Varania ran.

She had no idea where she was going but she knew that she would only survive if she ran. All she knew was survive. It was the one gift of slavery perhaps, that continuing to live was the only motivation she ever knew, until she nearly destroyed herself.

That was what she'd done, dreaming of something other than servitude and being seduced by Danarius's sweet words.

I'll make you my apprentice. You will be a force of nature as all mages deserve to be. You only need help me return your brother to the safety of the Empire. Without his memories...you know how he was my dear. He was a child with a sword. Without guidance? Who can say what wildness he's gotten himself into. But you, you he will still remember. You share blood; you shared a womb. He is the other half of you and you should be together.

Varania ran.

She ran from the look of horror, of blind hatred on Leto's face. She ran from the tall woman who looked at him with love and stopped him from killing her. She knew nothing else but that Danarius was a liar and Leto...Fenris...was safe and she was a horrible excuse for a sister.

She was too terrified to be angry anymore but she had been angry at him for years for what he'd done. She could never understand how Leto could have shared blood with her, been born only minutes after she was yet know nothing of her life. It was different she knew, since she was female and it was gauche for the Master to trouble his female slaves as to not take the chance of sullying his bloodline. She was treated well, if not loved. But poor beautiful Leto was the Master's favorite even before the lyrium brands turned his red hair white and she knew it broke him more and more every day. Perhaps by setting her and their mother free, he thought he'd find a modicum of freedom, even as Danarius continued to use him.

But freedom wasn't beautiful for elves in Tevinter. It was an abyss of near starvation and indentured servitude more abusive than she'd ever experienced as a slave. She didn't belong to anyone so she had almost no value. When their mother died she was burned with the trash.

That's what free meant. It meant without worth.

Where could she go, now that Danarius was dead with his blood on Le..Fenris's hands? Where could she go now that she'd broken the unbreakable bond of their shared blood? She couldn't go back to Tevinter; she didn't know how to live on her own and she had only the most rudimentary understanding of her magic.

Varania ran.

She ran until her lungs were burning and the city gates were far behind her and she ran until she hit the shore of the Waking Sea where she collapsed on to the rocky sand numb, breathless and wishing she was dead. The cold salty water soaked into her skirts. Survive. Her very soul screamed it at her, by her heart felt shattered like a mirror smashed against the ground. Her chest burned. Her bones ached.

Varania wept.

If it hadn't been for the hunters, an old man and his grandson, the elder with faded spiral horns tattooed on his face and the young with lines and dots so recent that his skin was still swollen. They carried a basket of fish and instead of gathering driftwood, they found a broken ex-slave and brought her home like an abandoned kitten.

Keeper Istimaethorial Lavellan comforted her. Heard her story to every gruesome detail and instead of turning her away, made Varania her second and began to teach her how to live. They made vallaslin out of her own blood and crystal grace and tattooed graceful branches on Varania's throat that looked like the ones that burned under the tan skin of her brother's neck. It hurt and she bled and she had no regrets.

The Dalish were proud and broken and so very sad. They felt like home and for a while Varania began to understand what freedom felt like and maybe this was why Fenris fought so hard to keep it. She understood him now, in a way she never had before. Only her tears ran then. In time, the tears became fond memories of stolen moments of childhood. In a year, Varania felt Dalish, not Tevinter. She was a person, not a slave.

Then the war began. They felt the explosion at Kirkwall through the Fade, the Keeper, her First and Varania. They felt people die. And then they were mages first and elves second and it was terrible all over again.

Varania ran and Clan Lavellan ran with her.

When the conclave was announced, Varania volunteered to go. She knew more of human ways than any of the others. She knew how to blend in. She knew how to hide. After all, someone needed to learn what the shems were doing; they sent her to find out if it would ever be safe for their kind again. Their kind. Mages.

But in the days before she left, there was twittering, gossip. One of the young ones was showing signs, having dreams and what then? The Clan could not risk more than three mages. Varania heard whispered arguments. She was one of them. No she wasn't. The child was eight summers old now, far longer than that flat ear slave had been with them.

Varania ran.

This time, she ran towards the conclave and knew that no matter what she discovered, she would never go back. But she wasn't a helpless slave now. If the Clan had given her nothing else, they'd made her strong.

Survive. It was all she knew, and now she knew how to do it.