Chapter 3 - Iris
Character Creator - Hannah
○ after 'In hushed whispers' ○
Once upon another time, on a road not travelled, there was Iris Lavellan.
Lavellan, Lavellan - the name sings in the warm breeze, and the Dreamwalker holds his breath - just for a second, just long enough to get his bearings and find out where he is, because, obviously, this wind is not cold enough for Skyhold, and the light is too bright. Sand, there is a lot of sand around, piled in dunes, overflowing from every height. Rock is the other master here, endless natural walls stretch far away in all directions. The place feels… acrid. Dry throat, dry eyes, dry skin; and the sun fiercely alight in the sky burns without mercy, overlooking people and things alike. But still… no as hot as it should be.
His brow furrowed, Fen'Harel tries to match his own memories of the place with what he is actually seeing all around. The Forbidden Oasis looks… different. There is more water running in the depth of the ravines: he can hear it bubbling over the rocks here and there, along with several waterfalls that were just sand and rock in the world he left behind. Trees show a little green, scarce but resilient, and this unexpected intensity of life stirs his curiosity. As he comes closer, walking carelessly under some ancient arches and around half crumbled pillars, he catches a better glimpse of the oasis sheltered between the cliffs.
Water shines pure and clear, and prolific species of plant and wildlife thrive wherever the eye sets. A shiver runs down his spine: he knows some of these species, he knows they have gone extinct in his world during his slumber, and seeing them again here is… painful, somehow. Just another hard reminder of everything he lost. This world feels so young, oh so much younger that the one he left! Walking among its inhabitants makes him feel agonizingly old. He doesn't have time to think of it any further, though – Lavellan, the wind sings, and he has to follow, led on by the whisper of the breeze and the tremendous hope of finding her again.
There is no Miriel in the oasis. The Inquisition camp is here, and he sees familiar faces: Varric Thetras is lovingly cleaning Bianca the crossbow in the shade, and the Iron Bull is quite busy talking the soldiers into a game of cards. Solas pouts in disapproval when Sera comes out from a tent and sits to rearrange the arrows in her quiver, making some rude comment about the requisitions officer. She's apart from herself in this dimension too, it seems; but where is she, his beloved Lavellan? His gaze follows the rogue as she walks to the bank. The water in the pool ripples, a head emerges; and then a whole body, clearly female, barely covered by a linen tunic that doesn't hide much. Sera's laugh reverberates in the ravine, and when the women kiss, the sorrow and the longing in the Dread Wolf's soul get so deep that he almost breaks down. Almost, just for one second; and then his mind takes over, muffles the cries that threaten to escape from his heart, and he eavesdrops on them a little longer. They obviously love one another dearly, united in their search of absolute freedom, and maybe in their lack of maturity. This Inquisitor is driven by her emotions, he guesses, tends to make important decisions in moments of sheer impulsivity, without any regard for the aftermath of her whims.
Sera calls her Iris, and all of her screams of youth. She has short hair, of a brown that shines coppery under the sun like the wood of saplings, and eyes of a green as tender as blossoms and young leaves. She is spring, one cannot doubt it: immature and idealistic, yet strong and determined to walk freely, still able to marvel at the wonders of nature and life, still able to dream, to plan a bright future and a better life.
His Miriel was a creature of summer.
She had sun-kissed hair, as gold as the wheat in the fields waiting for the harvest, warm to the touch when she was resting in his arms, once their passion had been adequately honoured.
Her eyes were the deepest blue, as if they contained the horizon when the evening sky descended to embrace the sea, and her vallaslin glowed just a shade darker, like sapphires embedded in her skin.
There was heat in her, a fire that touched everything and everyone, as if she had been her own sun casting light around and warming souls and hearts alike. She was serene, and calm, and strong: there was power in her certainties, and she was sure of herself, full of self-confidence and determined to redeem the entire world's past mistakes.
She was summer, and when she died autumn had come at last, a foreboding of the everlasting winter that was on the lookout for his time to rule.
He burnt for her. Now just ashes are left, and the bitter hollow in his chest.
She was summer, and this world is still basking in the glory of a hopeful spring.
She is not here. She never was; and maybe she would never be.
'Be well, young Lavellan', he wishes upon the breeze, in a single thought. 'Grow strong, grow wise, and maybe this world will never need saving.'
His journey awaits, and the Dreamwalker wanders off.
Once upon another time, on a road not travelled, there was…