Chapter Sixteen: Spark
The Hissing Wastes have been aptly named. What few plants eke out a living there are both resilient and dangerous. The vandal aria may smell sweet, but it chokes any plant unfortunate enough to grow nearby, and deathroot is a poisonous parasite.
"Don't touch it," Dorian warns. "And if you do, then for the Maker's sake, wash your hands before you eat…or touch anything that will go in anybody's mouth…or nose…or elsewhere. Just don't touch it."
"Great," Sera grumbles. "Even the plants are trying to kill us."
"Deathroot won't kill you, Sera," Solas replies. "It only drives you mad. The madness is what kills you."
Sera shoots him a sour look. He only smiles faintly in response. He still hasn't forgotten the lizard incident.
It turns out "Elfy" isn't above stooping to her level.
…
They camp under a bright full moon, the desert illuminated by its stark silver light. Varric and Blackwall are trying to teach Cole how to play wicked grace. They haven't made much progress. Sera and Iron Bull watch warily from a distance, drinking a bottle of wine they looted from an abandoned camp. Cassandra steals a sip or two while she reads from a book she is trying very desperately to hide. Solas, excited to be in a new place, has gone somewhere quiet to dream.
Lavellan approaches Dorian once she's scoured the cookpot clean. "I picked this lightning staff off that last mage we killed."
Dorian examines it critically. "It's good, but not great. I'll pass."
"It's not a gift," she laughs. "Have you ever seen what lightning does to sand?"
The mage's eyes narrow, a smile playing under his mustache. "What exactly do you have in mind?"
"Follow me."
…
A startling crack of thunder wakes Solas. His ears are ringing. He can feel the electricity in the air as he rises, but the sky is impossibly clear for lightning.
Is the camp under attack?
Another flash of light, another sharp clap of thunder. Staff in hand, he hurries toward the commotion, prepared for a fight. Instead, he finds Lavellan and Dorian surrounded by odd formations of crystalized sand and a small audience.
"Do you think we could make it hotter?" Lavellan asks Dorian.
"We? Last I checked, you're not the one making lightning."
"I just think it would help the sand crystallize better. Make it look—Solas!" She catches sight of him. Her face flushes a little. "Did we wake you?"
Instead of answering, he fingers one of the taller crystal formations. It is abrasive and sturdier than expected. "Petrified lightning?"
Lavellan's eyes gleam eagerly. "I read about it back at Skyhold. Lightning can crystallize sand if it's strong enough."
"And you thought you would replicate it."
"She wanted to make something beautiful," says Cole. "She doesn't like the nothing here."
"Bet it'll sell to the right people," Sera interjects. "I can talk to my fence in Denerim."
"I could use a new pair of boots," Dorian replies.
Solas looks questioningly at Blackwall, who shrugs and gestures Varric, Iron Bull, and himself. "We're just here to put out the fires."
"Not like we could sleep through this racket anyway," Iron Bull grumbles.
"No," Solas agrees, but he isn't as upset as he seems. It is good to see Lavellan excited about something. Her smiles have become increasingly rare.
…
When they finally return to Skyhold, it is with pockets full of crystals. A crooked, thumb-sized piece happens to find its way onto Solas' desk in the rotunda, a wordless "thank you" from the only person capable of pulling his attention away from the Fade.
He turns it over in his hand, this strange desert crystal created by a simple spark of electricity.
What will the spark between his heart and hers create before this is over?