This thing on her hand. Maker.
Varania remembered almost nothing after arriving at the conclave, carefully leaving her staff behind and happy for the paleness of her vallaslin that was easily hidden in the shadows of a hood.
She blended in with the servants with ease. There were always servants wherever there were shems who thought they were important. Yet, she didn't hate them, not like the Dalish did.
That she remembered. Thinking how she wasn't Dalish. That was quite clear. That part of her life was over almost before it had begun. They were no better than the magisters had been. Once her use was less than her upkeep, there was no reason to continue to feed her, in resources or in compassion.
Varania was on her own.
She tried to remember when it was done. She felt like there was something. She knew there was more than she recalled; wandering about the Temple, looking for someone, hearing something, but the only thing she really remembers with real clarity is the chains.
Varania woke up in chains. On the cold stone floor, hands shackled and she thought for a brief terrified moment that it had all been a dream and she was still a slave, and she was being punished. When she came to her senses, realized where she was, she was even more certain she was being punished.
The Maker might have turned away from the world, but his justice was swift even so. Varania had betrayed her own twin. How could she not be punished?
Yes instead of execution, she became something. She couldn't hide as she hid in the magister's house. The glow from this magic gave her away. And being suddenly thrust into this role, being able to seal the rifts and being the Herald of Andraste? Maker, wasn't that was worst punishment yet? They saw her as a wild Dalish elf touched by the Bride of the Maker.
You are the key to our salvation.
Solas looked pleased by the development. Cassandra and the other shems, less so.
Varania wanted nothing to do with it even if she did believe. She wasn't truly Dalish though she wanted to believe as they did. She believed in Andraste, in the Maker. Like most in Tevinter, even slaves, were taught that Andraste was a mage. When her own magic came, she felt a connection to the Bride that she'd never had before.
This glowing mark on her hand didn't feel very holy.
It hurt. Like being bitten. The mark very distinctively felt like teeth. She didn't understand.
She was swept along into this Inquisition business like the tide, trying so hard to play the part of the Dalish mage, the Elvhen, not the slave. She felt like they could all see through her, especially him. With those grey eyes he looked right through her and just saw.
Solas. She'd learned just enough of the old language in her time with the Clan that she knew it meant Pride.
But he didn't know who she truly was because he took out his frustration at the Dalish on her. She didn't mind so much because that meant he was talking to her which was suddenly very important. He was the first free man who'd looked at her like someone who was equally as free. The first mage except for Keeper Istimaethorial who wasn't a tormentor or a rival.
Varania was drawn to him and it scared her, but then he'd smile at her and she'd forget to be frightened. Carefully, so careful; a smile just for her and as if he was looking for something familiar in her face. She smiled back and said things she hoped he'd like to hear and ate up his approval hungrily.
The mark on her hand burned and screamed when she closed the rifts. Her body ached as she fought demons. She tried to sleep and when she did, she saw snippets of green fire and grey eyes and crackling fire. The Fade was treacherous and she wished someone would teach her how to navigate it.
She asked Solas about the Fade. He only smiled like a cat.
Varania took him to Redcliffe to meet the mages. She told herself it was because he too was a mage. She told herself it was because of his calm wisdom (which he had but it was mixed with much critical disdain). She told herself any number of convenient almost-truths, but just didn't want to be parted from his reassuring presence.
When everything went wrong (and when didn't everything go wrong?) and she dug Solas out of that cage in the future, she promised herself that she would do better. She would do better by them all, even that tall shem Tevinter she recognized.
Thankfully, Danarius's guest rarely saw the servants. Not in any real way. They were part of the furniture, truly. But she remembered him. Dorian, son of House Pavus. She remembered his bold interest in Leto, and that was before the Lyrium burned away all his soft edges. She could only imagine what would have happened when he became the hard, finely crafted thing who tried to murder her.
This one would have eaten that right up, she suspected.
Varania tried not to think about it. She tried not to think about her brother at all. It was best for both of them.
Instead she turned her attention back towards the breach. Now that there was power to spare and mages at her back, she couldn't avoid it any longer.
You are the key to our salvation. Solas's voice echoed in her head. She began to notice that he was handsome, even through the smoke and the blood and the demons.
Above all the others, she felt his magic, odd and ancient, roiling through her along with the power of the rebels, feeding the mark until even the breach in all it's horror could not stand against her.
"The heavens are scarred, but calm," Solas told them.
Varania believed him. It sounded like something he knew much about.