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Chapter One
"I am someone who did not die when I should have died." - Anne Carson from Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides
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Her first gasp is one of pain.
The tension that pulls on the skin of her cheeks snaps as her body flops ungracefully forward. So quick was the second that passed from awakening to falling but when Solona, with gritted teeth and a sick clogging feeling in her sinuses, opens her eyes slowly, no such harshness greets her.
Whatever force that levitates her gives out once she catches a glimpse of how close her nose is to the mud: the young mage quickly stumbling to stand, nose stinging from the sudden drop. It's hard not to sway while pushing down the bouts of nausea that impede her senses. Solona counts in twos, waiting for the fog in her mind to dissipate enough to gather her bearings.
Her eyelashes flutter, adjusting, as tinges of green shadow over everything she sees. At first, she thinks of it as wayward fabric: only to be met with nothing when her fingers try to remove it. Well, then, maybe it's her eyes themselves?
But no, even after rubbing at them, the green remains strong. It feels wrong. . . . and almost unnatural. Solona's bare fingers and hands come into view: their grooves and wrinkles all void of the green that inks everything.
It's only then that Solona's able to piece together the unsettled weariness plaguing her back arching straight and eyes now taking in her position, a soft swear escapes her chapped lips.
". . . . Shit."
The Fade's essence is unquestionably distinct compared to that of Thedas. And it's no wonder she felt so off. Her magic is usually the first thing to she's notices when waking: so to wake up in the Fade was. . . . frightening. And entirely unexpected.
Solona touches her dominant hand to her heart, feeling her pulse beat overtime under short and uneven breaths. She couldn't deny the severity of her panic, now that she knew the cause of it all.
Solona squeezes her eyes shut once more, forcing her breathing to become more intentional, forcing herself to calm down. She thinks of warmth, of songs being hummed and of the summer breeze reaching out to her from a window up high.
A mage, even those blessed with youth, are taught to reign control over their emotions. Especially when practising magic but, then again, no sermon nor teaching would necessarily help her current situation. They only ever spoke of instances of dream-walking and not. . . . whatever this was. In such, debatably, peaceful times, Solona used to imagine what sorts of beastly little things she'd find in such a mythical place. You'd only hear snippets from the adults, if you were quiet enough to listen in on them. Nothing anyone ever said lived up to their forms burnt onto the backs of her eyelids. And now, unsure if she was dreaming or really present, Solona didn't have to imagine.
Solona hugs herself, hands clenching tightly on the limbs they find: feeling the different sorts of materials and forcing herself to name them. Her thumbnail nicks the words that are messily carven into her gauntlet, catching her attention. Words that pull her wayward soul back down into her shoes.
'The Light shall lead me safely.'
Smouldering embers haunt her mind: forever a moment stuck in time. With only Dog - she should have given him a brilliant name - as her companion, Solona sits cross legged, hastily carving the mantra into her gear through tears that stained her cheeks. They're words that were meant to grow hope in a moment where she had little.
The rumble of cries and yelling over clanging of swords and shields.
Unwashed clothes stained with sweat rub uncomfortably.
Blood in the air.
"Leave me be." Solona spits, eyes finally rejecting the flood of memories in turn to concentrate on the situation around her. She repeats it again, as if she was commanding Dog but this time, quieter. "Leave me be."
The shrill howl of something fowl breaks her trance: a reminder that she is anything but alone in this hell. Time would be wasted on memories when there was something very real that could possess her body, or worse.
With hands that itch for the wooden comfort of her staff, Solona wastes no more time standing there: breaking out into a jog. She forces herself to keep at a steady pace, as much as she could muster. (Though, this was a struggle in itself, to keep at rhythm. Parts of her were dying for a swig of water but she wasn't going to take any chances with the puddles at her feet, gloopy with mud and who knows what else.)
Her mind turns to all sorts of drinks.
'Sweet Andraste, an ale sounds heavenly.'
The Warden promises the biggest pint she could buy: just as soon as she figured out what the hell was going on. She keeps her head locked on the path ahead of her, searching for brief respite to think.
It was best to keep moving. Maybe she'd find a recognisable face, and not one born of magic or treachery. But the only ones that Solona sees are those of the hanging corpses: their leathery, decomposing bodies giving up no secrets nor whispers. The more she saw of the dead, the more Solona felt utterly alone; fear stinging her eyes.
Tendrils of fog dance around her ankles and faded into the beyond as Solona treks further through the uneven terrain, bits of new and old shaping the landscape around her. She takes care to avoid the questionable pools of bubbling water for solid, yet muddy, land.
Grandiose beacons, half used candles of cream and dying campfires cast light through the darkness. Each gave little help to see what was actually out there: the shadows dancing off the rocks. All of the flames were tinged green by the unavoidable, growing vortex in the sky. The clouds circle, culminating in layers, creating a dense environment for weather patterns. Branches of lightning streak across the cloud's surfaces and illuminating their depths but, unlike the storms she was used to, the expectation of thunder never reached her ears. So, either the Fade was more warped that she thought, or she had a long way to go.
'Did any texts speak of how it creaks and moans? What one should do if they find themselves utterly lost here?'
It was a well-known fact – to magi, at least – that when you dream into the Fade, you retain little information of what actually happened during your time there. While there were books and scrolls regaling its existence in general, there wasn't a 'how to' guide written, to her knowledge. And whatever accounts had been recorded were all marred by biases and fear of the writer.
So instead of pondering on impossibilities, Solona recitez the threads of her thoughts as if she held a scroll that contained the entirety of the circle's library. She added the flavours of her own mind to them, her own context. So, even if there was nothing for her to fall back on, she had her wits and herself to work with. It was a start.
"The Fade. What is it?" Through flushed cheeks and the burn of dehydration, Solona leans into the thrum of her musings. "It's a place of thoughts. Of. . .of-" There's a homely scene of a table set up for supper that passes her. Six places. Solona looks away. "Memories. Reflections of the perceiver."
But if she was perceiving her own thoughts through the land, her mindscape was one of chaos. Which, honestly, sounded right.
Solona continues: "It's a . . . . metaphysical realm, the creation of the maker, a nexus for the departed, spirits and demons. Though. . . . all denizens are technically spirits in their own right." Her eyes rose beyond the sheer cliffside and up into the sky, where the emerald tear swallowed all light. "And the Veil . . . . are eyelids, if the Fade were eyes. It exists as a barrier between the worlds. The reason for demons passing through into the mortal realm are suspected abnormalities in said barrier, where it is thinner than most. Thus, they become tears in the blanket that is the Veil."
Thin was a terribly janky way to describe the sky at the moment.
'Someone's torn it like a pair of pants.' Solona winces as the vortex swirls, taking in the foreboding feeling. Her mind flashes back to what she last remembers: of fighting and tiredness. 'Was this my doing? Did I fail?'
She has little memory of the battle at the moment, though she suspects this was the Fade's essence leeching her life force. If scholars said that willpower was paramount in such a dystopian realm, then it would make sense if it were to try every attempt to take it away from a mortal.
As upsetting as it was to witness such a tear - 'how the hell did it get that big?!' - it was the answer to her predicament. If she were to get back to her body, she'd need to make her way all the way up to the heavens in the sky and pass through it.
Though this had never been theoretically done before, recorded in the least, so there was that.
'Andraste have mercy. I'll even buy you a tankard if you get me out of here.'
Her fingernails dig harshly into the stone and dirt as she kicks her feet into the small holdings of the cliffside. It hurts to do but Solona wills herself to continue, fearing what would happen if she stayed sedentary. The hunters that stalk the fade hadn't given her notice. Yet. Or if they had, they've chosen to ignore her existence. Solona silently gives thanks - to what, remains a mystery - for allowing her to pass unharmed.
Solona doesn't allow her slight fear of heights to cease her efforts. She does not allow fear to settle in her chest, not even permitting herself to glance down for more than a second, if only to make sure her feet were connected to solid footholds. It takes everything in her to heave herself over that final ledge: the heel of her right foot swinging up and digging deep before the rest of her body follows, rolling over onto her backside, panting.
Mismatched eyes take in the sky above her head, inhaling with satisfaction that she'd conquered this beast.
The sky looks so pretty, this specific shade of summer. She doesn't even realise her mind has wandered in that moment, feeling time and the earth beneath her move separately beyond her soul. She could melt into the ground here and pretend the Maker granted her sweet leave of existence.
This was just what the Fade was known to do. Corrupting your mind and clouds your judgement. Whispers of false comforts that almost always led to pain. Or death. But the latter was a kindness not often given. It was pulling at her mind to where she almost couldn't distinguish it as foreign.
An insidious poison to spit out with haste.
Solona forces her aching bones to sit up, slightly hunching over. Morrigan would judge her monumentally if she permitted herself to continue this wallowing. And that was something she just would not let the woman have over her.
She brings her fingertips together, as if she held an imaginary orb with both hands, focusing on the space in between. In absence of her staff, she focuses her core through her tips, watching as the luminescence of her mana sparkles. Eyelids close, welcoming the burgundy darkness that illuminates. Her fingers act as conduits, allowing for ripples of soft green to wash over her mortal form, dispelling the hold the Fade had on her.
It's a momentary freedom but it's a relief nonetheless.
Solona surveys her new station, the whistling of wind causing the few straying ringlets from her ponytail to whip. To her right, the cliff she just scaled. To her left lay a new path, one that had straying staircases. The one she picks is on a whim: it's the one that ascends, a trickle of water flowing down it.
She nods to no-one in particular and stands to her full height, with clarity in her heart.
"You're right. Let's keep going."
She isn't running like before but instead trudges up those stairs, moving like a march. She doesn't keep count of how far she's gone because everything reflects and grows upon each other - nothing truly distinctive capturing her mind - none except the tear in the sky.
So when she thinks she's close enough to taste fresh air, Solona's met with a surprise. Half submerged in water and lying unconscious (or dead) is a man. A real one and not some skeleton or burning corpse.
But he could be dead. Drowning sounded like a quiet way to die but the thought of still being alone here led her feet to his body, squelching in the mud.
Or it could be a demon playing tricks on her. She's fallen for it before.
"Hello?" She calls, not entirely sure if that was the right thing to do. "Shout out if you're alive." And when there's no reply, she adds quieter than before: "Or if you're a demon."
'Please don't be.'
Compared to how Solona awoke, his state of dress was in tatters. Cuts and bruises everywhere, mingling amongst the singes of clothing: he looks like a training dummy came to life. And then subsequently passed out from the beating handed to him. He doesn't even react to her kneeling down near his chest.
With nails that were bitten down to their beds, she lays a hand flat on his chest. And with each exalting intake that fills his chest, Solona breathes one of her own: of enticing relief. That she wasn't alone in this forsaken mess. She wipes the mud from his eyes and nose and mouth, guiding him to consciousness.
Underneath his lips, she see's the distinctive branch markings of the Dalish. And as she tucks his fringe away, the same branching pattern convers his forehead. She smiles, thinking: Óh thank the Maker, he's warm!'
"Wake up." She whispers in his ear gently, her other hand pulsing mana into his chest, healing his wounds slowly. There's not enough in her cup to fix the large gashes in his side but there's enough to halt his internal bleeding. She hopes the pain he will soon feel isn't as abrupt without her intervention. Solona gives him a good shake, taking note of the weak spots in her vision. She hopes her voice gives him peace as he awakens. "Yes. . . . that's it. You're okay. You're safe. Don't panic."
His head jerks away from her touch when his eyes open, screaming silently with panic, his body jumping up; despite his injuries. Solona rises to her feet, hands held up peacefully.
"Hi." She cautiously says, finally catching the elf's dazed attention. Her voice remains steady and calm, Solona imagining herself as Duncan, warmth in his eyes as he guided those that looked up to him. "Don't shout or panic. We're in the Fade. Somehow."
His brown eyes scrunch up in confusion, and just like she did upon awakening, he glances all around, taking in the once in a lifetime sight. Solona steadies her nerves, trying to not react to his panic.
"You're safe." She repeats. "My name is Solona. I found you. Healed you."
"-th' fuck is going on?" His eyebrows knit together in utter confusion, eyes bulging.
She shrugs. "Your guess is as good as mine."
The elf, half a head shorter than her tall stature, squeezes his eyes shut as if he was dreaming. Solona jumps in before he could exclaim his disbelief further.
"I know, impossible, right? But we're here now. And we need to get out of here. We can swear and wonder about these things after we get out of here."
He's stunned into silence but resolutely nods. That earns her respect, and the tiniest concern, that he flows like a river adjusting. But she's not going to chance that changing.
"Calther." He murmurs, as if he doesn't believe entirely what he's witnessing. "That's my given name."
The wind around them picks up during their discussion, causing small flecks of dust to gather near their faces. Calther, fortunately, could block most of it with his scarf but for Solona, it's something she just had to put up with.
(Scarves and accessories of the same vein weren't used by the Wardens. Choking hazard, Duncan once remarked on a rather cold morning together.)
Calther yells over the gusts of wind that threaten to deafen both of them. "And how do you propose we do that?!"
"Up there!" Solona points to the sky. "We can pass through!"
He gawks in disbelief. "Are y' crazy?!"
"Well do you have any better ideas hiding in that brain of yours?!" She tries to keep the fly-aways of hair clamped to the side of her head with her hands. The swirling vapours of washed greens darkened to tones of mustard and deep oak, blinding their surroundings from sight. Dust, gritty and flying as quickly as the wind that carries it, batters them. Solona shouted louder in order to be heard. "We don't have much time! The more we talk, the more we risk meeting the Maker!"
It's more than enough convincing for Calther to nod in agreement, scarf covering his nose and mouth, eyes squinting. Perspiration drips from his forehead. Flushed, and looking like he's overheating, Solona links her hand with his and begins navigating through the maze of bedrock. His touch was a furnace through those leathered gloves.
Already, the horizon is consumed by an obscuring fog. The one singular light source that manages to somehow cut through the sea of dust that stands out starkly. Solona squints. Its glimmering shines a path free of the fog, and subsequently, towards the tear in the sky. Unsure of its nature, Solona heads there because it's the only identifiable beacon amongst the storm.
Their steady pace quickly shifts into sprinting, their feet growing wings as they barely kiss the ground. The dread in her stomach drops once the familiar, scuttling and ear piercing screeching register in her mind. It's impossible not to shiver with disgust.
'Of course it's bloody Fearlings! It's never not Fearlings!'
She tugs on his arm. "Quickly!"
"Hold up a moment!" Calther pants, stumbling behind her incessant pulling. He coughs as they pause, Solona fighting the urge in her chest to ignore his request.
She wasn't sure how well they'd fare physically in the Fade against a horde of Fearlings. It'd be fine if they were dream walking together, as most accounts of being killed in the fade by mages classified the experience as harmful but not deadly. But Calther definitely wasn't a mage nor did he have a way to defend himself, in his current state. And any weapon they came across was quickly deduced as unusable: corroded, becoming one with the water and rock. (That, and she still wasn't sure of her current state of being either, be it sleeping or here, in flesh and blood.)
Her anxiety rises higher as she takes stock of her mana. There's not much to work with, given her dehydration. So she'd rather use it when absolutely necessary. That meant relying more on physically exerting herself.
Calther looked as if he was going to topple over if she so much as swore in front of him. There was no way they'd be able to keep up a quick pace. So, thinking on her feet, Solona puts herself behind the elf and places her hands on his back, pushing rather forcefully.
He pipes up in surprise at her touch, looking over his shoulder. "W-What are you doing!?"
"Just focus on running." Solona explained through exhaustion. "I'll keep them off your back!"
The brunette hesitated, taking time to absorb her response but acquiesced with her forcefulness. "With what weapon?!"
Solona huffs indignantly, shouting: "I'm a mage! I'll figure it out!"
It was a total bluff on her part but, really, he didn't need to be aware of her deductions right this second. And despite his initial panic and confusion, he has a way with his willpower that Solona finds herself respecting. She notes that once he decides on something, he's dedicated to seeing it out: until a better solution comes along.
It's a decent moral code to have, if not slightly selfish. But, that's up for discussion right now.
Calther doesn't take much urging to keep a steady pace; Solona's already lost count of how many spiders she's struck down, electrified and/or crippled. And as the waves intensify with each comeback, so does Solona with her retaliations. Luckily for her, or unluckily for Calther based on who you asked, their attacks weren't focussed directly on her: thus, her ability to outmanoeuvre their stalking and baiting became almost instinctual.
"Almost there!" Calther says, with glee on his voice.
His eagerness and speed picks up once the terrain tips vertically, becoming a ladder when Solona's knees start to brush past her chest armour. They were out of reach from the Fearlings - 'for now' her mind whispers - but Solona keeps her pace, tapping the back of his leg: a silent encouragement to keep going.
Relief tingles in the soles of her feet as they reach the top, Calther lending a hand to pull her up. The light they'd been chasing blinds the warden briefly as she stands up, holding up her hand until her eyes adjust to the light. The silver metal of her uniform refracts the glimmering, shining transparent beams into the atmosphere.
Despite their proximity, Solona's nerves remain sedentary, as her concerns of their new found. . . . acquaintance refuse to dissipate. Their light dims slightly, like a bonfire losing energy: slightly, but not completely. Like a barrier, their light keeps bay the threat of danger, if only for a limited time. Her eyes adjust easier now but she's sure her face gives her anxiety away. Calther, unlike her weariness, is more desperate.
He takes the initiative, stepping forward.
"Can you aid us?" He queries, bordering between politeness and urgency.
The figure responds immediately. They gesture to the tear in time, gracefully like a swan, though their voice (similar to that of a woman) is anything but. It's distressed.
"Hurry!" It lisps direly, speaking with an accent that Solona couldn't completely catch onto. "You must leave this place!"
"Wai, hol-"
Solona pins her thoughts of it being a spirit. The spirit - because they're in the fade, so it has to be a spirit - gives him no choice in the decision. They grab the elf by the helm of his clothing, haphazardly flinging him through the tear without a second to lose. Calther falls head first, yelling till her ears couldn't pick up his voice no more.
Her thoughts run wild then, fear clutching hold of her face. Was he alive or deceased? What if this was how they die?
"You too." It says, pointing towards the void. And when she makes no motion to move, it begins pleading. "Please."
The mage wages her options, though each of them are as bleak as the other.
She could back off, and find some other way to reach her body. But that would lose her a lot of time. . . . and she had little resources or food to rely on, other than the emergency stash she carried on her belt. Plus, she'd be alone again, with likely no answers to Cather's fate. And if she turned back, well, then the Fearlings would feast scrumptiously.
Or she could put blind trust in this spirit and follow Calther, risking possession or an even worse end to her life. The idea of possession frightened her, because she'd been more than aware of the blank and hardened stares of the Templars after leaving a harrowing that went wrong. Nobody in the circle (apart from the elders) was privy to what occurred during these trials and previous to her own, she was left to wonder. Left to hear the stories told of these poor souls that let themselves be susceptible.
And Solona really didn't want to be the reason for someone looking that way.
"What if you are lying to me?" She quietly asks. It wasn't meant to be said out loud but as it is, Solona swallows any more fear that threatens to escape her hold.
The spirit tilts their head and instead of the fear she'd previously heard, it's. . . . intrigued?
"And what if I'm not? You will cease to exist if you remain here."
It did have a point there. Solona thinks of Mouse, of the lies he weaved and how it all felt. . . . off. Like it knew how to lie, but it flowed without the nuances of what it felt to lie. It's not the same energy as the Tranquil, though those who she had met before had no issue with truth telling, nor is this being's essence that of a human. Her senses may be likening it more in that direction but there's a tickle to her brain when she looks at it.
Solona's heart, during all of this thought, pitter-patters in her chest as her body sways slightly. Whatever decision she would make next, she would need to draw more energy out than she currently had in her. Wearily, Solona looks at the tear and then back at the being, unsure: "Are you not coming?"
If it were a spirit, it would've jumped at the chance to go to the other side. But it doesn't and that only confuses the Warden more.
"N-" Urgency slips through their calm yet stressed disposition, stopping mid-word as the crackling of Fearlings swarmed closer. "-No. If I leave, I fear the demons will follow. So you must make haste."
And, given that response, Solona's ultimate decision lies somewhere beyond reason. Selflessness is very much a human emotion and not easily mimicked. So, thus, the pondering continued in a circle.
Mayhaps they're a spirit of courage? Or of purpose?
Or maybe it was Andraste's messenger leading them to safety.
The being, be they human, deity or spirit, only shakes her head once more, saying everything they could possibly portray. Both their heads snap when a roar explodes into the air, bellowing from the depths below. It signifies the end of their tug of war and whatever thoughts Solona had left slipped to the wayside.
Solona leaves the feeling of selfishness here to fade away as she makes her decision to go. She has no energy nor mana left to defend herself, let alone another person anymore. Whatever was on the other side of this tear was better than staying here.
That thought barely imprinted on Solona's mind before she walked forward with determination and fear finding home in her stomach. The void swallows all it covers and Solona feels the heaviness of the Fade leave her body in turn for an unexpected one to take its place.
Her first bath as a warden was in a half frozen stream. Fresh out of her harrowing and still reeling from a life decision that she never fully comprehended the severities until much later into her journey, it was the first chance she felt she could breathe and just exist. The bandages on her hands covered what little couldn't be healed by her own mana, and they bloomed once the water sunk in, causing such an awful, stinging feeling that quickly succumbed to the numbness from the cold.
That experience is the closest thing she can liken to traversing through the veil. It's a hand that takes hold of her hair, dunking her into a cold, cold haze that shocks the body. Pure currents of thought like time and space move around and through her existence, passing peacefully and leaving no traces behind.
And, like a breath of fresh air whistling through her nose, Solona finds palpability. And in that brief moment of awareness, down comes a colossal weight against her body, almost knocking her to the ground.
Redness leaks through her eyelids, dancing in and out with spheres of white. The weight lies heaviest on her sinuses, leaving a tingling in her feet that simmered the more she stayed motionless. One hand was all she needed to count experiences as sickening as this, only losing to the aftershock of her harrowing and quickly followed initiation.
Putridity burned the back of her throat for days and even after the taste had left her mouth, Solona still couldn't stomach looking at anything resembling darkspawn blood.
"Give me a break, please!" Solona croaked, shaking away at the sensation, eyes straining open to greet a new day. But that dread she thought she managed to shake off greets her again, settling back into her chest.
It's like she never left the Fade to begin with.
She baulks in horror at the sky: a reflection of the tear in the Fade, only more otherworldly given it's the only source of electrifying green to be placed in the sky. Solona knows how the mortal realm feels, how it sticks to her skin. It's vibrant to the fade's floating. Here, it's like a merge of the two. But it doesn't feel like she's under an enchantment, or some kind of mystic trickery.
There were no signs of the living when Solona starts to perceive her environment. There was only the burning of broken evergreens ripped from their roots, crumbling buildings and cries of chaos lost on the wind. Her hope falters for a moment, as her thoughts land on Calther. Did he make it? Did she make a mistake in trusting the spirit? Her musings unravell when she feels electrifying warmth, intense magic, garnering her attention from the chaos.
Flames of fluorescence float faintly in front of her, swaying in time wind the smoke and snow on the wind. They dance and twirl, waiting for Maker knows what. She takes one step, and then two, curiously studying the phenomenon.
Father's voice echoes through her ears but there's no words that make sense. Its mumblings, of conversations erased by time, with only blurred memories remaining. Warm hands, warm heart. An apprentice sets fire to the bonfire in the circle library, the enchanter holding his panic with a steady voice. She feels an odd dissonance as she looks at the flames: both weariness and comfort. A strange duo.
These aren't typical will-o-wisps. These are something. . . . greater.
They twirl in effect as she reaches out, their touch gently caressing her skin. Their refusal to harm should have been enough of a warning to the young mage to ignore their pull. It's how you find trouble, after all.
The keyword here is should.
Solona puts faith in her decision to follow them, tossing all rationality away: trusting her gut more than the eyes in her head. They lead her through howling winds, into uncertainty. Her body must be in shock from the journey, as she couldn't feel a speck of cold while on this mountain top. Not wanting to die from the cold, after all of that, Solona pulls her mana to her chest and face, regulating her body warmth as she continues her advance.
Clarity continues to grow the more she's conscious. It feels good to be out of the Fade, to feel her own emotions without additives poisoning her thoughts. The wisps twirl and disappear the further she treks. Soon, her aimlessness turns to curiosity as they seemed to be leading her to the tear in the sky. Or more specifically: an aurora that stretched all the way into the debris field and out of her line of sight. It shimmered more or less like the green hue of the Fade, only becoming a vivid emerald the more one studied it.
Solona steels herself as she hears puffing. There's people running towards her now: like a troop, huddled in formation. They give her no mind at all, keeping to one side of the path. It's only when they pass her, strands of curls whipping softly back to hang by her cheek that Solona stops suddenly, twisting her torso sharply to get another look at them.
"Templars?"
Those men, despite having injuries and armour that bore the brunt of what looked like a tough battle, had on imagery that was very much what the chantry would wear. And at the same time, nothing she felt familiarity with.
Solona looks down at her blues and silvers, only to glance up to where she last saw them: seeing nothing but flames on the horizon.
Even their silence concerned her greatly. She was still in her Warden uniform. Even if they were Templars, or chantry, or whatever, her presence would have still garnered attention. Even then, if not to warn her of the dangers ahead. To petition assistance.
The nerves that threatened to bubble out of every orifice is contained through clenched teeth. Solona wipes her cheeks, ordering herself to remain like stone, and continues encroaching with caution.
By the time she reached the fighting, she could hardly classify it as that. The lack of fighting was a stark contrast to the muted quiet that hovered over the scene. People were sitting and lying, utterly exhausted, with the epitome huddling around one point.
Wearily, Solona errs closer to see what was happening but any interest was snatched when a flash of lavender clouded her vision. Solona lets out a choking gasp, the burning of her throat making her bend over; retching and coughing in a fit.
'No, no it can't be!'
Solona rapidly went through reasons like breathing in air, searching for any possibility to deny the first thought that entered her mind. It couldn't be her, Solona refutes, but her instincts were justly confirmed when a hardy woman commanded her comrades, speaking life into her thoughts.
"Leliana!" She yelled, bending her knees as she held up the body of Calther, alongside a particularly worried looking elf. And while he was unconscious, he felt alive. Every being possessed mana and Solona could feel it flutter, even at this distance. Solona whispers thanks to Andraste for guiding him here, to safety. The woman yells over her prayers. "Send word ahead to the camp! We need a healer!"
"Is the rift closed?!"
"I don't know but the threat of danger has ceased for now! We need to retreat!"
Her mind snaps back to the first thing the woman ordering had said, not entirely absorbing anything that's done after it. The sound of absolute, intense ringing blocked out anything further the group spoke about, for Solona's soul had floated away. She could've fainted right there, had the Maker willed it.
She's closer to the group than before now, being careful to avoid the attention of those bustling off to safety. Her eyes sink into the woman's face, the one draped in lavender. The more she lingers, staring intently and without a breath in between blinks, the more she finds herself agreeing with her original thought.
This woman was very much Leliana, though different from her last memory of the bard. Gone was the childish roundness of her cheeks, replaced with a sharp intensity she can't quite place knowledge on. Solona's in the very least happy to see her but as the changes become more and more apparent, she's left to piece together a daunting reality.
Leliana's aged. Beyond what was humanly possible - because she last saw her a couple of days ago. War ages people, of course but not to this extent in this short amount of time.
It's a revelation that grinds her teeth together, planting trepidation amongst her courage.
'Just. . . . how long have I been gone?'
"Leliana? Hey!"
The call is a test. Solona yells her name loudly, cutting short the distance between them. But like the Templars, Leliana didn't respond. All her attention was set on everything other than the Warden. Her friend.
Not even a hand waving frantically in her face distracted her. Solona's mouth runs dry, looking around at the people around them. None of them noticed her presence, more focused on aiding the fallen. Solona's eyes water, voice cracking with panic.
"Maker. . . . what kind of cruel trickery is this?"
The sick twisting of her gut exacerbated tenfold as a random hand reached through her torso: holding out a note towards Leliana, who promptly opened the missive. Solona wildly shrieks, tripping over her feet as she bolts to the side, knees and palms scuffing the ground. Bewildered, confused out of her mind and wanting to vomit (though there was nothing there to evacuate), Solona rolls to sit on her backside, breathing heavily.
Her hand shoots up to the hole in her chest: only there was no hole, and no blood on her nor the messenger who plastered their hand through her chest like it was a flimsy piece of wood. Tremors rock her hand and arm as she studies her chest bone for injuries. Because, logically, no one simply walks away unharmed after a hand lodges itself through one's chest.
Hands, both of them now, hover front and centre in front of her face. Solona horrified, rigid and pale with shock. There's a hollow transparency all over her skin, extending to even the clothes she wore. She can see her legs right through them.
Solona releases a short shriek that's cut off by a gulp of air before being outshone by a guttural bellowing scream of terror that burns her lungs and lasts longer than any air she had left in them. She screams with all her might at the universe, the Maker, Andraste, that fucking archdemon and everything that made her this way. And when she breathed back in, head constricting from the dizziness, Solona lets go of the sob she held in.
And, painfully, not one single person heard.
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