

Tephra reached for it, and watched it dance around her fingers before alighting in the palm of her marked hand.

"I'm sorry," the boy chimed suddenly, voice shifting from a child's to something vastly older. "You can't go now. He's calling you back."

A frown pulled at her face, "I don't hear anything, what are you—"

"It's okay, he'll keep waiting here for you until your time is done."

Suddenly, she was overcome with uncertainty.

What did it mean?

Was her brother truly here?

Would she see him again, if only she leapt?

"No, no I don't want to go back, I want him—"

Pain spiked in her hand as the mark flared to life with a brilliance she'd never seen before. Gouts of verdant energy arced and blazed around her arm as though it had burst into fire.

Before she could even cry out, she was yanked from edge of the abyss and some unseen forced hauled her through the strange water.

No matter how she kicked and writhed, it was useless against the overwhelming force dragging her back, as the mark burned brighter and brighter, until she couldn't see anything but bright green fire, until—

Tephra woke to stillness.

The winds had died down completely, and above her the skies were clear and the stars were like a net of pearls cast across the black. The world around her was startlingly silent and still, but for the distant call of a kestrel. She didn't feel cold anymore, sunk deep where she lay in the snow.

When had she fallen again?

She didn't remember falling.

When she tried to shift her position to rise, it was only then that she felt the weight on her chest.

Had she been buried by the storm?

Her neck felt achingly stiff as she looked down, and in the darkness she saw the shimmer of light shaped like a beast.

Shaped like a wolf.

Its many eyes looked down at her, red and knowing and—

Wolves don't have that many eyes, she thought, dimly.

It was a wolf that wasn't a wolf — made of smoke and light, and too many eyes that burned with green fire.

Though seemingly crafted of light, its face was perpetually cast in shadow. Or perhaps that was only an effect of its translucence, its impermanence, as it didn't seem entirely corporeal. It looked like a spirit shaped into a wolf. When she tilted her head, she realized that she could see the line of the horizon running through it.

A hallucination, she surmised, ignoring the rising clamor of her heart. Ignoring the undeniable weight of it resting on her body.

She had known of many who'd had fever dreams, or saw strange things just before they died.

No magic, no mystery, just a symptom of a dying mind.

And yet she felt the hot gust of its panting breath wash over her, as though it had run halfway across Thedas just to find her here in frozen foothills of the Frostbacks.

If it had breath, if it had weight, it had to be—

Real.

Whatever it was, it was real.

Bright as flame, with the Fade itself burning in its eyes.

Was it a spirit, or some kind of god? Or was this a dream, too?

If a god, there was only one wolf god she knew of.

The fear which gripped her was immediate, and complete.

As though sensing her recognition, her fear, it lifted its massive head from her torso, and its many eyes focused on her.

Without a second thought, she reached up with shaking fingers to touch it — to run her fingertips along its maw. As though confirmation could quell the terror building inside of her.

She felt the heat of its breath against her skin as she marveled at the teeth lining its jaw. They were easily the size of daggers, unsettlingly solid and real to the touch despite its spectral form. They glistened like jewels in the night, and even just one of them was enough to end her life.

This is absurd, she thought, dimly. She could have laughed at the absurdity of it all.

There was only one god left in the world and the weight of his name wrenched itself free from where it nested like a ghost in her throat.

"Andaran atishan, Fen'Harel," she greeted, in a voice just above a trembling whisper.

The monstrous wolf nudged her hand aside, before sinking its teeth ever so carefully into the sleeve of her shirt. It dragged her to her feet with an unnerving display of care, as though mindful of her wounded state.

Tephra felt her heart hammering wildly in her chest, and she gripped hold of its fur for ballast. The mark was burning less now, glimmering faintly where she gripped the beast.

Is this really happening, or am I still dreaming?

Had the Dread Wolf finally answered her call from all those years ago? And why now, of all times to heed it?

Were the gods truly real?

I'm not afraid.

A lie, but she held stubbornly to it under the unsettling gaze of the wolf.

Tephra struggled to remember the words of her people, to ask why it had come. Finally, she managed, "Garas quenathra?"

She hated how she fumbled the pronunciation.

She hated how she sounded like a child pleading to an absent parent.

She hated how the wolf only stared, and gave no indication of understanding her.

Still, she persisted, as her anger came unbidden.

"Why have you come?"

She could not keep the accusation from her tone. She could not help but feel like the child she'd been back in that forest, crying out for anyone to come and find them — and later, to save him.

The wolf simply turned, and began to walk from her. Several paces ahead, it stopped and looked back at her as it waited.

It wanted her to follow.

Tephra's face flushed with heat, "How dare you come now, after everything. I called to you! You could have saved him! You could have saved them all! How dare you come when there's nothing left to save!"

She did not know if it could even speak, or if it simply refused to. She did not know if it was a god, or a spirit, or something else. Yet she laid her anger and grief at its feet, nonetheless.

"You were the only one left to hear me, and you didn't come. Why now? What's left to save?"

Her only answer was silence, and the distant trilling of an unfamiliar bird.

The Void take you, then.

The wolf simply stared, before turning and padding forward through the snow.

Once again, it stopped a few meters ahead and turned back, as though to see if she were following.

It was a curious, absurd sight. If it wasn't for the pain in her gut, she'd would have certainly expected that she was still dreaming. She would have laughed at the ridiculousness of it, were she not clutching the dagger of wood in her gut which was a constant reminder that she was very much awake.

Whatever it was — god or demon — it seemed to be trying to help her.

A bewildering mix of terror and wonder washed through her in waves, competing for priority over the other. She felt as though she had stepped between worlds, and forgotten which she had left and which she had come to.

Or perhaps that was an entirely normal sensation to feel while dying.

She'd been drawn to the Void, and then snatched right back. It seemed a ridiculous thing to deny in the sight of living god, and part of her expected it was by his will.

Hadn't the spirit warned her?

"He's calling you back."

For what purpose?

Tephra could only wonder at that, as she grasped her gut and moved to follow the wolf.

Seemingly satisfied, it turned and trotted ahead.

It was only then that she realized that her coat was missing, and for the life of her she couldn't remember what had happened to it.

Innumerable questions clamored in her head, and yet she could not find her voice. She wanted to pry truth from this creature, god or not, wanted to pry all the knowledge that she could from it, and yet each question caught like a barb in her throat. It was too much, and a part of her simply wanted to deny it, to not face it at all.

Yet there it was — massive and regal, something between spirit and flesh, and entirely real.

Did that make everything real? All of the old stories passed down, however outlandish?

It frightened her to even consider it.

"Garas quenathra?" she called after it, struggling to keep pace.

The beast simply kept going, and did not look back.

Her anger flared once again, and despite the rawness in her throat from thirst, she shouted, "Garas quenathra?! I'm speaking to you!"

Its form was shimmering less now, becoming almost entirely insubstantial, as it hastened its pace to leap up over the next rise. It disappeared without giving any indication of having heard her at all.

"For fuck's sake," Tephra cursed, before carefully following after.

It took an inordinate amount of time for her to crest the hill, and the effort left her breathing raggedly and coughing into her sleeve. When she composed herself, she realized that the wolf was gone.

Her whole body seemed to vibrate with too many conflicting emotions, and she couldn't even begin to process what she'd experienced.

The way ahead cut through the base of the mountain, flanked by steep couloir walls on either side of a narrow pass. There was light somewhere beyond the hill leading into it.

Hope clamored up into her chest and fluttered there like a restless bird.

Campfires.

It overwhelmed her to know they had waited for her.

Almost there, she told herself.

She faltered forward a step, before stopping to look back. She scanned the rocky expanse high above the foothills, but the wolf god was gone.

There was no trace in the snow, as though it had never been with her at all.

"Ghilas atish'an," she bid, in a respectful tone.

God or demon or hallucination, it had lead her in the right direction. And it had woken her from certain death.

Still, she couldn't dismiss her profound disappointment that it offered no acknowledgement of her questions.

How often did the chance to question a god arose?

Safe travels, you unhelpful shit, she bid silently, before turning back to the mountain pass.

She couldn't stop here.

She needed to know if her companions had survived — she needed to know if Solas—

The snow was not as deep here, and better packed. Still, her pace was hampered by her wounds and the utter fatigue of her ravaged body. She didn't dare take her eyes off the light of the campfires, lest she lose heart and give up so close to finding them.

It was impossible for her to gauge how close she was, as her sight seemed to fade in and out of focus. One foot seemed heavier than the other, and soon she was all but dragging it along with her, her pacing growing to a near crawl, but she refused to give up, to give in—

"There! It's her!"

"Thank the Maker!"

The sound of voices brought her sinking to her knees in relief and exhaustion.

Dimly, she was aware of the clamoring ahead of her as people raced through the snow to meet her.

It was the Commander who reached her first.

He lifted her up out the snow as if she weighed nothing at all, and her head lolled back as she teetered on the edge of consciousness.

"Hold on just a bit longer, Herald," he urged. "You're safe now."

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A special thanks and shoutout to bdafic for being a constant companion and source of encouragement through my terrible writing rut. And I want to apologize to my readers, as I never wanted such a delay in posting and every week that passed only increased my anxiety on the matter.

"Paradoxical undressing" is a term for a phenomenon frequently seen in cases of lethal hypothermia. Shortly before death, the person will remove all their clothes, as if they were burning up, when in fact they are freezing.

Garas quenathra — Why are you here?/Why have you come?
Ghilas atish'an — Go in peace.