Varric never fails to make me laugh, even though there are times when I fear he's in awe of what he says I represent. The dwarf is, at heart, a storyteller. He can fill the empty hours of our incessant travelling with tales that are often so outrageous that I'm tempted to call him out as a liar. Scratch that. He is a liar. Yet if it weren't for the fact that our own saga, which is slowly unfolding in epic proportions, weren't so bizarre, I'd not give at least some credence to what Varric shares. He has a point, that we are creating the stories that future generations will share round campfires, at dinner tables, in taverns, in nobles' halls. We are shaking the earth from its foundations to the firmament. We inspire, he says, that others may believe that they too can rise and make a stand. Of course the dwarf says it so much more eloquently than I ever will.
We are a motley assortment, and I am often struck dumb with wonder at how the past few months have progressed, that I, Rosala of Clan Lavellan, am at the head of an organisation.
That the designation "Inquisitor" has stuck, that I respond to terms such as "your worship" without batting an eyelid. I will never forget those faces smiling up at me. That they believe where I falter. It is a heavy burden to bear.
To have gone from having to patch my cloak to deciding which one to wear… To have more than one staff to choose from, depending on which threat I suspect I might face in a day… To sit in judgment of shemlen brought before me in chains… To know that anyone using the term "knife-ear" in my presence will face swift retribution.
These are all heady realisations. I understand why some may fear that any individuals within an organisation such as the Inquisition would allow this power to go to their heads, that our power may breed a sense of entitlement. What is power, at the end of the day? The king is only so powerful so long as he has the ability to affect change, and I can well imagine that the rulers of Orlais and Ferelden sit uneasily on their thrones while we upstarts grow bolder, day by day.
After all, they are not the ones bestirring themselves to close rifts, deal with demons and put down the Venatori menace. And they are themselves ill equipped to deal with the threat that is Corypheus.
I have gazed deep into the heart of that darkness, and I saw myself reflected there.
This power to change the world, it eats at me, whispering.
I can remake the world in an image that is kinder. Or I can become like he, who aspires to be a new god. Such a fine line to tread. What has happened to that little Dalish girl who used to wear a crown of flowers at spring's first bloom?
We've sent word to my clan. Such communication that has passed between us is stilted, second hand. Leliana's agents assure me that Keeper Deshanna is pleased by what I've wrought, that she places trust in me that I will make decisions based on the good of all people of Thedas. For now my clan is safe, but I don't know if and when I'll ever return to the Marches. Each time I preside over the War Table, the map is seeded with more conflicts, more points of interest that beg our interference. We are changing the world, as much as we are changed by the challenges we overcome.
I pray to Mythal that one day I will be able to step away from this burden I carry. Mother guide me, hold me among these bare-faced shemlen.
May the Dread Wolf never catch my scent.
The darkspawn wither before us as we explore the ruins of Coracavus. Many years ago the Tevinter Imperium had it this complex built to house prisoners, says Solas – except they hadn't realised at the time that an entrance to the Deep Roads exists here as well. His eyes alight in wonder even as he strikes down the enemy. I cannot share his sentiments, though when I gaze up at the beams of light slanting through the broken roof, at the pillars, and step lightly over the sand thanks to the relentless desert's progress, all I can think is that I'm very far from home.
The sand is driven by the wind, even as it becomes like an ocean, undulating over the land, at turns swallowing or exposing the ruins of ages past. Ruins that are slowly blasted back to the sand from whence they initially came.
Ruins of temples, ruins of homes. It's all the same in the end. It frightens me sometimes to think that when I breathe my last – it's not a case of if but when – these ruins may still stand for many hundreds of years until they too are worn down to sand and dust.
And when I think of home, it's no longer the sway of the aravel that beckons, but my eyrie in Skyhold, with its view of the razor-toothed Frostbacks and a sky so achingly blue it hints at cobalt at the apex of its impossible dome. That I can close a door, and narrow my world to only the walls and windows, and pretend that for the while, no one will say, "Your worship, a moment please?" or gasp, and remark upon the fact that "there goes the Herald of fucking Andraste". I have my fire. I have my thoughts, mostly to myself then, as I wrap myself in dreams of things that were and might have been.
Once upon a time, there was a little Dalish girl, and she loved a little Dalish boy... Oh Mihren. Mother. Father. Cousins. All faces growing indistinct at the edges. With each passing month their memories become more distant.
Yet I am not alone. We are all rare creatures plucked from the herd, gathered together in this unnatural harmony that the Inquisition weaves.
Of all my companions, Cassandra remains steady, and I rely on the human woman far more than I'd have expected I would. Despite her fanaticism, despite her inability to understand that I don't have room for "one more" in my pantheon, we have reached an accord, a middle ground. Yet I've seen her in moments when she's quiet, unguarded. She's a hopeless romantic at heart yet is a fury when her anger is invoked.
Like here, in the ruins of this ancient prison, where her blade winnows through the enemy and spills black blood on the sands.
Our tactic is simple, Cassandra and Blackwall forge ahead, create a wall of steel. Solas and I keep behind – Solas with his barriers, myself providing the cleansing fire. We work in concert, a precarious dance where one misstep spells death, and what few escape our warriors, Solas and I mop up. What strange music we make, of severed limbs and blackened limbs.
It's worked well enough, so far.
Our greatest mistake is arrogance, and all it takes is one fell arrow to slip through between the casting of Solas's barriers.
It doesn't hurt, at first, that is.
Someone's punched me in the back, I think, even as I crumple to my knees, my arms suddenly useless by my sides. My staff clatters to the ground before me, and each motion slows until it happens at a snail's pace. I notice tiny, unimportant details, like the faint green shimmer to the dragonhide grip, or the fact that a small pebble is displaced by my weapon's descent, and skitters across the floor as if possessed of a life of its own.
The pain comes when I try to draw breath. Sharp, blazing pain. That's when I look down to see the barb protruding from my right shoulder. I'm skewered all the way through, and when I suck in air, my lungs fill with liquid that spatters wetly from my lips.
I taste the ocean. This is it. I'm going to die, and I can't bring myself to fight it. It's not a case of if, but when. Falon'Din, guide me. Open the way for me.
Dimly, I can hear my companions cry out, but their words are muffled, my world fading, failing.
Creators, let this pain go away.
His hands are firm, his voice sharp enough to pierce the darkness. "Stay with me, vhenan! Give another potion, Seeker."
"It's the last." An edge of barely restrained emotion taints Cassandra's words.
It's the last, meaning, that after this, there's nothing much they can do for me.
"She's lost too much blood."
A glass vial is pressed to my lips, the familiar herbal tones of a healing potion sharp in my senses. I choke on the liquid.
"We've got to get the arrow out."
He called me vhenan.
Blessed nothingness swallows me.
# # #
The pain extracts me, starting as mere discomfort but then latching on, making each breath laboured and dragging me from the oblivion. I'm in my tent, on my accustomed pallet, but I'm not alone. Solas rests, propped up against a crate, his head tilted at angle that can't be at all comfortable. My left hand is caged in his, a lazy index finger pressed against the scar that belongs to the Mark. The skin prickles at the contact.
Judging by the stubble, he hasn't shaved his head in days. Does that mean he's been at my side all this time? How long have I been unconscious? So much to do, so much left undone. Panic grips me. I must get up.
I tense, try to move into a seated position, but a sudden, sharp twinge has me arching my back and crying out as fresh agony slices right through me.
"Vhenan!" he says, places cool hands on my shoulders, cradles my neck as he helps me lie down. "You need to rest."
"The darkspawn!"
"Have been dealt with. Hush now." His fingers are cool against my forehead. "You've had a fever. We thought we'd lost you."
"It's going to take more than an arrow to fell me," I whisper. "So. Thirsty." My lips are parched and my body feels wrung out, empty.
Yet he's here. He's always here.
When I think back to those stolen moments in the rotunda, watching him paint those murals of his, blend the colours, and frown over pigments that won't quite obey his intentions. Humouring him when he thinks I can follow the intricate meanderings of magical theory. (Mostly, I'm drinking in his voice, his tone, the music of words.) Then, those hesitant caresses, stolen kisses. Tentative, like he's scared I'm going to bolt or break, as if I'm one of Josephine's little Orlesian ornaments. Like the little halla in her glass menagerie, as she calls it. For weeks we've led this dance about each other since that first kiss in the Fade.
Was it even real?
We don't need words now, as Solas holds the pewter mug to my lips so I can have that first sip of water. His hands tremble.
"We nearly lost you. I couldn't countenance that." He pulls aside a strand of hair that's adhered to my lips and tucks it behind my ear, where he lingers, trailing the length. Embers smoulder in those slate grey eyes.
"Ma vhenan suledin," I reply.