And the Path is Dark
III. Lavellan
Maker, my enemies are abundant.
Many are those who rise up against me.
I really, really, hate the snow. Clumps of the stuff had gotten into the top of her boots when she fell over earlier, and now it's thawing. The water creeps down her ankles and pools around her heels, chilling her feet to the point of being unfeeling. I swear, the moment I get out of here I'm moving to anywhere where sand is more abundant than snow. Maybe Seheron. Living in a constant war zone seems a small price to pay for warm, dry feet.
A demon's roar and an answering cry of pain off in the distance makes all too clear how ridiculous she is being. The very nightmare of millions has just been made real, and she is whinging about cold toes. Absolutely ridiculous.
Then again, the petty grumbling keeps her mind occupied and keeps her from collapsing into the snow and having a good, hard scream. So it's probably for the best all around if she stays distracted.
It's all a bit much to take in at once, really. Her day began with waking up very hungry in a dim cell, then getting man-handled into a kneeling position by a couple of very rude soldiers and coming to the uncomfortable realization that there was something very wrong with her left hand. She was introduced to Cassandra, then swiftly was accused of blowing up the Conclave (which she hadn't even been aware was in a blown-up state). Oh, the Fade was pouring into the world, demons running amok, and it was all apparently her fault. And of course she couldn't even remember enough to refute it. And the best bit of all: a piece of some magic she didn't recognize was embedded in her hand and it was killing her.
All-in-all, Varenya had had better mornings.
Somehow, the day had gotten better as it went on. Being let out of the dungeon did wonders for her mood and being let off-leash to blast demons back to the Fade helped. She'd never really been one for combat, but using her magic… that she lived for.
Meeting new people had been nice as well, if a bit uncomfortable. Cassandra may hate her for supposedly opening a hole in the sky, but she had let her keep the staff she found, so Varenya assumes she is likely a reasonable enough sort under all that rage and zealotry. The dwarf, Varric, I think his name is, seems friendly enough. And if he's willing to draw Cassandra's ire away from her… all the better.
Solas... Solas is a liar. There was no way he is simply a self-taught apostate, not with his knowledge. How had he kept the mark from spreading? Where had he learned to do so? She was the First of her clan and she could only begin to guess what she bore. Where would an untrained apostate learn more? And when he grabbed her wrist… she had sensed an overwhelming power that crackled between the two of them like a summer storm, fierce and wild. The chords of their power had twisted and spiraled together, synchronizing with one another before matching the melody of the rift. What that could mean, what it implied… well, that was a bit complex of a thought for now. And seriously, what kind of person kept a name that meant "pride?"
Despite her reservations, Varenya cannot be too bitter about her situation. The three of her companions are all dedicated to righting the wrong that is the Rifts, and they're all willing to fight to protect her and the mark she bears on the off chance she is able to close them. Solas and Cassandra seem to think the magic of the mark may be able to affect the Breach, so here they are: racing through the valley to the forward camp and the temple.
The song of the rift as they hike up the hillside warns Varenya to grip her staff tighter, to still her center and reach for her magic. Calm as still waters, serene as a spring breeze. Water squelches between her toes and Varenya winces. Blasted swamp feet. I swear once we're done here I'm going to curl up in front of a fire until the end of days. With a sigh and a deep breath Varenya struggles to empty her mind once again, and begins to cast. Her magic comes, sluggish and slow, syrup instead of the liquid lightning she's so accustomed to. She hasn't had this hard a time mastering her mind since she was a teenager, easily distracted by all manner of stupid things. For just a moment, Varenya longs for the feel of weathered ironbark beneath her fingers, polished by over a decade of her caresses, familiar and safe, instead of this rough oak. Her self-chastisement comes just as quickly as her wishes. I'm no longer a child, I do not need such crutches. She slams a door on her wishes, her longing, her frustration, confusion and near-hysteria. There is only the battle and the storm crackling at her fingertips. Soon the demons are nothing but smoldering carcasses and dust, leaving only the rift to master.
This second time connecting to the rift is easier. The first time she barely remembers beyond crackling magic, an incredible pain, and panic. This time she doesn't need Solas to grab her wrist. This time she can feel on her own the way the Rift calls out to her, how it tugs at the mark on her palm. The two magics reach out one another, keening in harmony. Varenya can feel the press of the Fade, the way it weeps into this world through the tear in the Veil. She can feel the edges of the hole, the frayed edges where they've been rent asunder. Without being able to put into words exactly what she's doing, Varenya reaches for the tattered fabric with the magic within the mark. She weaves the mark's magic, weaves herself, into it, every ounce of her being thrumming with energy. She pulls the two edges together, tugging and guiding them, until the magics within begin to knit themselves together once again.
Varenya is reminded of lessons with the Keeper about how the body works, of how to guide torn muscles and fractured bone together once again to prompt them to heal. The body wants to be whole the Keeper had told her. It just needs your help to remember the shape it must become. The process of repairing the Veil is not entirely dissimilar, although this is so much easier than healing. This magic wants to flow through her, as smoothly as her breath, as fluid as her blood. The Fade, these Rifts, this mark, are a part of her.
So deeply is this magic within her, so completely has she managed to weave herself into the mending fabric of the Fade, she no longer knows how to extract herself. The fabric of the Veil pulses around her, reknitting itself complete around where she had embedded her essence into the tear. A horrible sense of fear shudders down her spine and reverberates through the Veil. Distantly, she can sense spirits stir, demons awoken by her. They are spiders, and she the fly who plucks at the threads of their webs. She can feel their interest, their hunger. The material of the Fade continues to close around her, siphoning her magic and her very being. She knows that if she cannot extract herself, she will likely be drawn into the Void. Her magic will feed the Veil, and whatever remains of herself will be devoured by demons.
Varenya begins to thrash against the Veil, testing her bindings in earnest, attempting to pull herself free. The demons creep closer, the Veil clings tighter. Panic chokes her, squeezes her lungs and stutters her heart. She can feel her body screaming, but the only sound she hears is the singing of the Fade. She thrashes, tugs, and shakes, but the grip of the Veil does not loosen. This is it, this is how it ends a part of her whispers, and the rest of her snarls back in rage. No, it does NOT! I will not allow it! A sudden strength floods her, a magic that tastes unlike anything else she's ever called up before. Varenya wrenches herself from the Veil, sundering her being, leaving small bits of her essence behind in the closed hole, like a hare leaves fur in a slipped trap.
When the echoes of the Rift finally fade and her awareness finally returns to Thedas, Varenya finds her companions staring at her with wide eyes and slack mouths. Varric and Cassandra wear twin expressions of equal parts shock and concern. Solas's is a bit… different. The concern is there in spades, yes, as well as shock. But the frowning wrinkle between his eyes bespeaks consternation and frustration. Yeah, you and me both, kinsman. Varenya is fairly certain next time they encounter a Rift she'll feel the subtle guidance of Solas's magic rather than risk her unraveling again.
Varenya goes to stand. In an instant, Cassandra and Solas are by her side, each grabbing an arm to haul her to her feet. "The Rift is closed." Cassandra calls out to the closed gate before them. "Let us in." There's an answering clank of armored people shuffling atop the wall.
"By the Maker, what happened out there?!" the guards call back as Cassandra steps forward to better speak with them, leaving Varenya to put the bulk of her weight on Solas. "How did that happen?!"
"It was maaaaaaagic." Varenya mumbles beneath her breath and flutters her fingers, her words dripping bitter sarcasm. Solas chokes on a startled chuckle and Varric's head snaps to look at her before a slow grip creeps across his face. Belatedly, Varenya realizes this is only the second time she's spoken in front of the two men. Earlier she had been so determined to contain her nearly hysterical inner monologue she had forgone speaking entirely, communicating instead with nods or the occasional grunt. They must think I'm an utter savage. Well, there will be time to remedy that latter, assuming we don't all die horribly first.
Whatever explanation Cassandra shouts at the gate is good enough for them. The wooden doors swing open with the groan of straining wood and the creak of poorly-oiled hinges. Cassandra pulls aside someone who looks to be a messenger, mutters a few words to him, and gestures at a bench for Varenya before going to join a redheaded woman Varenya recognizes from the dungeon.
Varenya collapses onto the bench with an exhausted sigh. Varric settles himself in on the bench beside her, while Solas stands at her right side and watches her as if he's afraid she's going to topple over any second. It's not an unreasonable fear. A soldier who looks to be a scout offers her both a water skin and some kind of jerky. Varenya forces herself to accept them with a small smile and a word of thanks instead of ripping them from his hands as her forgotten hunger roars back to life with a vengeance.
"So," Varric begins, rubbing at a scuff on the stock of his crossbow with feigned nonchalance. "That second Rift was… different."
Varenya forces herself to swallow the jerky instead of speaking around it. Not a savage, not a savage. "Yes, it was." Her answer is just as falsely nonchalant as the dwarf's.
Varric stares down his sights, then adjusts a crank. "Any theories as to why?"
Varenya hesitates, reluctant to reveal Solas's guidance on the first Rift. He had been adamant that she had closed the Rift fully under her own power, although she knew perfectly well he had quite the hand in it. Perhaps he had a good reason for hiding his level of expertise... And his help had saved her life… "I'm not sure. The first time I acted on instinct." Varenya cuts a significant look at Solas and his eyebrows twitch almost imperceptibly. He knows she's lying for him. Good. "The second time I… dove in, I guess. I tried to understand what I had done. And I got overwhelmed. Stuck. I had a hard time… getting out."
"Well, at least you did. Get out, that is." Varric seems confused by her explanation, but he shrugs his acceptance anyway.
A shouting match between Cassandra, the red-head and a man in Chantry garb interrupts their conversation and steals their attention. The man is by far the loudest of the trio. "I hereby order you to take the prisoner to Val Royeaux to face immediate execution!"
His declaration should worry her, Varenya supposes, but she's too tired to care much. Death would at least be a respite from strange magic and snow. That, and it's difficult to take the man seriously with his red face, and his cheeks puffed out like a petulant child denied the last of the sweet summer berries.
"He's seriously trying to boss around both hands of the Divine! Where the hell is keeping all that authority? Under his fancy little hat?" Varric mutters to Varenya. It may not earn a laugh, but it does prompt a smile.
"You would think they would be more concerned with the giant hole in the sky." Varenya mutters back, tearing off another piece of jerky. She remembers her manners and offers it to both Solas and Varric. Solas declines with a small smile and a shake of his head. Varric happily takes it and chomps down.
"I agree. The Breach is more of a concern than whether or not your head ends up on a pike." Solas comments mildly, eyes fixed on the Chantry man.
"What a pleasant image, Chuckles." Varric glares at the apostate. "Mighty comforting for our companion here."
The two devolve into squabbling; "I meant no offense!" "Yeah, well, whether you not you meant it doesn't matter in the end." Varenya smiles from her place between the two. The arguing is oddly comforting. The sky may be broken open, demons may walk the earth, but there is still time for jokes and petty arguments: moments of normalcy peppered through the ending of the world. Yes, Varenya thinks to herself, mouth full of jerky and ears full of bickering, this day is looking up indeed.
Author's Note:
I've finally gotten around to Lavellan's chapter! I kept debating between posting her chapter or Cullen's as the first part of chapter 3, since they occur partially concurrently. There's going to be a second half to this chapter out later this week, but from Cullen's perspective.
I'm not too happy with how this chapter came out. Varenya Lavellan is really difficult to write. I have this clear image of who she is, but it's really difficult to express it, which is a large part of the reason why this chapter took forever to write. Hopefully as the story goes on, I can convey her personality more fully.
This chapter I gave my interpretation of how closing a rift would feel. It's far too simple in the game. Just wave your hand and poof! no more Rift. That doesn't make much sense; it's a complex magic that, even by the time you reach Skyhold, most mages can't even begin to understand. I've decided to make it a bit more complicated.