Interlude
The door that the soldier had pointed at banged open as Fen'harel walked in, the strongest bottle of alcohol he could find in his hand.
"Mythal, we need to talk" he barked, eating the distance between where she was seated at the table and the entrance to her chambers. The two handmaidens that accompanied her quickly made themselves scarce upon seeing the pent up fury radiating from his expression. He would never direct it at them, but it was an instinct for them.
To seek shelter against their own rulers. Their own gods.
"My Pride, greetings." If the goddess was surprised to see him, she didn't show it. "Should you not be at some festival in Falon'din's court?"
He gave a humourless laughter. "I couldn't - matters at my own teritory detained me. I am, however, glad I did not participate. My behaviour might have been classified as undignified if I had." He spat bitterly, sat down and put down the bottle hard against the table with a loud clunk. They were now alone in the room and within the walls of Mythal's residence, they could speak freely.
"Too much alcohol?" She asked, indicating at the bottle.
"No, not at all. Wanting to decapitate the host may seem in poor taste." He finished sarcastically . "Did you know that Falon'din decided to mock Andruil and organise his own Hunting Game?"
"It's not that shocking." Slowly answered the All-Mother. She knew him too long and too well to think that this was mere gossip. She knew he was leading her, only beginning his tale.
"Of course, but this year he decided to introduce certain improvements to his game. Animals, you see, are vastly inconvenient - wild, smelly and expensive. But you know what isn't?" He asked even if he did not expect the answer. "Slaves."
The All-mother blanched. He moved in his chair, sat more nonchalantly, put his hand on the top of the bottle and absentmindedly played with it.
"They are cheap, well-behaved and expandable. Furthermore, thanks to the vallaslins they can be controlled - each and every breath. The smallest of movements." He said each and every syllable with deadly precision. "Choked with his own ingenuity, he made them - all nine thousand and seven hundred of them - wear animal skins and fake, fluffy tails. And then, he and his court set off on a Hunting Game."
When he joined the celebration, he hadn't expected such a spectacle, hadn't anticipated such sophisticated cruelty. It was a mistake to sent his agents there - they had to sit and watch with utter disgust as the god of death brought his gift upon hundreds that day. For Falon'din, they were nothing more than animals.
"Then came the second part of the evening's entertainment. Falon'din called it 'The will of the wild' . You see, in nature there are animals that are herbivores and carnivores. To accordingly imitate the intricate elements of our fauna and flora, he made some of the slaves into 'predatory animals' and made them hunt the rest. There were families, Mythal. Children made to slother their own mothers. Fathers were snapping the bones of their loved ones. Neighbours. Friends. The god of death wanted to see how far he could take the blood writing before it made their minds snap like twigs."
There was a scene in his mindb that he saw through one of his people. A forest floor - well made with the thick mattress of moss and low vegetation. Towering trees that remembered the very birth of this world. Rays of light puncturing the thick canopy and bathing the flowers in their warmth.
And blood. Blood everywhere.
"And do you know that is the limit? Only one person, one girl broke the spell. She bought enough time to kill herself before she could end her brother."
He could swear silver lined the goddesses eyes as she looked down and clenched her jaw so hard the muscles on her cheek were pulsing. Even if she used blood writing, she would never do such atrocities to her people.
"And then, came the last part. After two rounds, Falon'din wanted to see how his championed animals would do when they were faced with certain death - his private little fascination, as you know. So, he reshaped the valley itself. He raised mountains, steepened the slopes, reverted the flow of the rivers itself. All to create a perfect trap for his herd to be caught into. And then, to watch them all burn."
To say stupefied silence ruled the room would be an understatement.
"All nine thousand, gone. For a game."
"I am sorry, my Pride. I am so sorry." The pain filled her voice so thick it was overflowing from its cracks as she spoke. She lifted her head once again and looked at him. "After defeating the titans, I never... anticipated that it would result in such madness. But, we cannot-"
He interrupted her before she could finish the sentence. "The last war, between Andruil, June and Sylaise - it wiped out one third of their territories' population. Excluding nobility, of course."
Each and every atrocity was like another nail in the coffin.
"Ghilan'nain subjected her people to famine in winter because she became too engrossed in her corrupted research to care for anything else."
Another brick out of the wall of principals.
"Elgar'nan raped three woman at the party last week because he felt their bonded offended him and then hung their naked, mutilated bodes from the watch towers of his keep!"
He stood up, knocking the chair over with the abruptness of his movements. "We have conquered, bent or changed every law and boundary that this world had bestowed upon us. We wield boundless power with our own minds. We have leashed magic as we know it. We have achieved immortality. We have crawled our way to godhood. By the Void!" He walked to the balcony door and threw it open, letting the fresh, cold air assault the room. There was no ground to be seen before them - only endless sky. From one horizon to the verge of the other - the blue ocean of occasional clouds and passing birds. "We created floating cities! We have soiled the roots of this world with titan blood after destroying them! All of this - for what? To see it torn down from within?!"
"Rules and laws are necessary for every territory to exist and govern!" countered the All-Mother and also stood up. "You cannot just enforce anarchy. I do not deny their shortcomings, but there are traditions, there are principles that had created this Empire and had kept it together for milenia!"
"And how many milenia are left before us? To say that two would be probably too generous." He spat and stalked inside, like a predator on the lookout for his next prey. "If we do not take action into our hands, if we let ourselves be lulled by false sense of security and wealth, we will soon be watching our Empire crumble to nothing but dust with its People dead! We are letting them commit such atrocities on the main population, to treat it like nothing more than property! And then, the next big conflict between them will ravage what is left of the People!"
"I am aware of that, my Pride, and it pains my heart to see our People suffer! I, too, love them as my own!" The All-Mother shouted, but then closed her eyes and sat down again. She rested her head against her hands and thought for a long moment. It was not easy to settle upon a decision when she had the weight of an entire continent on her shoulders. "You are right. But what is there to be done? Are you suggesting I turn my back on my own family?
"I ask you not to turn your back on your People. All of your People."
"This is not so easy as you say. There are… considerations. I know that you are young and passionate, but be careful because such hot flames can both burn too brightly and end too quickly."
"It has already been pointed out to me on numerous occasions - that I'm still too young, too passionate, too proud, too self-centred, too delusional. That I walk the world of dreams too often - or not often enough. But if such are my crimes - so be it, judge me for them. However, make no mistake, for I will see our People free, Mythal, no matter the consequences. And I can only hope you will be at my side when I do so."
Chapter XII
When thy need is great, Mercy shalt turn Her back on you
Somewhere, in a different place, in a different time...
The door that the soldier had pointed at banged open as Marcel walked in, the strongest bottle of alcohol he could find in his hand.
"Pierre!" he shouted from the doorstep, smiled widely at the jerk Marquis and made his way to the table. He was very much aware that the eyes of the whole room were on him - just as he wanted.
He was breathing a little heavy as he just ran to the Chantry all the way from his cabin - with a detour to the cellar. He was also aware that he looked somewhat haggard, but definitely better than the poor noble before him. It was enough for him to look around the room once to understand that they had been seconds away from a horrendous disaster - Josie looked as terrified as Cullen was enraged. He was standing in his full 'I'm a very dangerous templar' mode, sword out and pointed at the ancient mage. The elf himself was also very serious about the situation, he was standing straight as a rod and for once with his head proudly high. Marcel knew that the humble, stoic apostate act was complete bullshit - the elf had a temper of a tempest when he allowed himself. He was a god of old after all.
As he walked past Solas he wordlessly mouthed to the mage: 'What the fuck, man? One evening!' . Marcel took in the elf's body language and rage radiating from him, an intimidating combination when one was aware of the mage's true power. The Herald didn't back off and levelled upon the ancient a hard look that communicated that he should calm down and let him resolve the situation. The ancient mage might have once been a god, but tough luck for him - Marcel was an atheist and didn't have time nor care for his angry tantrums. Solas inhaled deeply and relaxed his stance, letting the younger elf take control over the situation. For now.
Marcel continued into the room. Things have escalated enough to be a nuisance down the road. The last thing he wanted was for them to escalate further.
Rylen was the easiest case. The templar relaxed first, but did not drop his hand from the weapon. Somewhere in between rounds of training the Starkhaven man not only began to like Marcel, he also began to trust that the elf had both his mind and heart in the right place. The Herald reciprocated the man's sympathies - despite what happened in Kirkwall he was just and damn funny. Of course, the amount of bruises with which Marcel regularly left the sparring ring might shed a different light, but it was for his best.
The real battleground was not a merciful place and that still scared the shit out of him. There was, however, nowhere else to go but forward and either he would succeed at closing the Breach and stopping that Cory-shit guy or he might just as well tell Solas to nuke the world again.
Cassandra was torn, it was clear in her eyes. She wanted to believe Solas' innocence, but she was reluctant to fully commit to the offensive as it contradicted what she had been taught. So, Marcel decided to give Cassandra another reason. He walked up to her and presented her with an Orlesian greeting by kissing the air three times a couple inches from her cheeks. He used the proximity he had just created to subtly whisper in her ear "Orlais can not mix in Inquisition. Chantry can not do it. We look weak. We should do this alone."
As he stepped back he saw that his argument hit its mark. They were an independent organisation and if they wanted to establish their position in Thedas, they could not allow Orlais or the Chantry dictate the rules from the very beginning. It didn't matter what Solas had or hadn't done, if they allowed the Marquis to judge him in this theatre of the trial orchestrated by that chantry sister, most probably, it would be a political disaster. Not only would it mean that they were weak and lack any power, but only that they could not offer their members any form of protection. She knew he had befriended the Marquis the day before - by unconventional means, granted, but he did it nevertheless. Was he really that cunning or just blessed with inhumane political acumen? He moved like he was in situations like this before. She unconsciously relaxed a little and nodded once, hoping he was not a fraud.
Cullen was the hardest case out of the three - Marcel knew the guy had come a long way. He read the file Bogna had prepared on him and was honestly impressed with the change the ex-Templar made and his resilience with fighting Lyrium addiction. The last thing the Herald wanted to do was to make an enemy of the Commander or somehow have a hand in his return to the harmful substance. Yet, he could not let Cullen's previous experiences or trauma cloud his judgement or drive his decisions. He had already tried talking to Cullen but Commander didn't share the past easily - quite understandable. He for sure didn't trust the mages - and with such an attitude from the ex-Templar it would be hard to let a large number of them into the Inquisition, as they planned to do. Marcel was not sure what emotion dominated Cullen - if it was fear, shame or anger, but the man could do better.
And he did, fortunately. Upon seeing Marcel's arrival with clear intent to resolve the situation and the others stepping down, the Commander hesitated but eventually followed Solas' steps. Great - no Mexican standoff for today.
Herald continued his steps further into the room, greeted Josie in the same manner as the Seeker, emphasising her position in the room and moved to the chair next to the jerk of the Marquis that, unfortunately, owned the land on which Haven stood. Marcel made a quick sweep through the other part of the room - he had vaguely recognised the sister standing next to Solas. Bogna had shown him the woman at some point... Wasn't she the one of the three sisters that profited from the kitchen-queue situation?
"I look for you all morning!" Marcel gave Marquise his best smile and greeted him with a hug and fakekisses, signifying their friendly relationship. He had talked and 'negotiated' with the man the day before - hence his hangover. From what he had gathered, the Marquis was a racist, xenophobic scum that thought him both an inferior due to being an elf and a simpleton for not being an Orlesian. Marcel of course did not bother to correct him - it was easier to charm the socks out of the Marquis if the noble thought him incapable of it.
"Marcel, mon amie! Why you so damn cheerful? I not drink with you again!" The Marquise protested and put his hand up as he saw the elf put the bottle on the table between them.
"Pierre, brother, but it is not done!" Marcel pointed at the bottle, which was indeed half full and wordlessly signalled Josie to get him also a cup.
"We have deal, mon amie. I let you and Inquisition stay in Haven because you good fucking man," Exclaimed the Marquise followed by something Marcel couldn't yet understand" -but I like you, even if you a fucking elf. But, merde, this?" He pointed at the bottle. "You insane?" The Marquis protested further. He looked seriously sick at the idea of further alcoholic journeys with the Herald. Thought luck for him, for that was exactly the plan.
"Last one. Tradition of my people!" Marcel took the cup from Josie and unforced the bottle. "What is that?" The Herald asked, pointing at the apostate and the sister standing in opposition to each other.
"Well, I am owner so I do judging. And she-" the Marquis' gaze travelled to the sister as he started to explain the situation. Marcel didn't particularly listen to the man's explanations - he didn't care what the sister said Solas did and he understood less than a quarter of the words said anyway. Aside from that, he didn't care if Solas had really pissed off the vile woman - good for him if he did, sucks that he got caught. Furthermore, even if the mage had really done something fucked up, Marcel would prefer to deal with him accordingly, but privately with the inner circle. Again, this 'trial' was the problem and needed to end quickly.
So, using Marquis' lack of focus he poured in the alcohol in a way that one cup was full of the dwarven concoction and the other was mostly water that the Marquis hadn't yet drank. He nimbly switched the cups and passed the stronger one to the noble. It was a simple yet very useful trick he had learned from a lovely drug dealer he was interviewing on his travels in South America - a lively and colourful man that used to say: "You never know when you would have to drug someone!"
"To your... sister, Pierre. To Annabelle - long life to her!" The Herald made a toast and urged the Marquis to drink with him.
"Non, non mon amie. Work first, pleasure later." Since when did the blasted noble has such strong moral code? On the other hand, he was on his way to presumably screw over the elf, so this was both a work and a pleasure for him. Marcel needed a change of tactics - what could be more Orlesian then racism?
Ahhh - social and moral decay.
"You want talk work? Fine, fine. But then I, eeeh, changed my head and want to talk my sister, Bogna topic." he suggested in an off-hand manner and concealed a smile when Marquis' full attention shifted back to him.
"Ah, I see. J'essaie de te faire entendre raison." The noble gave him a knowing smile that made Marcel nauseous. Yesterday, that blasted Orlesian started a sonnet about his sisters' presumed beauty and suggested that for a considerable sum, he could make her his maîtresse. Marcel initially did not understand the concept, but Marquis politely explained to him that since he was already a married man, he could take lovers, even of lower station, to bring him companionship and entertainment in exchange for material goods and favours. While the noble was emphasising what a generous offer that was, Marcel was quietly debating smashing his head generously against the table. Only Josie's pleading eyes from across the room stopped him in time. Now, he brought back the idea to bait the noble and he sincerely hoped Marquis won't remember this conversation on the next day.
"You see? For good talk then." toasted Marcel again. This time, the noble agreed hastily and drank with him. The Orlesian was down with one third of his cup when he put it down and said, slurring heavy." Too much, too much. I can't finish…"
"Pierre, my friend - you have to." Insisted the Herald, showing him his own empty cup. "If you not, your sister and my sister not have long life. That not good, eh?"
"Non, non! But the judging…"
"I can finish judging for you." Marcel once again gave Marquise his best shit eating smile.
"You can? Oh thank you, Andraste give you round ears!" The idiot gave him a grateful look and for the sake of his beloved sister continued drinking. He very bravely went almost to the last quarter of the drink before he coughed, slurred something and then dropped completely sloshed and blacked out on the table.
Just as Marcel wanted him.
"Oh my! Your Grace?" Exclaimed Josie, very concerned and walked to the unconscious Marquis. She said some words quickly that Marcel did not understand - but he didn't have to. He had seen the rage on the Sisters' and the Chancellor's face as they observed the situation. The Chancellor was even shouting something but Cassandra was already closing the distance between them, matching him in the volume of her voice.
"... you, Herald, do the judging." Josie put a hand on Marcel's arm to get his attention and presented him with a page of her notes. He understood little of them - there were four points on the list. The first two were crossed out, the third one said something of an 'assault' and the fourth was just two words, written hastily and with an awful lot of question marks.
It read "Blood magic?".
He remembered Bogna's notes on the subject - he had also asked Wisdom one night at the true nature of the problem. He understood that it was not that simple as the Chantry presented it, but nethertheless, he was no fan of this branch of magic. He swore under his breath and looked at Solas, wordlessly mouthing: "Blood magic? Really?"
The elf just shrugged - shrugged! That little-
One step at the time - getting rid of the audience. Then asking a liar god in hiding what the fuck is up with him and blood magic.
"Thank you, Ambassador." He handed the notes back to Josie and looked at the Sister. "Thank you Sister. I..." Marcel hesitates. This language barrier was really getting in his way. He simply couldn't learn the language faster - even now he was getting the practice both in the walking world and then with the friendly spirits in the Fade and still he was nowhere near communicative. Dimension travel problems - how could he eloquently told the sister to fuck off if he could hardly build full sentences! "I see... the problem, thank you. I will judge. No need for you here - you have important things to do, hmmm? Andraste-holy ..." he searched his memory for the word the Commander sometimes used "duties?"
Fortunately, Josie - seriously, whatever entity existed on this planet, please bless this woman - hopefully caught what he was insinuating and started saying some very complicated words that didn't sit well with the Sister at all. Marcel spotted that Cassandra was already pushing the Chancellor out of the room - poor guy has no chance resisting the wall of iron muscle and will that was the Seeker. Not wanting to fall behind, he signalled Rylen to also show the sisters the door. They wanted to argue but Marcel just sent them his best smile with "Thank you for information. We take care of this." and watched as the door closed behind the unwanted audience, drunk noble and Josie trying to extinguish any possible political trash fires. And that left him with Inquisition advisors and Solas in the room.
Now the actual hard part started - Marcel really wanted this bunch of people to work together. To be real allies. To trust each other. For the Inquisition to be a real organisation to make some needed change without a bloodbath.
And that was the actual point of disagreement between him and Bogna. For the record, not the lack of bloodbath but how the Inquisition should work. Closing of the Breach was undeniably their biggest problem right now and the whole mess around it needed clever fixing. But the other side they could not ignore was how to try and avoid Solas going all Thanos. Bogna was looking at the whole issue as a problem to solve or a variable to control - she had already made at least five different possible scenarios. The most radical included straight up eliminating the issue - 'the battlefield is dangerous and full of surprises' she had said. Marcel categorically refused to consider it and as long as he had the Anchor, he got the ultimate upper hand. He also didn't fail to point out to his dear sister that by doing so, she was doing the exact same thing she was pissed off at the elf under all her calculated demeanour. And that was fucking the elf over behind his back because she believed she was right. Surprise, surprise - she didn't like that very much.
Marcel knew that she was more emotionally attached since she played the games and 'lived through' the elf's betrayal before. He conveniently didn't point out to her that she was pissed off because she was already emotionally attached and sexually interested - better for her to come to the conclusion herself. Gods, that is going to be one hell of a mess - Varric and him were already making bets.
The point was - they were both far from blindly trusting Solas - only an idiot would. But Marcel was willing to give the elf the benefit of a doubt. In truth, the siblings only knew one realisation of the future - a few possibilities of how events could unfold among millions of them. The ancient mage could not change the events that had already happened, however everybody in the Inquisition inner circle had some past, their own motivation and secrets along with it. At this point, Solas hadn't betrayed them yet - he had not left, he had not taken the Orb, he had not torn down the Veil yet. He was not exactly forthcoming with the information, but neither were they themselves honestly. It would be hypocritical to judge the ancient elf through the actions he had not committed yet.
Let the credit line begin now and Marcel sincerely hoped he was not making a mistake.
He stood up from the chair and sat more comfortably leaning against the table. No need to create metaphorical barriers - he ultimately came here as the mediator and tension breaker, not the actual judge.
"So, what did I ... hate... no, have to wake up for?" he asked nobody in particular in the room and waited for the discussion to break out. "Speak slow and simple, please." He added for good measures.
Cullen shot up first." ... threat of blood mage then we need to-"
"I am not a blood mage." Solas interrupted the Commander. He actually looked more offended at the accusation then concerned and that was almost comical in the end. "As I said, it is simply ..." aaaand he started a magic weird rant that Marcel had absolutely no clue what he was talking about. But Solas liked to hear himself talk about smart things and the Commander needed to let off some steam so Marcel left the two men to argue for a while and leaned on Cassandra to actually solve the problem.
"So, what's up?"
"A girl in healing tents. She ill and ... death near. Solas want to help, but his way is not ...hmm, clear. I never felt blood magic from him or seen any signs, but it does sound ... questionable." Either Cassandra had a particularly good day or Solas had gathered enough of her trust that she was unwilling to fully act on her hot-headedness and jump to more radical conclusions and actions. He also highly doubted that Solas either did blood magic (at least in Haven) or wanted to somehow harm the girl - both his intelligence and conscience didn't swing that way. Or so he hoped. Marcel could see that Cassandra was somewhat torn. She also wanted to help the girl, however as she did not have the full scope to really consider when it came to Solas. She was also ultimately educated in the Chantry ways, so he came up with a solution that left the possibility of helping the girl open and at the same time satisfied Seeker's need of maintaining security against blood mages.
"Maybe we see? We let him do his thing when we watch and if you see something wrong - you have free hand, hmm?"
She considered the idea for a while and then asked him without raising a question. "It is a risk..."
"Is innocent child life not worth risks?" He asked her, for he believed that it was.
Cassandra slowly nodded. "Then we can do so. But Cullen and Rylen will also be -" she said something he did not understand, but he could assume she wanted them both for either backup or for them to also see that Solas was not a blood mage and truly just wanted to help the girl. Good, one issue planned. Now, the second thing...
"Cass, the 'assault'. Any information?"
"Mathiew, a healer said was self-defence. Sister tried to slap Solas." Cass made a disgusted face at the Sister's behaviour.
That bitch. "Why healer not here?" Marvel asked. His testimony could be crucial!
"He not want to go against the Sisters." Reluctantly added the Seeker. And that was exactly why making food distribution in Haven independent from the Chantry such a vital issue - it gave them too much power. They had spiritual authority over people to begin with, they had respect - but when there were dishonest people in charge they could easily abuse that power. The healer didn't want to testify against the sisters because that would mean he and his family would not get meals in the Chantry - or they would be tried like elves and dwarfed. Marcel could bet the healer had better things to spend money for than buying food in the Inn every day.
"Will Sisters or Roderick make problem?"
"Well, that depends." Josie joined them, seemingly having already taken care of the drunk Marquise situation. When they have some free money, he would give this woman a raise. "Talked them. They want justice. The Marquise was to do death before you ... shared drinks" She grimaced as she tapped the damn list of 'accusations' on her notepad.
Fortunately, Inquisition as an international organisation did not follow any specific law - and that meant he got a free hand. Marcel grinned.
"They want justice? Fine. May I, Cass?" The Seeker looked mildly sceptical, but agreed.
"Hey, Solas!" The Herald pivoted to the two angry men that were actually already halfway done with arguing - great. "Double watch duty in Hinterlands! Justice done! We go to the healing tents."
To say stupefied silence ruled the room would be an understatement.
All five of them entered the healing tents just as the sun settled above the roofs of Haven - still around three hours to the high noon. On their way there they walked next to the queue and Marcel had the pleasure to watch another jerk being thrown out into the snow by his soldier friends for trying to skip before the elves. He gave them big thumbs up and mentally noted to offer him a beer in the evening.
Cullen tried to protest Marcel's idea with his trademark paranoia against all things magical, but Cass ultimately convinced him. Marcel thought that it would be good for Cullen to witness the good magic can potentially make. He knew that the change would not be rapid but again - one step at the time. One could not deny Commanders trauma, yet sinking only further into it instead of fighting it was counterproductive.
There were a few other healers around, but aside from that, the place was almost serene, with a deadly peace hanging over it. Solas led them between rows of patients to a cot occupied by a small, elven child. She didn't look older than four. Marcel quietly sat beside the girl and leaned in to inspect the child. The girl's blonde curls made her look like a little angel - even the Commander's precious scowl softened as he looked at her. She was sleeping but breathing hard with the characteristic crackles as she was inhaled and exhaled.
Marcel was no medical specialist but he knew that sound very well. Bogna's breathing had sounded the same shortly after... the accident. It sounded somewhat as if one was popping bubble-wrap inside her lungs. There was fluid in her airways and the sound was air trying to pass through that fluid as she breathed. Bogna had broken her ribs in the accident - her chest had been crushed and the lungs had been punctured. In consequence, blood entered them and the fluid built up from the further malfunction of the organ. The doctors needed to drain it - otherwise it would cause breathing problems and infections. And judging by the lack of antibiotics here, any infection could turn out deadly - especially for a malnourished child.
Marcel looked up at Solas and asked "Blood, water in..." and he pointed at the girl's chest. The honest surprise that entered the elves face at his question was confirmation enough even before the elf said "Yes, how did-?"
"That happen?" Interrupted him the Herald.
A shadow crossed the mage's face. Even millennia of lifespan could not hide a subtle tightening of his jaw, pained and helpless stare and sudden stiffness in his movements from Marcel's watchful eyes. "Not sure, healers find her later. But the explosion from the Breach was the cause."
And there was another missing piece of the puzzle - the reason why the elf was so invested in the girl's recovery.
The guilt was quietly and slowly eating him from the inside out. Every crack in her chest sounded just like a crack of the Breach he had - directly or indirectly - caused.
"You say you want help? How?" Asked the Seeker as much for the clarification as to break the silence.
Solas' gaze refocused as he answered the Seeker. "Yes. Pull it from lungs out the body. Not take power from the blood." He said more forcefully as he looked at the Commander.
"Risks?" Asked Cullen. One thing Marcel had learned by his once frequent visits to the hospital and listening to people's stories was that every operation, even the easiest one, wasn't without risks. The Commander probably got a similar lesson in the army.
"When I pull blood through..." Marcel had no knowledge of the words that left the elf's lips so Solas just traced his airways from his lungs through the trachea and mouth. "She choke. Not safe. I also pull through the body - but it is hard on the body. And she is weak and thin already. Also not safe. But better than slow death like this."
Why not use the draining needle and syringe? It would drain the fluid nicely and as far as he knew, Thedas' magic had no problem with fixing simple flesh wounds like one after an incision. Marcel didn't know the word for one so he just stood up and looked around. The advisors were asking Solas some additional questions as Marcel walked through the healing tent and found nothing. He then walked up to one of the healers and mimicked making a puncture with a needle in hope the man would have what he was looking for. However, Marcel was met only with confusion.
And then it struck him.
Medical needles and syringes were invented in the XIX century on Earth, the same for pleural drainage. Thedas was stuck in... let's optimistically say that aside from magic it was a late renaissance. They could have not invented them yet.
Could the ancient elves have it? Possibly, but he would bet if Solas had access to one, he wouldn't risk the magic and whole 'blood mage' circus. Still, better to check. A life was on the line and his totally-only-hobo-apostate-thank-you-very-much persona could burn in hell for all Marcel cared.
He took a sheet of paper from the healer and made a simple drawing of a draining needle and syringe. He had seen the procedure done three times to Bogna so he had a pretty good indicator of what they needed. Granted, he had to make some adjustments as even the ancient elves didn't have plastic, rubber or serial manufacturing to build the whole set of equipment - but the result was satisfactory.
He took the paper and passed it to the elf who made big eyes for the second time that day.
"This help?"
Bingo.
Marcel could see the neurons in Solas' brain frantically searching for an answer on why he had known exactly what the elf possibly needed. "Yes. Very much." Answered Solas slowly and looked again at the drawing. "But I see this only in the Fade. None in Thedas, none in Haven." Just as the Herald had suspected. "You know of it how?" Solas asked mildly interested.
Maybe one day he would be able to give Solas the whole, true answer - however, that day was not the day.
"I need half an hour." Marcel addressed the advisors, ignored the question from the elf and took back the drawing. "My sis at your hut?"
"Last I saw her." Confirmed the elf, still deep in thought about Marcel's medical knowledge. Josie subtly raised her eyebrows, but fortunately didn't fuel the gossip machine further.
Without further explanation, Marcel walked out of the tent in the search of his sister.
Herald walked without a second thought into Solas' hut and was greeted with some mild artistic disarray of empty plates, chocolate foils and shit ton of papers lying absolutely everywhere. It was a stark contrast to the last time he had seen the inside of the elf's hut - then it was hardly noticeable somebody even lived there.
He walked into the pile of blankets and forcefully pulled them off the bed. Bogna shrieked from sudden change in temperature. Marcel could swear she had been born full Italian instead of half to like warmth that much - even after living in Poland almost all their lives.
"Nuva mar'edhis banafelas i miol'en av ra, felafen!" (May your dick rot and the insects eat it, stupid wolf!)Throwing invectives like a trained sailor, she twisted on the bed with flawless precision. She would smack him with a pillow had he not anticipated the move and blocked her hand. He regarded with growing interest that the pillow was covered in a thick layer of ice.
"New tricks, sister dearest?" He raised his eyebrows, looking curiously at her new weapon. He was used to seeing her trying out magic then she was hanging out with Knowledge, Patience or Curiosity in the Fade but close up real life manifestation was just another level experience. He knew she hardly controlled it for now and yet he couldn't be convinced to be very much bothered.
Bogna's anger upon seeing him vanished as quickly as it had risen. "What do you need, brother dearest?" She blinked a few times, dropped the pillow, stood up and stretched her spine with a series of satisfying pops.
"Pleural drainage accessories - needles, syringes, antiseptics or anything that you have that is close to that or could be turned into one."
"Deadline?"
"Half an hour."
Bogna exhaled heavily and thought for a moment, chasing sleep away from her thoughts. "Then forget about a syringe. There is no glass blower in Haven and you would have to import one and supply the artisan with a blueprint of what you want since they don't have syringes yet - no time for that."
"The ancients had syringes. Solas recognised the drawing when I asked if it would help," Marcel waved his drawing before her as she gave him a grin.
"So maybe ask him if he by any chance has an agent in Haven that used to do them in Elvhenan." She proposed all too sweetly. "Just give me heads up so I can use what's left of my phone battery to record it." She winked at him but moved on to looking through her bag.
"One day, Sis. However, are you sure Cullen wouldn't have anything similar? He should have a lyrium kit he doesn't currently use - or we can get possibly a new one from one of the Templar's - maybe they have spares." Marcel asked - why hadn't he thought of this before?
"God no, they don't inject lyrium and don't give them the idea!" She looked almost comical with eyes wide open with alarm. "They grind it and then drink it with water like a potion. This way the saturation over time does not jump rapidly - I don't know what injecting the substance would result in."
Bogna dug for a moment later in her bag before she made an "Aha!" exclamation and pulled out a metal drinking straw - brand new, still in a little cardboard box. "That's the closest thing I have at hand. The light of the straw should be wide enough not to use a syringe if you angle it right and let gravity do its thing. If the fluid surface tension is too high just tell Solas to either manipulate the fluid itself or the pressure at either end of the straw."
"Being eco-friendly really saves lives!" grinned Marcel and took the straw.
"You bet it does! You can have it sharpened like a needle by a smith - should be easy enough given the amount of weapons they sharpen - maybe it's similar?" Bogna chuckled and pulled both out her antiseptic spray and hand-sanitiser. "I mean, we have these but I would also just bathe anything you use in clean, boiling water. That should also help." Bogna fished out a small bag of coins and passed it to her brother. Finished with the problem-solving mode, Bogna looked around the hut critically and started to clean up the mess.
Marcel met a laundress a few days ago in the tavern. She was a hardworking girl and he would gather that for a few coins she would complete the task in record time. There was also a smith specialising in daggers - that should do it. He leaned against a doorway - now time for the second reason why he dropped by.
"Great, thanks. By the way, the team and I set off to Hinterlands tomorrow. We will be away from Haven for a few days." he said.
"Yes, I know." She pulled the plates into one pile.
"And you remember Sister Marie? The one from the Queue problem?"
Bogna slowed down her cleaning and just leaned against the front of the table. "Sure, what about her?"
"She endangered the life of a child. And when Solas intervened, she tried to get him executed."
Sparks of electricity sizzled into the air as Bogna drummed her fingers against the table.
"Deadline?"