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Chapter Two
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The beer would have soaked her clothes right through had it not been for her current predicament. Wooden stools scraped harshly against the floor in a hastily attempt to clean up the spill; even the ear splitting sound shone dimly in Solona's mind. A strange feeling of contradiction clung uncomfortably to her skin. Even in the epicentre of commotion, isolation cups its hands over her ears and everything becomes a muffled blandness. Not content with remaining here, Solona stands to her feet, tiring of the tavern's atmosphere.
She's known isolation by many masks.
It's not like the kind that sits with you as you camp outside. It's not a tempered warmth of silence under the stars, unblemished by the voices of man. Nor is it the kind that one seeks out willingly: compared to that, Solona would rather dump it on the roadside. Unintentionally insidious, it's one she finds difficult to manage emotionally.
It's the kind that lingers in her first memory of Kinloch, as she's led through those doors by the elbow, scared of the unknown. Surrounded by faces and voices that blended into each other, much of this new state of existence frightened her tremendously.
'Why am I here?' Young Solona wondered, looking at the most unwanted bowl of breakfast.
(She knew why, deep down. But the challenge of extracting large emotions was beyond her capabilities as a seven year old. So like the will she had to find her family in those first few weeks, it was smothered, only reopening when she crossed back through those doors years later.)
She settled on the explanation that she was dead. Or that her soul was trapped in a liminal space: be it the will of a demon, the Maker, or some cruel trick of fate.
(The more fanatical side of her imagination envisioned a despair demon with dried skin disintegrated to the bone of its jaw, an evergreen smile peeking out with her exact shade of auburn, the kind that changes colour depending on the light.)
But the dead don't retain information or consciousness like she does. The more she thought of the blurred lines between certainty, the less Solona could make sense of it.
There's no need to push the door to the tavern open, or stand to the side to let somebody else in first. Solid wood welcomes her through without any difficulties and she truly feels ghostly.
Life in the quaint little village of Haven continues out in the shadow of the mountains, ones she didn't know the names of. Everyone has roles to tend to, now that the threat of civil and magical war was looming. Another war wasn't something she wished to be pulled into but with the way things were going, she might not have a choice in the matter.
Solona sniffs, deciding to move on from the alleyway: turning left and up the small set of stairs, leading to a tiny inlet of houses. The barren tree above the path creaks as she passes underneath, the wind being the only consistent thing around here at the moment.
The house that lies straight ahead was where she was going. Today wasn't her first visit but each time was a small reprieve of humour - even if the man in question did not mean to be.
A forceful tapping greets her as she phases through the door. The man responsible, an alchemist named Adan, busily potters, crushing mixtures within a pestle and murmuring analyses under his breath. He does this subconsciously, even with no-one around to talk to. It's kind of sweet, very similar to some of the elders in Kinloch. Though, they were nicer, given how everyone there was in the same position: essentially a prisoner.) Adan's attitude sharpened with the addition of people, becoming more structured as he articulated his thoughts precisely.
A worn cauldron sat brewing in the cabin's fireplace and despite how gangrenous the concoction looks, Solona still yearns for its scent, even if it smells horrid.
Death had sapped all the joy found in the monotonous. Solona couldn't taste the tavern's morning potage or soak in the warmth of a fireplace. She assumed adrenaline was responsible for the numbness in her senses but the days spent wallowing in discoveries upon discoveries led to a darker conclusion.
Adan, with a carved spoon, scoops out the mixture from the pestle and plops it into the cauldron, banging the side, ensuring most of it went in. (Though nobody commented on the miniscule flecks on the roof above the fireplace.) Adan's not one to care about slight messes. He'd proven himself through the efficiency of his potions, even if this wasn't his preferred profession. The spoon and pestle clutter on the side bench as the door swings open.
Adan bristles at the icy air being welcomed in, shoulders shivering. Grumbling, he barks: "Hurry up 'nd close the door." He doesn't look in the messenger's direction until the latch clicks shut but when he does, there's a pleased expression donning his usually tired face - a rarity. "Fin'lly. Did ya find what I ask'd for?"
The messenger takes it all in their stride, looking rather happy themselves to be out of the cold. This one had a cheeky smile and a nasty looking scar that started at his lip and dove beneath his coat's collar. "Of course! Lookie what I found!
He holds up a literal bunch of elfroot, stalk and all, bits of dirt breaking away from where the man had ripped it out from the base. And, looking at his satchel, the mage can see little elf-like leaves poking out.
Adan's quick to take the hoard from him. "Yer doing my job for me, crushing 'em like that."
"They're all going into the mixture anyway - no harm in how I handle them."
". . . . Yer wrong on so many levels."
"And you are just as cheery as ever, boss."
Even though Adan growls like a bear, he enjoys the banter. It's better than freezing to death: hence, he's not complaining about being shoved into the position of healer.
After inspecting the bag's contents, Adan nods positively. "Good job, findin' this much. We won't have ta go foragin' for some time."
"You did say 'as much as ya can find!" He grins wickedly.
Adan's not one to return such a gesture, especially when he's hammered by the amount of requests being thrown his direction but it's enough to make his bottom lip quiver.
It's a miniscule, fleeting warmth that leaves no evidence of ever existing. Neither man would comment on it but there's a gleam in their eyes, one of acknowledgement.
Solona struggles to accept her deadness when faced with instances like these, though maybe not in the way most might face this challenge. She imagines some would quiver underneath this immense toil: to face your own mortality, one that was taken unwillingly, would be too much for some. There is a level of relatability to this, for the young mage, where Solona knows her executive functions have become dysfunctional - much to her frustration. But it's sound enough for her to retain a sense of her surroundings and what she's seen of the spirits that cross over from the fade, they lose much more than what seems worth it.
Would a wayward spirit take notes like she does, watch and remember the habits, alliances and the faces people make when they think no-one is around? Would they contemplate their own morality or shrug away to be an image of their baseline emotions? Because Solona comprehends these thoughts as much as she gloomy investigates Haven and what's become of the world.
And what spirit would do all, if any, of these things?
Adan separates the bundles of elfroot from each other and bangs them against the outside wall below the open window, creating such a ruckus. The sight makes the young mage snort, bits of dirt flying everywhere, even reaching the rafters. Wynne would have probably scowled him thoroughly (for the same was done to a much younger Solona who did not see the point in sticking with one method of training as the circle taught) before stripping the elfroot herself. For Calther, who's not moved from the bed she last saw him in, it would be an essential ingredient in this regenerative elixir.
Twenty minutes later, after Adan had stripped the plants bare and added them to the mixture, the concoction was ready for use. The messenger who'd brought them had left by the time Adan had started brutalising the plants against the wall: the irony was not lost on Solona. In the time it took for the potion to brew, Adan had prepared all the gear he needed for Calther's treatment. He dunks a ladle into the cauldron and fills a flask, wiping the gunk off the outside that missed its intended destination. It sits alongside the tools Adan had stuffed into his brown side-satchel, clinking.
He checks once more that he's got everything and once he's happy, Adan steps through the door, bundling himself warmer in the coat he wore.
His shoes crunch under the light layer of snow as Adan checks that the latch is locked with a firm shake of the handle. Solona's already waiting outside when he turns away to finally set off, eager to see how Calther is faring.
So caught up in her thoughts (of her unconscious. . . . friend? Trauma bonded brother?) that she barely misses stumbling through the figure immediately intruding in her space. She recovers quickly and watches the interaction unfold between Adan and the elf from the battlefield.
'It's an 'S' name. . . .' Solona thinks, wriggling tightened lips in thought. He was a solitary individual, compared to the others in Haven. Most of her memory of him is staring up at the sky, arms folded, face as cold as the wintry winds around them. It made her wonder what thoughts occupied his brain.
"Hello." The elf says and Adan stops to listen, looking a bit miffed that he's been interrupted. "Are you off to see our mystery patient?"
Adan nodded and gruffly out what sounded like a: "Yeah, obviously."
"May I join you? I've visited the infirmary once before but that was under supervision."
"Why?"
Adan squints, as if he was trying to understand the elf's intentions further. Solona watches on, unsure of the tension sprouting herself. To the elf's credit, he remains amicable under such attitudes and continues: "Lady Leliana requested that I research the magic connected to the elf's hand. If I can figure out what's occurring, there may be information to utilise." He smiles, lopsidedly. "If how he closed the breach at the Temple was anything to go by, we may gain some answers today."
His answer suffices whatever concerns Adan had, for the alchemist nods in the direction he was heading, inviting the elf to accompany him. The human barks a laugh, striding to his destination as his newfound companion follows.
Except he jerks to a stop. Whatever tepid smile he'd offered to the alchemist before is quashed, replaced by a perplexed thinning of his eyes. He swivels to look behind at the small courtyard. Not right at her but all around. On the walls, in the barren trees. Even the snow on the ground.
But it feels like he is.
Her throat constricts. The tingling in her ears grows the further she remains frozen.
'. . . . Solas. That's his name.'
She's eight again, playing stop-start with the other children of the circle; a game born from boredom of confinement. One plays 'it' while the others start on the other side of the room, backs to the wall. You had to physically touch 'it' without making a move - that rule extending to breathing, or if the group was particularly competitive, blinking. She thought it fun, as if she were a thief in the night. It wasn't till her teens that she learned of its origins; one of the enchanters liked children to be silent. What could be more funny than children playing a game silently?
Solas' eyebrows, thin and sharp, scrunch together. His frown is tight and it's only when Adan shouts "Ya burnin' daylight!" that his posture softens. Not completely - the look of bewilderment is still alive in his eyes - but Solas listens to Adan and decides to depart.
Solona lets go of her tension once he's reached the bottom step of the inlet, and she's all alone again.
Her eyes closed tiredly, thanking the Maker that her invisibility stayed consistent. '. . . . What was that about?''
She feels brave enough to move once Solas' green tunic is almost out of sight. A bundle of wisps trail behind him, fading out of view when the elf disappears behind the corner around the tavern.
His absence leaves her. . . . fascinated. Morigan likened these moments of intrigue she'd have to a wolf chasing a ram, and waiting on the other side of the rock to ambush.
'What was that about? What made him different from the other mages that couldn't. . . . feel her?' Solona tries to read the spaces where the wisps once were. There's nothing there no more - not like the other pockets of glowing magic around the settlement. They keep their secrets close and if Solona was anything like her old self, they wouldn't remain secret for long. '. . . . How curious.'
That aside, her axis of deliberation had tilted slightly from the interaction. For his actions meant that there must be some substance in her. Maybe her magic hadn't completely died alongside her body?
But Adan was right. She too was killing the daylight by languishing out here, deducing over things that she couldn't change or figure out right at this second. She needed to check in on Calther.
The wisps come and go as they please: the ones that followed the men wait patiently at the bottom of the stairs leading to the stables before twirling, leaping to the right to where Calther's room was. Sometimes they held forms of flames and stars while others dissipated in the blink of an eye, becoming a fog-like entity that glowed with a sea of emotions.
The ones that hang around the dwarf named Varric sway when he hums and mimic the way he warms his hands near the campfire. He's writing something down when she passes: it looks like a letter.
"Tell me I have sung your approval."
There's a congregation of Chantry brethren at the foot of the stairs leading to the travelling merchant, who's bartering energetically in hushed tones with a hunter. Their robes of gold and red sway with the wind. The tallest one, a woman, shares prayers intertwined with scriptures. Solona haunts their presence for a moment as if she were a fourth sister. But she doesn't stay for long: their repetitive chanting only adds a heaviness to her consciousness rather than alleviating any stress she carries.
From the impromptu blessings, her ears caught wind of the disjointed fighting from the training grounds. They come from beyond the double doorway of Haven's main fortified wall. Short and sharp clangings cut off exertions, tired and trying. A monochrome sunrise sits carved in stone, above the door: a new horizon awaits.
Has it always been there?
There's one voice that rises above the others, guiding the troops with constructive feedback:
"Keep your eyes to the front."
"You'll get killed quickly with a stance like that."
A laugh. From the belly. So proud.
"Good, that's good Soldier Pelam. Put more force into your swing and you'll have no problem getting through an enemy's defences."
"No, go to the medical tent. I won't have you exert yourself when you're bleeding out."
Solona denies the urge to look past the carving. Her vision is stolen by the flushed, stubble cheeks and stammered niceties. Silent smiles shared in a library with bookcases that skimmed the heavens. Nobody's watching. Tired thighs climbed spiral staircases: the sound of the templars joking whizzed past her. Poorly hidden chuckles tickle her ears: as Solona tries to find the words to lessen his embarrassment.
He's the nicest Templar she's met from here to the dead sea. Maybe they could be friends, even if she was an abomination.
She steals her vision back, pulling her eyes back to the stairs leading up to the cabin in question. Calther's name drives her forward to the infirmary. It's him she should be worrying about, after all. She wastes no time passing through the door, finding her safe place in the archway of the main room, weary to move any closer to the elf named Solas.
Solona gets her first look at her friend in a day or so. He's lost that feverish sheen and the redness in the bridge of his sinuses. Despite remaining unconscious, he looks more at peace than previously.
"You lucky sod." She whispers, jealousy looking at how plush the bed looked. It feels wrong to curse him but boy does that bed look like luxury. " . . . . I wish I could sleep."
Adan's inspection echoed her own thoughts. When Solona first entered, he'd been holding Cather upright in bed while Solas assisted in the removal of his soiled bandages. He was all but knickerless, underneath that blanket.
"The fever's diminished signific'ntly." Grunts Adan as he softly lowers his patient back onto his back. Calther does not stir when Solas helps the man slip some sort of cloth under his waist, as some sort of protection against the wound weeping. "I'd say 'e's due ta wake up soon."
Adan steps away to gather something from his satchel on the table of the side room. His shoes thud heavily over the crackle of the fireplace: a well fed one at that. There'd be other people in this room, like the infirmary next door, were it not for his ambiguous status.
And you know what else crackles? Whatever that glowing aura was in Calther's palm. Solas sits in a chair placed beside the bedside, delicately studying the phenomenon, seemingly unwary of what it even was.
They've been calling him a herald. The one who closed a rift with the flick of a hand. That wasn't there before, right? In the Fade? Surely, she would have noticed it, even if they were determined beyond belief to escape.
The mesmerising shift in focus has her in a trance. And the more she fixates, the more she's pulled in. She needs to get closer, in order to understand it.
She has to.
It tastes stagnant and bitter. How in the world could she taste the magic? Was it connected to the wisps? It's watery but at the same time, calls in sounds of colours. Did it make any sense? No. Was she making sense? Also, no. She's stuck in a cobweb.
Closer and closer she creeps.
'Oh.' Solona's eyes widen, breaking free from its hold. She thought it familiar - how it distorted her mind. She was so stupid. 'Of course ; it's the Fade.'
Thunderous crackles of green arc across the room in an all consuming reaction of bright light, bouncing off the walls and staining them burnt. Solas buckles back, jerking, and bolts almost right out of the chair. Luckily for him, Adan caught the elf with his free hand; the bowl in his other hand avoided becoming sustenance for the floor.
Solona reels right back till she half hits the doorframe - only phasing through as she halts, staggering. The door behind her bangs open and a body flows through her to the scene unfolding.
Cassandra's on high alert; sword drawn but not unsheathed. She looks around, scanning for the source of the sound. When there's only the smouldering on the walls and bewilderment from the men to be found, she barks at them: "What in blazes is going on here?!"
"Nothin' but sparks 'nd shit."
Solas shakes his head. "Nothing to worry about, Seeker. There was a spark of wayward magic that caught me off guard." He gestures to the marks on the wall. "As you can see, the walls are the only injured party here."
Adan's less than jovial; his tepid demeanour now shrouded with anxiety in the form of sharpness.
"Lets hurry the fuck up." Adan barks. "Less we end up like the temple."
Neither Cassandra nor Solas takes this personally. Instead, while the alchemist continues to tend to Calther, Solas rises from his chair: "What are you doing here, Seeker?"
Cassandra loosens up slightly but continues to frown. "I. . . . saw you and Adan heading towards the infirmary. You looked troubled. I thought that maybe something had happened." She nods her head to Calther. "And then I heard a thunderous bang. I was worried that another rift had appeared."
"That's a reasonable assumption. I half thought one was going to open right in front of our eyes."
"We're fine. " Adan gruffly adds. "Figur'd he could come along, since Leliana told him ta study whatev'r that blasted thing is. Plus, he knows magic. Better than any of our peabrains."
The warrior gives him a strained, passive smile before turning back to Solas. Solona's still holding her breath throughout all of this but there's no pain in her chest: no clawing at her throat for air. She's too entranced in all of this to notice. Or move from the entryway.
"I apologise for barging in." Cassandra says. "I am not here to point blame or upset anyone. We are all on edge and I want to make sure that Haven remains safe. Forgive my brashness."
Solas waves off her words. But there's anxiety written all over on his face: his eyes dipping back down to her sword. She can guess his thoughts. They would be hers, too, if she were in his shoes.
"Come get me if anything further happens." Cassandra orders gently. She looks over at Calther once more, before leaving for the training grounds: leaving the men to contemplate the silence between them. Solas releases a sign as Adan finishes his duties. He tucks Calther back under the covers, who's becoming more reactive in his unconsciousness.
Solona smiles, relieved. It's a good sign.
Adan, after jotting down his patient notes but before packing away his gear, turns to Solas and leans his backside on the table with his equipment. Unlike before, where Adan was content to sit in the background, he's changed his posture. He's watching Solas with crossed arms and a look on his face that cuts through layers.
"Ya wanna tell me what else 's got ya on edge? 'Cause it's certainly not the Templars that scuttle nervously around ya."
Maybe it's his sudden perceptiveness that catches the mage off guard because Solas stutters to reply, or cover up the surprise in his voice. "I do not know what you are referring to."
Adan t'ches. "I know ya've visited this elf more than once. Both times without 'n escort. And each time ya returned, yer got the same knot 'n ya eyebrows."
Solas doesn't say anything at first, trying to find the words in the patterns of Calther's comforter. It's patterns of purple and red, with gold overlay flaking in places. Well loved. And when he speaks, it's dampened with uncertainty.
"My Mother used to say that I was that thirsty for knowledge. Whenever there was a chance to visit a bookstore, I was glued to the windows." His eyes waver, crinkling his eyes at the memory. "Whatever this is, attached to our friend here, is something I've never seen before. Even in all my years of wandering, of hearing stories, I've never seen anything quite like this."
"Maybe it's a hybrid lyrium?" Adan shrugs. "Like the red shit the templars in Kirkwall had. Would explain the sparks. Shit's unstable."
Solas shakes his head. He has Calther's hand in his again, feeling the grooves of his fingerprints. "No. . . . no, I'd hazard a guess that it's something else entirely. This elf has little mana within his body - not enough to sustain the power needed for casting. And yet, despite not being able to use magic, this. . . . anchor is here. It seems like it's drawing energy from him, in order to stabilise the body and provide a strong hold on its host."
He made it sound like a parasite.
"Ya make it sound like there's an 'and' ."
"That is because there is. Haven is. . . . unnatural?" He says it like a question as he frowns. "No, that feels like the wrong word." He adjusts in his seat and places Calther's hand back down, facing Adan. "There's this energy that lingers in this room. But, it's not just here. It's all around the settlement and all at differing times. It makes me feel uneasy."
"Is it the same energy?" Adan gestures to Calther. "That mana stuff you can read? I didn't know mages could do that."
He thinks hard about Adan's question but Solas doesn't ever address it. He stands and moves to the basin to wash his hands. "I think Seeker Cassandra is correct in saying that we are all stressed. Maybe there is some magic in the soil or the lake." A smaller smile appears on his face. "Do you think they would permit me to look at the Chantry's book collection?"
Adan shrugs. "If it helps close that thing, they'd kiss ya feet."
That magic. They're speaking about her, Solona's sure of it. It's a flutter of hope in her chest, like she's eaten a bowl of butterflies: light and ticklish.
But the sense of danger overwhelms her short-lived joy. It's the warden in her, smacking her shoulder and saying: 'Be smart about this, Sol! You've already mucked things up!'
And the voice is right. It's a danger for her to be hanging around Calther. It places unwarranted suspicions on him: at a time where he can't defend himself. Solona had little knowledge as to how his future would play out. With how people were talking and perceiving his existence, he would have a mountain to climb: one that hadn't been traversed before.
"I should go. Before anything else comes of this."
Solona steps out into the dreary snowfall then. She raises her hand to block the snow, despite it not physically affecting her and lets it fall to her side when the gears in her head start churning.
Warden Amell knew better than to mope into infinity, like she had been for days on end. She was a tactician. A schemer. What she needs is security.
Knowledge gives her safety. When she's able to think and plan, Solona's mind flies like a bird. It costs the ire of no-one to imagine. And in this form, it would be easier than normal to gather it. She's already started doing it. Might as well do it more efficiently.
Her eyes follow a couple of messengers that climb the steps in front of her and out of sight. A wisp waves a fingerless limb and Solona knows which way she's going, following those women to the Chantry. An idea grows with clarity the closer she gets to the tents.
Though, it seemed that the spymaster was keeping in line with the name. Leliana's lavender clothing is nowhere to be seen outside, nor in that little tent pitched beside the requisitions area. Solona looks and spots the same messengers entering the Chantry. It's the only other place Leliana would be. Her deduction is proven correct as shades of floral flash briefly before the doors close. Leliana slips into a door on her left at the end of the transept just as Solona enters.
The mage wastes no time in chasing her friend down, finding Leliana in conversation with a woman dressed in finery, complementary colours. She sits at her desk, in this little dark room, while Leliana leans on the bookcases next to them. If the tension in this room were mana, it would be pulsating.
"That's certainly concerning." The woman, Josephine, states after putting the note down on her desk. Her thin lips stitch together, slightly bitten from thinking. "Redcliffe can certainly keep afloat with their winter stores for some months but they cannot risk closing off the trade route entirely. What on earth is the King thinking?"
'The King of Ferelden. Alista-' Her eyes glue shut. '. . . . oh heavens.'
Solona hears the echoing of cackles rattling inside her skull. It's a mimic of the ones Morrigan makes when something goes ironically wrong. Who knew ghosts could be haunted?
Liliana remains clinical and stoic. "Reports state that he let the rebel mages seek refuge in Redcliffe. I suspect that, in itself, was a conditional bargain." There's a sigh that accompanies her statement. She's tired. Both women are. "Which makes any sort of extradition a tough sell."
"That's for sure." Josephine's much more animated with her groan, raking back the thin strands of her fringe. "Let me know when you have a boat load of lyrium to bribe them with: maybe that will draw them out of hiding. Or, I don't know, get their holdings revoked."
Solona feels drained just listening. Leliana's quiet with her thoughts and more rigid in letting them out. That, in itself, is a challenge to get used to.
"What about the bandit problem?" Josephine questions. "We've been getting reports of stolen goods and attacked caravans. It's causing much concern. Maker knows we're struggling with supplies here as it is." She's looking straight at Leliana now. "There needs to be a safe passage made, or we won't last through winter."
"We should send out some scouts to at least clean out a route." Leliana says, agreeing. "If that elf awakens, and is healthy enough, he should be sent out as well."
Josephine frowns questioning. "Are you sure? Isn't he currently in the infirmary, with a fever?"
The judgemental look on her face adds: "Isn't he also under arrest?"
"He can close rifts, Josie. If we can get some sealed, it would aid us in securing safe passage. Or even recruitment."
There's softness in her name. There's an unsaid conversation shared between their eyes, in the clenching of jaws. Leliana shifts her body weight as Josephine speaks, eyeing the closed door.
"We could do it."
"It's risky."
"Nothing will change if we continue with 'what-ifs'." The pen Josephine holds is put down, her multitasking ceasing in order to focus fully on her companion. "And if we do not seek justice out for what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, then we are no better than those who caused it."
One, small smile breaks on Leliana's face. It feels like an exhalation, spotting the summer sun after days of cold, spring mornings. But it only makes Solona's sadness widen, seeing her so. . . . closed off.
"Careful Josie, you sound like you are ready to pick up a sword for the cause. Should I tell Cassandra to make room for you next to her at the training dummies?"
"My sword is my pen, thank you very much." Josephine sounds unamused, but she smiles back when she says this, with teeth.
"We will wait until the elf wakes to make a decision. He was amicable, the last time we spoke. Once we know where he stands, we can make a solid decision. In the meantime, I'll send people to investigate who exactly our herald is."
It's not the answer Josephine wants but it's all that's offered.
Solona decides to stay with the bookkeeper, rather than following Leliana to wherever her feet brought her to next. Right now, she needs the basics down. Leliana's information would be in spurts and all over the place. Solona's memory has holes enough as it is but she has no idea how much time has passed in her absence. That made Josephine the perfect person to leech information from: surrounded by books and documents all day sounded like a woman after her own heart!
Josephine is joined by an elven mage, arms filled with a stack of reports. The duo sift through the pile, looking for something Solona wasn't privy to. The mage, Minaeve, sorts them into piles once Josephine passes them to her.
"There-," Josephine points to a rather tattered missive, roughly torn at the sides. "Demon sightings."
The mage snorts. "Did you really expect it to be any different? With the fighting, it's no wonder creatures from the fade would follow." She frowns further the more she reads. "They're getting desperate. There's reports of sacrifices - idiots."
They continue reading like this for a while, their frowns growing more and more deeper. And with good reason. Nobody liked to hear about how war affects the normal people, those just trying to live a peaceful life. But with the way Josephine's gaze latches onto the woman's back, and even locked onto the door after Minaeve leaves, Josephine internalises it all.
Once that eye contact is broken, the bookkeeper lets out the stress she was holding in, slumping slightly back into her chair. She peeks at the papers in front of her and sighs: no rest for this bookkeeper in sight.
Josephine continues working like clockwork, putting her head back down and becoming engrossed in whatever she's got in front of her. Solona would hover over her shoulder all day to pull at answers but it quickly becomes boring because all that's written is more bureaucracy than she has patience to look at.
She sighs and stands up straighter, looking at the bookcases with interest. They're all jammed left to right with spines of all ages and qualities. Solona's eyes light up, seeing such a collection in one place. With her head tilted to the side in order to read the spines, hair hanging downwards, Solona's glancing halts. She turns upright and kneels down to look at the title that's caught her attention.
Its once gold lettering is a shadow of its previous form but she can see the outline clear enough to read it.
'Toils of Totality: The Ferelden Civil War (9:30 - 9:31)'
The only name she had to pin to the few years of living hell were 'The Battle of Ostagar'. She was right in the thick of it, for Maker's Sake, and even then the information she could find was at the least patchy and the most untrustworthy. The timeline looks right.
(She quietly prays its contents was what she needed.)
Except there's a roadblock in her plans. Physically, there was no way she could read any of these. Not until someone picked them up by their own volition. And, seeing that Josephine was the only one consistently in here, that would prove to be difficult. Because if she's anything like Apprentice Amell, she would have read all of these titles back to front, several times over.
Josephine sighs, again, tiring more quickly than before. She probably hasn't seen sunlight since getting here.
"Take a break." Solona suggests cheekily, swivelling back on the balls of her feet, seeing if there was anything else that peaked her interest. "You look like you're going to pass out." Just as Solona's ghostly finger touches one of the book spines, she looks back at the woman again. "Your bookshelf is looking mighty lonely."
The sounds of scribbling ink cease and Josephine sits straighter in her chair, her quill being placed lightly down. Perplexity bleeds quietly onto her face. The candles that sit depleting at her desk flickers; Josephine breathing in as her head tilts towards where Solona stood.
Her mind's quick to dismiss the coincidence. She knows that Josephine cannot see her. It's more likely that her mind's finally ceded to her body's aches.
But the nagging feeling of 'just maybe' twists in Solona's gut. It plays on her hope. The mage continues, tapping the 'Toils of Totality' spine: "How about this one?"
But it seems that it was truly a coincidence and not some grant of luck by the Maker: Josephine pulls off a different title, a much newer one. Disappointment settles in Solona's chest as Josephine sits down, placing the book lightly down on the table in front of her.
Though it's a short lived disappointment because once Solona spots the very distinct, red 'X' over the title page, she knows it's gold.
That's code for Templar censorship. More often these kinds of books were destroyed, followed by kept in a restricted section only accessible by a senior enchanter within a circle: so, it's a rarity to find such a book in the hands of someone who's definitely not aligned with the Chantry.
The red 'X' does little to disguise the title of the book. Though, that wasn't really the point. It was a practice used by Templars to separate potentially dangerous, classified information for eyes not ready to see it yet.
(She spent an entire afternoon in the deprivation room after taking one from the library. That stunt earned her a missed dinner and a rather boring essay about library etiquette.)
It claims to be a spiritual successor to the 'Grim's Anatomy' but looking at the brief synopsis on the page opposite to the title, it leaned more towards the classification of spiritual entities than the process of possession itself; so, perhaps, an encyclopaedia rather than a collection of observations. Either way, you can't call yourself 'Consolidated Compendium of Life Beyond Our Eyes' without backing yourself up.
Josephine reads like she's racing to find something, spending one or two seconds scanning the page before pinching the top corner and moving to the next section, managing to avoid any papercuts. With the speed in which the woman moves, Solona catches but a flash of something familiar before it's gone again.
"Wait!" Her hand furiously taps Josephine's shoulder. "Go back!"
Each page (or two, given the elaboration allowed by the author/s) is titled in a bold font bigger than the describing sections of the book: parts of it filled with drawings. She sees jagged, harsh lines and feels disgust. And curiously, she wonders just who the author was.
She cannot feel the Archdemon in her mind anymore, the one that haunts her living memories. But seeing the name alone sends shivers through her, a reminder of the anxiety that has not forgotten in death. There's differences between the drawing and her memory of Ostagar but Solona figures it could be different between each being, like how humans are varied in their shapes and sizes.
Josephine takes her time reading through this page, whispering under her breath as she analyses. Solona's a quick reader and jumps ahead of the woman, scanning for identifying bits. There's not much to go on: a result of the Gray Warden's pact of secrecy.
But at the end of the section was a table, just big enough to be a footnote, was what Solona took pause to really read: a recorded history of the slaying of Archdemons. So small, it fits half a page. Bits of ink censor the page, evident that someone thought it best to remove the history of these pages.
Recorded Slaying of Archdemons Through History
. . . .
. . . .
. . . .
. . . .
[REDACTED] | 9:31, Battle of Denerim | Slain by The King of Ferelden and Former Gray Warden Alistair Theirin (alive at the time of publishing) and "The Hero of Ferelden", Gray Warden Selona (Last Name Unknown) (Deceased, Cause of Death Unknown)
Horrified. She's sickened at the moniker.
The Hero of Ferelden.
History had glorified all her pain and duty into a single sentence: squashed succinctly into the bottom of a page inside a banned book.
Where were any of the sacrifices taken by all the others at Denerim? Of what it took to destroy the beast?
Would they still call her a hero if they knew how many times she cried herself to sleep at night? How she betrayed her friend's trust because it was ' the best thing to do'? Or how she almost abandoned her duties near the end? They didn't even spell her name correctly, let alone print her last name.
This was how the victors remembered history, wasn't it?
"What a ugly beast." Josephine murmurs, unaware of the after-life crisis next to her. "I hope there's not one of those out there."
Solona seconds that comment, in between the throws of stinging pain in her eyes lungs. "Knowing my luck, probably. Fuckin' darkspawn."
Josephine stands from her seat to return the book where it came from, a drive in her step. She reaches for her writing material, scribbling down her thoughts, muttering something about: "help from the wardens. . . ."
And it makes her ponder the thought.
Where are the wardens?
She hadn't seen any sight nor hair of them since waking, in a place where she thought there would be loads congregating. She knows the probable reason as to their absence. But she's unsure because if there was truly a blight, like their absence indicated, then why was there no calling so harrowing that it made her shiver?
Was this yet another change in her body?
Solona grumbles loudly, having just about enough of feeling like this: "Oh joy. "
No sooner did Solona leave Josephine to her musings that the young mage was surprised once more: a rather pale, but vertical, Calther hobbled through the main hall of the Chantry. Behind him, Solas and Adan trailing, looking concerned. Her own face probably mirrored the men - he looked barely coherent with all his sweating. Better than he had fared in the fade but still shite.
Warden Amell shoves to the front of her mind as Calther continues looking down, only looking up to see where he was going.
"You should go back to bed." She tells him, almost sternly, glancing over at the ducklings following. "You didn't think to keep him in bed?!"
Like all those before, Calther too swept past her: his mind steeled in reaching the War Room in one piece. And all that courage she'd been building up crumbled, compounded with the weight of her mark on Ferelden's history.
Though she hadn't verbalised it before, Solona had been holding out for Calther's acknowledgement. He'd experienced all the sights and smells of that ghastly realm alongside her, so shouldn't he be the exception? Realistically, it didn't make sense but there was a part of her that remained childishly hopeful.
How pointless of her. How useless of her.
'Is this my punishment?'
She cannot follow inside. The threshold of the door into the war room waits expectantly and, weakly, Solona can't muster up the courage.
There's a collection of gasps that arise when Calther enters the room. They come from faces that do not see her standing right here. It bares an unwelcome sadness that stops her listening in.
Disheartened, Solona turns firmly on the ball of her heel and jogs out of the chantry and through the town, ignoring all the things that could distract her. The only place that she could think of, where she could truly be alone with her thoughts, was outside of Haven. The lake.
Solona doesn't feel the cold as she passes those entering the town but the colours that bundle around their noses and ears signal that it is. Ironically enough, for someone who detested the cold in her first life, she's disappointed that even with her butt plastered on the ice that there wasn't a hint of discomfort.
Well, what did she expect? That things would change because she willed it to? That she wasn't this corporeal being that's wandered from the Maker's warmth? What even was she?!
"Tell me why I am back here. Please." Solona pleads with a voice as harrowing as a mother freshly mourning: dead leaves skirting on the edge of the lake where the waterfall has frozen over. Their staccato scratches hurt her ears and their mere existence adds fury, or tension, or maybe even the overwhelming sense of hopelessness to her breakdown. ". . . . I did what was asked of me."
Solona has to physically shake her head free of these thoughts. They weren't there before, back in time. When did they get here? Who scribbled over her psyche?
"Don't think like that."
"You're okay."
"You're safe."
"I am here."
She's here.
She's alive.
"Tell me how to walk the path you've chosen for me." Her voice becomes sharper through gritted teeth. The tear in the sky is a call she answered and her sense of duty rises past the fear. She's had time to adjust, to recover her soul and now, the call remains. "Please. I don't. . . ." Duncan would know. She doesn't know why he would know because he was just a man, just like her but in her head, he would. Duncan was calm and kind and nothing like her. If she called for help now, he wouldn't answer. Because the dead don't talk. And she was alive. "This path is shadowed and I cannot navigate this on my own. And, my magic. . . . what use am I without it? I don't know how to live without it."
Not everything is uncertain. There's a feeling of connection flowing in the air, nodes she had no tools to decipher their branches with.
The breach.
The fade.
The quirks of magic that entice her.
Calther.
Herself.
The wardens, or lack of.
Her once varying level of friends.
Especially the one called dread.
They're all here, undeciphered.
Just like she's here, undeciphered.
Alaistar would call her a mad woman for such trust in the unknown but doing nothing would also warrant such a comment: so she'd rather be the productive kind of mad than a weeping, lost soul.
There was no use in asking the Maker for his reasoning. Something about her awakening had irrevocably rattled her faith from its roots, leaving a hole in its place that she wasn't sure she could fill back up.
But Father, peace be with him, would argue otherwise.
Time had blurred her memories of him but this whole shitstorm led her to reflect on the man. She couldn't imagine fleeing his homeland, with several children in tow. But he did, all with a smile on his face. A tired one, mainly but one that held enduring hope.
It's not her faith in the Maker that helps her rise from the warmth of this melancholia, physically standing to her full height in the middle of the icy wasteland of the lake but the static image of her beloved Father: his face frozen with youth, telling her to not give up.
In her mind then, Solona declares for both the Maker themselves but for Father as well, to sit back and watch her persevere. Because if history was going to remember her as a hero, then she might as well own it.
And, maybe then when all of this is finished, the Maker can bless her with eternal rest. Figures after escaping the fade in such a dramatic fashion and tackling whatever fate had in store for her, she'd deserve it then.
Before she realises it, a laugh escapes her mind and skates on the ice around her. Its sudden appearance dissipates all the sadness that had followed her for days. She's happy, finally, for reaching resolution within herself. For finding humour in the pain. The kind of perseverance Father would be proud of.
Instead of the Maker, maybe it was Andraste that got her here. She had promised the deity an ale if she saw the other side of the veil, after all.
Would Andraste even enjoy an ale? Maybe a cider would be closer to her tastes.
"I'll be okay." The leaves across the lake have stopped dancing now. Her armour still reads: 'The Light shall lead me safely.' But unlike before, she sees it and smiles. "You'll see, Andraste."
Everything about this experience is unfathomable to anything dreamt up from Apprentice Amell, Warden Amell and Sookie Solona, who cried her first week in Kinloch but it's her reality. She would live in the absurdity of it all and thrive.
Perser-fuckin'-verance.
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Author's Note: Thank you very much for all the support from the first chapter. I'm taking my sweet time with this story but I am gonna give it my all :) Some of the wording may not flow as well as it does from A03, so if it looks off, that's why :)
Let me know what you thought.
Xxx Bevenstance
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