A/N: Hello Lovies! Thanks ever so for your patience. School is a heavy load, but I try to make as much time for writing as possible. I'm going to try and stick to one chapter a week if I can.
I am blown away by the support for this fic. Seriously, everyone who favs/follows/reviews is one more reason to keep going, to put out another chapter. I write because I need to, but each and everyone of you make it a joy to do so. Many insufficient and numerous thanks to you all.
We talk a lot about music in the DA fanfiction writers group on facebook, how its a constant inspiration and how certain songs reflect certain characters in our minds. While there are many songs that contribute to the over all feel of this fic, this is the first chapter in which a specific song drove my muse. That song is Madilyn Bailey's cover of "Titanium." To me it perfectly follows Evanthe's emotional journey in this installment. Give it a listen if you're so inclined.
Thanks again to the DA Fanfiction writers group on fb. You guys are so supportive and always quick to answer my many questions.
Deep roads are coming, I promise. If not the next chapter than the one after.
R&R Lovies! Reviews feed the muse and keep the words coming!
"Alright, Goldie, you're up," Varric commanded, huffing a bit as he fought against a particularly steep incline.
"Can it be used to kill?" Evanthe asked after a moment, weighing the question against what had already been asked.
"Anything can be used to kill, sweetheart," Varric said with a laugh. "I once knew a fellow who-"
"Please! Spare us the grizzly details," Elissa begged, drawing her woolen cloak tight around her shoulders.
It had been over a week since the group had set out from Skyhold, and the elements had not been kind to their party. The Frostback Moutains were an unforgiving series of inclines and valleys, the terrain made up of jagged rocks and tough, gnarled trees. Wild, untamed winds had a tendency to whip through pine boughs with shrieks and screams, echoing across the faces of the mountains that towered high above them. Densely packed snow had made walking an elaborate production, and the air was cold enough to freeze the breath in one's lungs. It was a miserable expedition, made all the harder by the staggered path they had been forced to take. Orzammar was not far from Skyhold if one did not take topography into account. Even then it should have been a short week long journey, but Evanthe had been forced to weave her retinue across the landscape, skirting enemy camps and strongholds and then correcting course miles later. As such a journey that should have been over long ago, was only half way done and the initial excitement that had bolstered their numbers had faded, giving way to short tempers and complaints. Varric, sensing the sour mood of his traveling companions, had proposed that they pass the time by playing a bit of ask and answer. It might not have kept them warm, but the childish game had at least silenced the grumbling as everyone pondered over what the dwarf could possibly be thinking of.
"Baldy?" Varric inquired and Solas winced a bit at the nickname before asking his own question.
"Is it valuable?"
"Can be, depending on the make. Alright kid, your-"
"Black Scythe, aged twenty years, barreled in the Free Marches," Cole answered instantly and Varric's face quickly fell into a study of stunned annoyance. When the dwarf said nothing in confirmation, Cole blinked and offered clarification. "Tastes like liquid sugar, fire going down. Warmth in the belly. I'll have a headache tomorrow."
"That's it," Varric declared, throwing his hands up. "Kid's not allowed to play anymore." Evanthe laughed brightly, the sound more a wheeze than anything else. Her lungs were burning from exertion as they fought their way up the hillside, making breathing and anything have to do with air a chore in and of itself.
"But I waited for my turn," Cole protested in confusion.
"I know, Cole," Evanthe answered sympathetically. "But the point of the game is to guess and piece together the answer. It's not fair if you can just pluck the answer from our minds."
"Then he shouldn't think so loud," Cole muttered. "It was just repeating over and over. A smug shout. It wanted to be named." Evanthe sighed and shrugged, too frozen and tired to try and explain more. Elissa, sensing her exhaustion, quickly changed the subject and redirected Cole's attention, leaving Evanthe free to focus once more on the path ahead. Varric quickly ambled up beside her, his barrel chest rising and falling with short, labored pants.
"Figure we're only a few days out, Goldie," he huffed out, nodding his head in the general direction of the dwarven kingdom "The closer we get, the more likely darkspawn'll start to show. Thought I should give these to you now, you'll need 'em." Evanthe frowned as he held out six empty glass vials, each stoppered with a pale cork. She hesitantly took the objects, pocketing five and holding the remaining one up to the light.
"What are these for?"
"Darkspawn blood," Varric answered grimly. "You'll want to fill each one to the brim."
"Why?" Evanthe asked, flabbergasted. She hadn't pegged Varric for the experimental or morbid kind, and was at a loss for what he could possibly want with tainted blood.
"Think about it, Goldie. We're going into the deep roads, land of the tainted. All kinds of bad shit goes down when you go underground. And at the top of that list of bad shit? Contracting the taint. Only way out of that pretty bit of bad luck is to become a warden. And to do that you need darkspawn blood."
"I thought darkspawn caused the taint," Evanthe insisted, getting more and more confused with every word out of the dwarf's mouth.
"Hey don't expect me to explain it," Varric protested with his hands up in the air. "Magic and brooding ritual isn't exactly my wheelhouse. I just know you need the nasty stuff for it to work. That and a grey warden who knows how to do said magic and brooding shit." When Evanthe continued to look at him in dubious suspicion his face turned soft and he glanced back at the thirty plus people who were slowly following them up the mountainside. "Trust me, Goldie. Your gonna lose men down there. Some by sword, some by something a lot worse. Collect the blood and pray to whatever pointy eared gods you got that the King and his ex know how to do the ritual." Evanthe sighed and pocketed the last vial, nodding in agreement and patting Varric on the shoulder. Her compliance seemed to relax the dwarf a bit and he offered her a smile, before slowing his pace to rejoin those behind her. Evanthe watched him go with a glance over her shoulder, taking a minute to pause and visually check in with the rest of her party.
Leliana, Zevran, and the soldier's seemed to be holding up well enough; having been trained to endure battle and bloodshed they were uniquely suited for physical activity. The Queen seemed to be struggling a bit, but she hid it well, brushing away offers of help with less than calm refusals. Solas was as unperturbed as ever, taking to their surroundings with ease and adapting instantly. In fact, he had been the only one of their party to utter not a single word of complaint on the journey. It was as if he was completely at home in their frozen surroundings. Indeed, he seemed to be content no matter where he found himself, be it Skyhold, the mountains, or even his cramped and chilled cell. His environment barely seemed to touch him. It was a most annoying personality quirk, especially when he would drag her from the warmth of her tent once they had made camp to instruct her on how to use her mark. She would be shivering the snow, her feet frozen and her fingers numb, and yet Solas would stand placid and unflappable, reciting a lecture about the nature of the fade.
Their lessons were not going well. Every night Solas would pull her out into the wilderness in order to lecture and demonstrate the nature of the fade, and every night Evanthe would fail to accomplish anything. Try as she might, no matter the manipulation, the mark upon her palm lay still and quiet. It was frustrating to be met with failure time and again, and even Solas was beginning to become a bit perturbed by the situation. Evanthe could still close rifts, of course; that had become second nature and the group had, in fact, encountered two of the small tears during their travels. When confronted with the second one, Solas had ordered her to use her mark to manipulate the fade and increase the portal ever so slightly in the hopes that such an action would give her a better feel for the strange power. The notion of "increase" did not sit well with the others in the party, and the man was quickly shouted down. Solas had stormed away in a huff after that, muttering all the while about the nature of fools and cowards in ancient elven. All of this made for some rather tense and awkward training sessions, especially when coupled with the fact that Evanthe and Solas were not entirely comfortable being in one another's presence. Neither of them had brought up what had happened at Skyhold's gates, though the memory of it hovered between them almost constantly.
The reminder that she would once more be subjected to another lesson once they made camp made Evanthe groan inwardly in displeasure. She was already so exhausted that the idea of doing anything beyond curling up in her bed roll and snoring seemed akin to torture. And yet she knew she would have to endure it. If she could learn to control the mark and bend the fade to her will then the Inquisition would have a mighty weapon at its disposal. Evanthe had not forgotten how quickly she had felled her enemies with one wild blast of power, despite how very jarring it had been. Resigning herself to another night of awkward conversation and frustrating failure, she made the executive decision to call a halt to the day's travels. She was tired enough as it was and didn't see the value of pushing herself into exhaustion when an equally fatiguing lesson waited for her once the group had settled in for the night.
"As soon as we crest the rise I want to make camp," she announced, digging her heels into the snow and pushing off once more. "It's so blasted cold out that-"
"Gasping. Try to breathe. Can't remember how to work. Where is Hanalas? Can't feel his hand on mine. Did they kill the da'len? Fading and still searching; must find the child," Cole recited suddenly, eyes gone wide in horror. Evanthe blinked dumbly at him, brain trying to make sense of what she just heard. Before she could think to question him, the boy sprinted off, scaling the hillside with clawed hands and slipping feet. Cursing low Evanthe took off after him, shouting for the others to follow. He disappeared over the rise and continued to run, vanishing from her sight like a ghost gone to ground. Evanthe pushed harder, her heart pounding and her lungs seizing with every harried step. Gritting her teeth she reached for the last bit of her flagging strength and forced herself up and over the lip of the steep hill, the muscles in her legs shaking with the effort.
"Cole! Get back here! Where..." Once Evanthe saw what lay at the top of the incline she ceased to care where the boy had run off to; she was too busy trying to relearn how to breathe. The gruesome tableau hit her hard, sliding beneath her skin and clenching tight along her spine. She was transfixed by it and could do little more than stare, even as she yearned to turn away. There were no words for what lay before her, and her tongue lay still and useless in her gaping mouth. Her mind no longer had room for speech, not when it was trying to make sense of all that she was seeing. When the others crested the rise behind her, they too were struck dumb and more than one fell to their knees and spilled the contents of their stomachs upon the snow. Tears stung the corner of Evanthe's eyes, brief warm flashes of liquid that burned her wind chapped skin as they meandered down her frozen cheeks. The scene was still a blur, but she was at last able to register parts of the whole...and it was horrifying beyond reckoning.
The ground was soaked in blood, so unnaturally bright against the stark white of the snow. The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air, cloying and bitter, and the world grew silent in the midst of all the carnage. Bodies littered the ground, each dead and beyond saving. Evanthe could only see the shape of them, crimson slicked outlines with no identifying features. It was as if her brain were protecting her from seeing the whole of the slaughter lest she cease to function if she bore the knowledge of just who these victims were. Burnt out husks of tents and wagons stood like black lesions upon the sanguine soaked snow, their remaining skeletons ash black and brittle. Something about their structure was familiar; a part of her that she couldn't quite name. It was only when she spied a smudged crimson sail, bent unnaturally and useless, did she fall to her knees and see the whole of what was before her. She could not stop seeing it then, no matter how much she wished to. Each body came into stark relief, sightless woodland eyes and delicately pointed ears plain as day now that she knew just who these poor unfortunate souls were. She knew now why the wagons had seemed familiar, and the curved swells of their lines forced her to recall memories of her own family's aravels; conveyances she had happily ridden in as a child. She knew what this was, knew who these freshly dead had been. It had been a clan. It had been her people.
Slowly her party began picking their way through the horror of it, uselessly checking for pulses in bodies long gone cold. Evanthe, gasping for breath, began a silent tally of the dead and fought hard against tears as the number climbed high with mournful speed. As her eyes flitted about the carnage, picking up bits of broken culture and familial ties, her gaze fell upon Cole kneeling beside a body and muttering quiet words that were lost on the wind. Half crawling, half sprinting she staggered to his side, collapsing to her knees beside the bloodied elf he was tending to. In her shock she had forgotten that the boy had "heard" the thoughts of someone upon the hilltop. Perhaps all was not lost and they could bring one elf back from the brink of death. It was poor consolation, but consolation nonetheless. Evanthe had learned to hold fast to what victories she could grasp in this bloody new world she now called home.
It was a woman; young, though old enough to have borne children. Her eyes were terrified, rolling in her head as she struggled to breathe. A froth of pink foamed blood spilled from the corner of her thin lips, and her body jerked with painful tremors. Evanthe glanced up at Cole and found him looking at her with wide, wet eyes. She knew that he could hear every panicked thought in the elven woman's head; the pain and the sorrow, the terror and bitterness. Evanthe wondered how it was that he didn't go mad from it. When he ever so slightly shook his head, she knew that the woman was beyond saving and that Cole would be privy to her very last thoughts, be it confession or mournful lamentation.
Forcing her attention back to the dying, Evanthe tenderly laced her fingers through the woman's, her skin smearing red from all the blood. It covered her from neck to hips, so thick and prevalent that it was almost black. The elf forced her head to turn, burning through precious energy and life just to gaze up at her kinswoman's face, to have a moment of familiarity in the midst of encroaching death. Evanthe gripped her hand all the tighter, forcing all grief to vanish from her gaze so that the woman would see only compassion and tenderness staring back. Something in the woman's eyes seemed to calm when she locked eyes with Evanthe, and she reached a weak and shaky hand out, fingers stretching to trace the vallaslin upon the Herald's brow. The barest brush of skin upon skin was all she managed before the light slowly faded from her eyes and her body gave one last violent jerk. It was so quiet, so inconsequential that Evanthe thought it an insult and she closed her eyes against the indignity of it all.
"How?" Evanthe croaked out, the words thick and scraping as they squeezed past the sob that threatened on her tongue.
"Red templars," Cole answered quietly, tenderly folding the elf's hands upon her chest. "They came down like hellfire. Full of the song they slaughtered at the behest of the melody. He sings in their veins now, and they must obey. She tried to fight back. They all did, but it wasn't enough. She lost her Hanalas in all the blood. Her da'len. She was still searching for him when you came." Evanthe nodded gently in acceptance and forced herself to look around at the devastation Corypheus' troops had unleashed upon the unsuspecting clan. The scope of it was beyond comprehension, and as such her mind only allowed her to fragment bits and pieces together, though that was more than enough to be horrified by in and of itself. It did not surprise her in the least that one of Corypheus' many arms were responsible for so much death. It seemed to be the monster's modus operandi. It mattered little what his goal was, if it could be accomplished through violence and suffering than so be it. His thirst for blood and pain went beyond the accepted limits of war. If a battle could be won by cutting down fifty men, then surely the battle would be made even more victorious by the slaughter of a hundred. Cullen and Leliana had told her enough stories of Corypheus' madness for her to see the ancient magister's fingerprints all over the small genocide spread out before her.
Pushing herself to her feet, Evanthe forced herself to begin looking at the carnage with a critical and detached eye. She knew that she should be searching for supplies, stripping the site for anything that could be useful. But all she could see were bodies and blood and her people wandering lost and grief stricken amongst them. She spied Elissa a good twenty paces off, quietly weeping and tending to a slain child; tucking a blanket around its much too still form as if putting the small creature down to bed. Evanthe watched in curious fascination as the queen delicately put a small blade to her mahogany hair and cut a lock free from the thick tumble. Gingerly Elissa placed the memento mori beneath the child's hand and laid a kiss upon its brow, murmuring a silent prayer as she did so. Evanthe was stunned as she watched the ritual play out. To give a part of yourself to loved ones passed was a uniquely elven tradition. To her knowledge it was not practiced outside of clans or alienages and she had to wonder how a human queen would know of such a deeply held act of symbolism.
Leliana stood to Elissa's right and Evanthe stiffly made her way to the bard's side, intending on asking the woman for any sort of wisdom she could offer that would make sense of the tragedy painted out before her. She passed Solas along the way and paused to watch him softly trace his fingers over a splintered statue of Fen'Harel, tears in his cerulean eyes. It was such an odd tableau that it almost made Evanthe forget her grief. No one offered tenderness to the dread wolf, it simply was not done. Why then would the man be so mournful of a god most Dalish viewed as responsible for the downfall of their race? Shaking her head she pushed such questions to the back of her mind. There would be time later to puzzle out Solas' unsettling behavior, right now she needed to address the nightmare that had been thrust into her path.
"Why were they this far north?" Evanthe demanded softly once she had reached the Leliana's side. "The clans do not seek shelter in rough and uneven mountains. We are of the forest. We are of the plains. Why then was this clan so far from that which we call home?"
"Corypheus has laid claim to much of what was once considered safe refuge for your people, Herald," Leliana explained sadly. "There are very little areas left for a clan to go to ground. Were I to guess, I would assume they traversed so far north in an effort to find some semblance of sanctuary from those that cut them down."
"Why didn't they come to us?" Evanthe whispered. "Why not seek out the Inquisition? We could have sheltered them."
"We offered, Herald," Leliana replied gently. "To every clan we could reach. But the distrust of humans proved to be too great a hindrance Without your presence to soothe the elders' fears the clans saw the Inquisition as little more than another exalted march, and refused our offer of sanctuary outright." Evanthe closed her eyes tight at this, silently cursing the stubborn and prideful nature of her race. It didn't surprise her in the least that the clan elders had let old wounds fester to the point of catastrophe. After all, that was their way; teach the insults of history so that the next generation may carry on the hatred anew. Growing up it had seemed a survival mechanism for the clan, but looking at the slaughter that surrounded her she realized it was little more than brittle ego given free and devastating rein.
Evanthe shook her head and turned around, eyes once more skirting over the bloody terrain. Something in the distance caught her attention and she frowned, narrowing her eyes to better get a glimpse. After a moment that frown turned to a snarl, and she placed a clenched hand upon Leliana's shoulder, silently begging for the bard's attention.
"And how do you explain that?" Evanthe demanded, pointing towards the treeline. About thirty yards off, nestled in a grouping of pines and shielded from behind my an outcropping of cliff, a small fortress stood tall and untouched. It wasn't large, probably only big enough to house one hundred men in all, but the fact remained that it offered protection, protection apparently unavailable to the Dalish elves. Evanthe could see figures standing on the battlements, patrolling and staring at their party with open curiosity.
"Dencourt Keep," Leliana supplied. "We are in Arl Dencourt's territory at the moment. It was once his hunting lodge, though now I suspect it is his home. It is well constructed, made for siege and storm. If the Arl lost his territory to Corypheus it makes sense that he would retreat here."
"And why did the Arl not offer aid when the red templars slaughtered the elves?" Evanthe asked in a dangerously quiet tone of voice. Leliana flinched a bit at the question, instinctively knowing there was no answer she could give that would satisfy the grief stricken elf standing next to her.
"If I had to hazard a guess," she offered slowly and with great care, "I would venture that Arl Dencourt did not think it prudent to sacrifice his forces. Even if he had offered support or safe harbor to the Dalish, he would have lost men in the skirmish."
"How very pragmatic of him," Evanthe sneered, her attention locked on the soldiers walking the battlements. Someone called for Leliana's assistance and the bard made an apologetic noise before taking her leave. Evanthe barely registered her departure; she had eyes only for Dencourt Keep and its inhabitants. She couldn't fathom it, how someone could watch innocents struck down with such violence and do nothing. Did they think it awful? Did their stomachs turn when they heard the agonizing shrieks of the dying? Or did they think it sport, simply because those cut down were elves? The thought had her seeing red, and she decided right then and there that she would not let so selfish an indignation stand.
"Stop her," Cole called out before she had even taken a step, cracking his head around to look at her when he heard the course of her thoughts. Evanthe ignored him and set off on her path, whipping her staff from her back. It took a moment for her party to heed Cole's warning, and by the time they did she had already covered quite a bit of ground. She could hear shouts of alarm and curses rise up behind her, but none of it touched her. She was determined, she would not be swayed.
When at last she was close enough to make out the faces of the men patrolling the battlements she swung her staff in an arc, sending a blast of fire straight at the soldiers. Her adversaries quickly ducked, their voices raising a call to arms. Evanthe didn't care, she simply leveled another spell at the men who had dared to let women and children be slaughtered without lifting a hand. When the soldiers had regained enough of their wits they quickly formed lines behind the crenelations, drawing bows and knocking arrows as they prepared to fire down upon her. When the first volley was released, Evanthe prepped to loose another spell, but was tackled to the ground by someone rushing her from behind. A barrier snapped into place around her and her attacker, causing the falling arrows to bounce harmlessly away. Evanthe shrieked her displeasure at this turn of events and tried to wriggle out from underneath her captor. She wasn't done, she hadn't yet repaid the blood spilled and it was a debt that needed to be balanced.
"Hold!" she heard Elissa cry out from somewhere off to her right. "Hold, damn you! By order of the Ferelden crown and your Queen I command you to hold!" The hail of arrows ceased at her words, and Elissa began urgently making excuses for Evanthe's assault.
"You must stop, da'vhenan!" Solas begged, his voice close and insistent in her ear. Evanthe realized it was he that held her down, and it made her struggle all the harder. He should be just a furious as she was. For all he spoke of being separate from the people, the fact remained that he was still an elf. Still viewed as lesser and worthless in the eyes of those who stood high upon the ramparts, safe in their smug superiority.
"Let me go!" she screamed, managing to slide out from underneath Solas' weight. It allowed her to get her knees under her, but she was immediately yanked back, the man's hands hooking into her elbows and holding her tight against his chest.
"It is foolishness, Evanthe," he insisted. "You cannot win." Evanthe raged against his disbelief, thrashing in his grip as she screamed and tried to find freedom from his iron-like restraint. She even went so far as to cast a spell, hoping to throw him off guard, but he continued to hold her, wincing a bit as sparks of magic bounced around the barrier he somehow managed to continue to hold in place.
"Evanthe, listen to me!" he cried out, forcing her around to face him. When she continued to struggle he gripped her shoulders tight, his long graceful fingers digging into her flesh to the point of bruising and shaking her violently. "It will not bring them back! If you attack it will do nothing but earn your death and the deaths of those who follow you!"
Somehow his words managed to penetrate her hysteria and she stilled, gasping for air and still aching to unleash vengeance upon those who had wronged her race. When he was certain she would struggle no more Solas released her from his grip, moving his hands to cage her face with a tenderness borne of understanding. Pushing her matted and tangled hair back from her eyes, his thumb gently tracing the high line of her cheek bone, he swallowed hard and held her gaze.
"Please, da'vhenan," he whispered, "do not let this consume you. They are gone. Do not join them in your anger." Tears fell from her eyes at his words and she gasped in a panicked gulp of air, trying desperately to hold back the sobs that threatened to spill forth. It was useless, the dam inside her had broken and her grief had nowhere to go but up and out.
A tortured wail clawed and scratched its way out of her mouth and Evanthe collapsed into Solas' arms. With her face pressed tight to his chest and her hands fisting his cotton tunic she screamed herself raw, an ocean of tears falling from her gold flecked eyes. Solas merely held her, cradling her with his quiet strength. She couldn't deny that caught gently between his lean arms there was a sense of home, of safety, and she clung to that feeling as a tidal wave of grief crashed through her. Together they knelt in the blood spattered snow, a woman cut a drift in sorrow and a man trying desperately to tether her back to sanity. Solas gave her everything she needed in that moment, allowing her to come apart and piecing her back together when she was ready.
When at last she was spent, empty and hollow of everything but a vast numbness she quieted, breath ragged and slow. Stiffly she pulled herself out of Solas' arms and climbed her feet. Solas stared up at her and let the barrier drop, freeing her without a second thought. Sparing one more dead-eyed glance at the wary soldiers who stood high above her on Dencourt Keep's ramparts Evanthe turned and took her leave, walking softly across the snow to stand amidst the carnage once more. When she had reached the fallen elf, the one who had managed to survive only to die before Evanthe's eyes, she paused and unsheathed one of the daggers Cullen had gifted her with. Reaching back behind her neck, she brought the blade to tangle of her hair and began to press. The strands parted easily under the edge of the weapon and Evanthe was rewarded with a small cable of pale, blonde hair. Slowly she turned her palm, letting the hair fall from her grasp, and watched as it fluttered down to rest upon the woman's much too still chest. When blood began to stain the strands red Evanthe turned and slowly walked away, leaving the fallen behind as she set off to save those who still drew breath.