Too much happening, too little time to react.
Aevina cast a barrier up over herself just in time to dampen the blow from the fists of a Shade. But casting killed any chance of her getting away. Twin blows to her barrier, shaking her teeth. Too soon for a spell, too close to throw flame missiles; the ground under her was too uneven for a safe retreat. She let the staff hit the demon—twice to its cowled head, once to its pulsating fleshy middle. The metal thwacked where it made contact.
And still the demon bore down on her, swatting, claws sparking where it scratched her already-depleting barrier. The sound hurt her ears, like talons scratching glass.
Barrier almost gone now. Fenedhis!
She retreated, one, two steps, stalling the Shades' advance with the staff that was too smooth for her hands, the metal too conductive to heat that Aevina feared her palms would start smoking from her twisting and twirling it for basic attacks.
One more step back gave her enough space for a spell. Mana finally sufficient, she conjured an arcane glyph in front of her and exhaled, sending a volley of fire missiles flying.
She wasn't sure she hit anything; two bolts protruded from the demon's cowled head but they looked like real bolts, not the dozen fire ones she just launched.
Is it over?
Someone grabbed her hand.
"Quickly! Before more come through!"
A stabbing pain on her wrist, like the pain that woke her up, except this time nothing was blocking it. Instead, her veins opened like floodgates. Green flame flowed from her open palm and splashed into the gaping maw of the rift above her. It flowed erratically; she could feel it bubbling from a different source trapped inside her left wrist. For five heartbeats she was tethered to this arcane chain that the rift sucked from her hands.
The rift choked, sputtered, then burst like a bug, raining down demon ichor.
Out of breath, she looked down at her hand, worried for a second that it was wounded, then at the hand holding hers, tight around the wrist, then up...at an elf.
Direwolf. Her nightmare flashed before her eyes, like one of the million things zooming in and out of her mind since she woke up. Too many things, too little time to process...
The elf let go of her hand. He looked at Aevina like he recognized her. She asked him the first thing that came to her mind. He looked...pleased, somehow.
" I did nothing," he answered, smiling. "The credit is yours."
Aevina blinked away the pain behind her eyes. She turned her attention back to her hand, which stopped throbbing for the first time since she woke up. The scary templar told her this blasted, cursed thing was somehow tied to the breach. This?
"Whatever magic opened the breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the breach's wake. And it seems I was correct."
The two talked now, the scary templar and...a Keeper? He carried himself like one. He acknowledged her again with a nod and said something about her being a key to something.
A wave of headache. There it was again, that feeling that everything was dreamlike. Aevina tried to ground herself in her surroundings, to the people around her. But if this was a dream, it was too damn vivid and she was too damn in it.
The dwarf who carried the complex bow introduced himself. Chest hairs. Beardless. A surface dwarf, here of all places? Aevina quickly turned to look at the elf and realized for the first time that he didn't have vallaslin. Her eyes returned to the surface dwarf. If the elf was not Dalish, and he and the dwarf were in the company of a templar, in a village that once housed an Andrastian cult, then...
"Are you with the chantry, or—?"
The elf chuckled. "Was that a serious question?"
Aevina suppressed a frown. What she really meant to ask was if they were all Andrastians. She knew enough of the outside world to know that elves and dwarves do not serve in the Chantry; she ventured to ask this way rather than openly accuse them of—
"Technically I'm a prisoner," said the dwarf. "Just like you."
Fenedhis! Did I stumble into a shemlen cult?! What have you gotten us into, Deshanna?!
The angry templar made a disgusted noise, said something about telling a story to the Divine...and then Aevina realized the dwarf was ignoring the templar and introducing himself to her.
"It's good to meet you, Varric," she said, his name and face now registered in her memory, like the many names and faces she carries with her from one village or clan to another. She forced a smile at Varric, vowing to remember her fellow prisoner.
The elf, on the other hand, looked amused. "You may reconsider that stance, in time."
"Aww. I'm sure we'll become great friends in the valley, Chuckles."
The angry templar was not happy with the dwarf for some reason; the two exchanged words. Seeker, he called her; she tried to recall her name. Was it...Cassandra?
Meanwhile, the elf turned to her. "My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I'm pleased to see you still live."
"He means, 'I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,'" said the dwarf.
Aevina looked down at her left hand again, still unable to remember anything. She looked at the elf and introduced herself, but stopped before she could name and betray her clan. "I owe you my thanks," she said with a slight bow reserved for hahren.
The elf who was not a Keeper—Solas—returned her smile. "Thank me if we manage to close the breach without killing you in the process."
The rift exploded and healed over, and in that moment, Solas felt the world change.
The breach could be repaired, the Veil healed to minimize casualties. He may yet reverse the effects of his miscalculations. Underneath that, things started rapidly shifting, too. Plans, possibilities, priorities… It would mean more time to prepare and further his plans. The prospect of a quickling able to contain that much raw and ancient power was both fascinating and unnerving, but he set this concern aside in the meantime in favor of the biggest change of all:
There is still hope. For his atonement. For the path ahead of him. For his People.
Solas would have wanted to hold her hand again, if only to confirm to himself once more that she was alive in the mortal sense of the word and not a construct that somehow escaped from the Fade. He was hopeful that she would live and was surprised that she did. He was equally surprised to see her so different from the woman they had to feed with liquids. Or the little girl who manipulated her memories in the Fade.
Mana like milk and honey on his tongue… No. Giving, never emptying…
Solas dismissed that memory, dispelling it before it could fog his mind completely.
He made no unnecessary assumptions about the woman, and yet she managed to surprise him because of how easily she dashed his expectations.
Like how quickly she unlocked the wards he set in order to release the orb's power into the rift, and how she instinctively knew to shape it tightly like a blade, a form both solid and concentrated that it pierced the heart of the rift and sewed it close like a wound. He saw how she flinched and vigorously shook the fingers of her left hand afterward, each small, innocent movement securing the wards again like lids closing tight. At rest, she kept it calm and subservient, even as her mana ebbed and flowed and raged around it.
She said her name was Aevina. Three syllables that sang, melodic like the ancient tongue. It meant nothing in elvish—it was gibberish, yet another invention of the Dalish in a poor attempt to imitate the language they lost. Mythal's mark framed her dark eyes, and Solas couldn't help but wince at the idea that she likely had celebrated the day her elders branded her as someone else's creature.
Curiosity burned; he couldn't help it. "You are Dalish, but clearly away from the rest of your clan. Did they send you here?"
She threw him a quick glance before returning her attention to their path. "What do you know of the Dalish?"
"I have wandered many roads in my time, and crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion."
She tensed a little; it was brief and he wasn't sure it really happened until the stiffness in her voice confirmed it. "What do you mean by 'crossed paths'?"
Ah. Skittish like halla. Out of all the words he said, she honed in on that. He turned his disappointment into sympathy; it was this wariness and over-vigilance that allowed the Dalish to survive for generations, after all. "I mean that I offered to share knowledge, only to be attacked for no greater reason than their superstition."
The silence that followed was brief but fraught, accentuated by Varric's comment.
"Can't you elves just play nice for once?"
That did not improve the situation at all.
Solas didn't mean for his words to sound harsh or condemning, but he also couldn't see her expression to judge how his words were , nothing followed and she seemed to withdraw internally again.
Silence it is, then, if that's what she wishes.
That silence stretched long. It was obvious she was distracted. She kept her thoughts to herself, engaging only when asked. She made an effort to hide her emotions, sometimes running ahead of everyone so she could furtively brush her eyes and nose which now turned red. Just as Solas began to feel the urge to reach out with a few words of comfort, she hardened again, a wild determination sculpting her sharp jaw and pressing her lips into a stiff line. He knew then that there was nothing he could say to lighten her burden; she would only blame it on the biting cold.
She seemed more composed at the forward camp, a little more confident now that she had closed two rifts. There was also a hint of fire in the words she threw at the cleric who threatened to have her arrested and imprisoned again.
"Isn't closing the breach the more pressing issue?"
And a hint of bitterness when she turned to Cassandra and said, "Now you're asking me what I think?"
He pointed out that she had the mark; if she didn't see it as a leverage then he would remind the others himself. She then grabbed that opportunity and made good use of it, picking an option he wouldn't have chosen himself.
The mountain path. It was a shortcut, faster but ultimately more risky. The Seeker did not look happy with that choice, as well, but to her credit, she honored Aevina's decision.
Perhaps unable to help her own curiosity, the Seeker asked, "Why did you choose the mountain path?"
He and Varric were just behind Aevina at that time, exchanging foodstuff from their soldier's ration; he surrendered the dried ham from his allotment in exchange for Varric's thin wedge of cheese. The dwarf scarfed it all up then washed it all down with the rest of the wine he won from last night's game of Shepherd's Six. The bread was hard and would have paired better with hot soup, and the cheese was a little pungent. But Solas had been fed too much watered-down honey and bitter steeped herbs in uthenera to complain; he promised to himself to give anything tasty a try, especially food with texture to tantalize his mouth.
He was so lost in the food, he almost missed Cassandra's question. But he caught Aevina's answer.
"In my clan, we don't leave our warriors and hunters behind."
A noble sentiment, however misguided. It won't do for modern warfare, judging by recent wars. A King would have survived Ostagar had there been enough soldiers with half of Aevina's loyalty to her own people. Alas, she was set in her mind and her ways. Not that Solas expected differently; the Dalish hardly veered from their slave programming even after thousands of years.
Varric, on the other hand, seemed to have a newfound twinkle in his eyes upon hearing this, especially when Aevina asked the Seeker for more potions on his and Varric's behalf. The writer looked like he had just found his next and newest hero—a mysterious Dalish mage this time—to spin a yarn around.
Too bad, therefore, that she proved less and less the typical masterfully-skilled hero as she fought the demons that spawned at the third rift at the end of the mountain path.
Solas went to her this time after she closed the rift. She was bent over, leaning a little too hard on her staff and catching her breath. She was shaking her left hand again, fixing the wards back. Her trembling fingers were going to reach for one of the potions on the bandolier strapped over her chest; they lingered in the air, hesitating, before she dropped her empty hand.
She recoiled when he stepped into her view. It was an automatic reaction. There was fear and panic in her eyes for a second before recognition made her huff, sending her breath steaming into the frigid air.
"Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine."
"Let me help."
"I'm fine."
"Would you rather die?"
A flash of fear and panic.
"Allow me to help, da'len. If you die under my watch, the Seeker would have me chained again."
And now a flash of anger. "She better not."
It was an ill-timed jest on his part, and yet Solas couldn't help but still smile at her quick and defensive reaction. "Then at least let me ease your exhaustion."
She still eyed him suspiciously but she relented with a nod.
He took a step closer and channeled mana to his free hand. The Fade was thin enough to tease wisps from the aether, like ducklings following a soft whistle. They sunk into her weary body, warm and yellow like sunlight bathing a frozen pond that was waiting to be thawed.
She moaned, long and breathy, deep as the spirit healing that warmed and repaired her body. It was born of pure relief, an honest bodily response, but it was also an almost-sinful and obscene sound. His ears burned. He realized that Varric and Cassandra turned—almost violently—to the source of the pleasurable moan, and they found Aevina with her eyes closed, hugging her staff, and Solas standing next to her, one hand pressed against the small of her back.
He quickly withdrew his hand and the wisps flew back to the Fade in a flurry, their purpose fulfilled. By then, it was too late for him. Varric was grinning widely, probably writing smut in his head already. Meanwhile, the Seeker scowled at him; he knew she had a low opinion of him, and he doubted he could say anything at this point to change it.
Unable to do anything else, he just took in a deep breath and sighed. He could explain what he was doing but he quickly shut down the idea; he would only sound defensive and would likely embarrass Aevina, too. It would only make things awkward.
"Ma serannas," she exhaled, straightening her posture, and it was his turn to be stunned at the realization that it had been such a long time since he had heard the ancient tongue spoken outside of the Fade. The other Dalish he encountered never thought to use elvish when speaking to him, perhaps believing he wouldn't understand a word of it; she, on the other hand, immediately assumed he would.
She opened the palm of her left hand and looked at it with wonder. "Even the burns are gone," she said under her breath.
"You burned your hand?" he asked, alarmed. "Is it—?"
"It's this staff."
Her palm had healed over completely that Solas could not find traces of anything to diagnose. It took another painful second before it all clicked.
The clumsiness in switching the staff between her hands. The attacks that missed their target half of the time. The wincing while twisting the staff and the spells that fizzled quickly at the tail end. The barriers that wobbled, too heavy and imbalanced like a bubble sinking into the ground, too ungainly to float or hold its shape.
"You're not accustomed to metal," he said, finally realizing what was wrong.
"No, it's not that, it's this staff, it's too—hot and—and— cramped. Like it's not the right size for my spells. Fire's not my natural affinity."
There is no such thing as arcane affinity, and she is not used to fighting demons in the company of people who are not Dalish like herself: that is what's wrong. But Solas knew it wasn't the right time for that discussion, especially not if she would be patently Dalish about it.
Varric and Cassandra approached them at that point.
"It's a fire staff," said Aevina, this time to their companions. "I'm used to lightning. This is too hot and slippery for my hands."
It was metal, heavier and smoother than the Dalish's wooden staves that she was clearly more accustomed to using. Solas knew this but again refrained from saying anything; he just sighed.
Luckily they had been looting dead bodies along the way. The Seeker collected one of two of the soldier's pendants so her people could document casualties and inform the soldiers' families of their passing. Varric found trinkets, unsent letters, and secret notes that told new but familiar stories. Aevina gathered anything of value, like a practiced scavenger.
"It's alright, I already have a replacement," she said. "Let me just switch staves."
She produced a lightning staff that was clearly Chantry-designed. It was made of a lighter metal wrapped with a grip of woven cloth and strips of thin leather. While she tested the weight and grip of the staff, Solas caught a meaningful look from Cassandra.
"Her hand, is it—is she—?"
"Let's not test her limits, Seeker," he said. "She's as well as can be hoped considering her condition. But we need to get to the breach as soon as possible."
"Understood."
They did not tarry long after. The missing squad that they thought was lost now had a clear path behind them, and the path ahead to the temple looked free of demons as well.
"It was worth the risk," she told them.
It was a relief hearing those words. It meant she understood the weight of her decision when she picked it. She knew, but she picked it anyway…all because her clan didn't leave anyone behind.
Impractical strategy in a long, sustained battle, but for what it's worth, it's a sentiment Solas can respect. He had once believed in it himself.
"Was this vision true? What are we seeing?"
She pulled her arm away from Cassandra's grasp. "I don't remember!"
Beside her, the mage—the hahren who isn't a Keeper, the flat-ear who understood the old tongue—pointed his staff into where the apparition faded and where the rift currently cast its sickly green glow over everything. "Echoes of what happened here," he said. "The Fade bleeds into this place."
He went on to explain how the rift needed to be opened before it could be properly closed and healed, and when the angry templar said, "That means demons," Aevina finally, uncontrollably, gasped for air.
Too many demons, far more terrifying than everything she had personally encountered before this. Creatures that she only saw in her dreams now hit and hurt, pounced and slashed, as solidly and as truly as any bear or wolf or darkspawn she encountered in her life.
Blindly, she followed the elven mage as he led her to a position where she was supposed to stand to open the rift. But the entire time, all Aevina could think about was how she was alone and so far from home. How she wasn't able to send word to Aethenril and Mahanon to not follow or look for her. Go home, sister, she wanted to tell Aethenril. Don't endanger yourself by looking for my body. Take all my possessions; whatever you can't give away, bury them under a tree…
If she died here, among the shemlen, she would be alone and forgotten. Like the warriors in the Dales were forgotten. Like Shartan was forgotten. Like all elves are forgotten after the dust of conflict settles.
A dead elf is nothing to the world. A corpse is just a corpse. Doesn't matter what it fought and lived and cared and died for. Doesn't matter who or what it loved, or that it loved at all.
Poor elf, lost elf, far from home, dying alone… Aevina blinked back her tears and steeled herself.
The angry templar gave the signal and Aevina raised her hand to the sky. She opened the floodgates and let her heart sing one last desperate prayer to the silent elven gods, beseeching any who would listen.
Mythal, All-Mother, protect me.
Elgar'nan, All-Father, avenge me.
Andruil, Huntress, guide my staff.
Falon'din, Death, stay your hand.
A cloud-like shape formed in front of the rift then rapidly morphed into a giant demon with spiky scales the color of a ruptured vein on a day-old corpse. It had a deep laugh that seemed to come from the dark empty caverns of the Fade.
Dirthamen of the shadows, cloak me from danger!
She struck her staff on the ground as lightning arched and sizzled over her arms.
Fen'harel, trickster, take them: take them all before you come for me…
I will not go easily!
The Pride demon stomped around, all six monstrous eyes scanning around the small waited, staff raised to cast a barrier but not willing to do anything more until he was certain it wasn't her.
Lethallan, he whispered, pleading for an answer.
The growl that issued from the demon was the tortured cry of a different spirit.
Solas sighed in relief. It wasn't his friend, not his Wisdom. Only then did Solas allow himself to return to the fight with all the limited, mortal might that he mustered.
The demon growled and for a second froze and seized, and when it returned to form, its bruise-colored rough carapace gleamed with the sheen of a freshly-generated guard. It laughed when a volley of arrows merely glanced off its thick metallic skin.
Solas cast a fresh barrier on the Seeker but held off on any offensive spells; with a demon of this caliber, he knew the fight would take long. He maintained a steady assault of basic ice missiles and kept some mana reserved for spirit healing.
Cassandra hacked away at the demon, timing her arcane expulsion to coincide whenever the demon braced for a powerful skilled attack. She barked orders whenever her breath permitted, signaling as clearly as she could before she launched her own powered attacks so that Varric, Solas, Aevina, and Leliana would know when to hold back and when to unleash their own abilities for maximum effect.
In his periphery, Solas could see Aevina dancing gracefully with her lightning staff's basic attacks. Twice, she quickly cast her barriers over Varric and Leliana, who were in the middle range of the demon and were being hit by aftershocks of force and lightning coming from its clash with the unwavering Seeker and two other frontline soldiers. She was quick to disrupt the Pride demon by attacking the rift, and only after it was weakened did she unleash her offensive spells.
And then a fresh wave of lesser demons spilled out from the rift, and suddenly, they all lost their focus and rhythm.
They were not coordinated at all.
Aevina suddenly ran all over the place, not realizing that she was luring all the lesser demons and making herself a bigger target than the others.
The archers stayed on the Pride demon, taking advantage of its size, not realizing that Leliana was signaling for archers to pick off the lesser demons. Aevina went to Leliana and cast a barrier over them both before running away again and stopping midway to try and disrupt the rift. Her attack on the rift was for nothing when two demons followed her and slashed her back, talons scratching the barrier. She was unharmed but also too terrified to stay put and attack.
Varric, on the other hand, ran. He tried to reposition himself to a place where he could pick off the huge target, but he never seemed to find a satisfactory spot. Solas realized that the dwarf, for some reason, suddenly grew instincts for self-preservation where there used to be none. Until that point, Varric gave him the impression that he didn't care whether he lived or died, or was confident enough that no scratch or injury would harm him seriously. It seemed as if Varric had just now realized that he was in real, mortal danger. And now, that fear made him care more about not getting hurt rather than landing blows on their enemy.
And Aevina? She was attacking then running, thinking she was fighting alone against the half dozen Shades, assuming, perhaps, that the Pride demon simply watched her from the sidelines while waiting for its turn to attack her. She seemed to have forgotten there were others fighting on her side.
She wasn't entirely wrong. All the archers were focused on bearing down the Pride demon. Cassandra and Varric focused on it themselves; even Solas used all his basic attacks on it, casting barriers on Cassandra before he realized the chaos. Leliana was killing the demons that attacked Aevina, but the effort was taking her a long time because her targets were moving fast, on the heels of Aevina who was running in circles like her armor was on fire.
No wonder she fell unconscious.
The Shades left the fallen Dalish mage and found a new target in Leliana, who was the closest. Solas immediately ran to Aevina to revive her. She gasped then breathed back to consciousness, raising herself on all fours.
Solas grabbed a health potion from the bandolier strapped to her chest, and once she was sitting on the ground, relatively recovered, he poured its contents down her mouth. She sputtered but managed to drink most of it down.
"Barriers, da'len!" he shouted over the sounds of lightning piercing armors and shields, of arrows and bolts whistling through the air and the maniacal laughter of the Pride demon. He checked her eyes to see if she still had control of herself. If not, he would have to stay close to her and move her arm to disrupt the rift every chance they get.
"I'm trying!" she choked back.
Her eyes were dilated, jet-black centers floating on pools of rich brown irises, but they were otherwise clear and focused.
"You waste it on offensive spells! Those expend your mana faster!"
She coughed, swallowed, shook her head. "Basics don't help!"
That's when he understood: she was holding a lightning staff, the one element that the Pride demon was resistant to. That's why she was only using her offensive spells on the lesser demons.
But that one spell ate up almost all her mana each time she cast it, and even when she got enough to cast a barrier, she instead waited so she could cast another energy barrage.
He huddled closer. "Barrier," he said, pressing firmly on her forearm; "basics," he said, pointing his staff at the lesser demons crowding Leliana, "and disrupt," this time pointing at the large rift directly above them.
For a second she looked like a defiant child, but she soon nodded, defiance turning to determination.
And then Solas felt her hand press against the palm of his hand—a vial of lyrium.
"I can't," was her only explanation.
"Any more?"
"Two."
"Take one." He uncorked the one she placed on his hand. It tasted the same as the lyrium he took yesterday, and he understood, then, that she was unaccustomed to the lyrium as he was. "Do it," he said, then stood up and cast a fresh barrier on them. "No use holding back now, lethallan!"
The lyrium finally hit the bottom and exploded into his bloodstream. He felt himself towering over the battlefield before shrinking back to his actual height, his veins now choking with the fresh deluge of mana and magic waiting excitedly to be unleashed. He faced the Pride demon that was now preparing to launch a whip of lightning. "Do everything now, or die!"
The lyrium was cold to the touch, colder still as it traveled from her tongue, down her throat, to her gut, where it pooled on her empty stomach and burned.
A conflagration spread rapidly throughout her body, heating her up.
It's there, da'len, but you don't need it to cast magic. It was Deshanna's voice, morphing into her father's. It poisons the Circle mages that's why they're subservient.
She winced as the heat from the lyrium also lit up parts of her body that had only just healed. I could die today, I don't want to, but I need the poison, only a little…
She picked herself up, or felt like the lyrium picked her up, because it flooded her with restless mana that also made her heavier, weightier, like a boulder crushing the ground by just standing still. The mana spilled from her open mouth and nose and ears, riding her breath to escape her chest. It felt like drowning on dry land.
She channeled the overflow to her staff and felt her mouth, throat, and lungs unclogging.
Don't preload your staff with mana, da'len. It was her voice now.
Why not? the snotty boy asked.
You will grow too dependent on the staff, she said. Watch me.
She slowly lifted the preloaded staff that had grown heavier with raw, erratic lightning.
Barrier, said the elf mage, pressing her arm.
The barrier she cast thrummed, thick and bright but also vibrating too fast and too loudly, like the shutters of an aravel fighting a raging storm.
Watch me.
She danced. A careful and practiced choreography led by muscle memory, staff turning and swirling between fingers and hands. It launched arcs and balls of lightning at the Shades. Each successful blow pressed on her body, a soft thud, like each attack was a rubber ball she threw that bounced back on her palms.
And when the Shades were gone, she disrupted the rift, enjoying the heavy power she brought to bear on the green-white tear. And when the arcane link overwhelmed the rift and broke the connection, she watched the Pride demon fall on one knee.
The lyrium was running out; she palmed her chest, found another vial of lyrium, and hungrily drank it.
Another swell of fire, brighter and hotter than the first. She laughed, unbidden, tickled by the fullness of mana. Laughter continued to bubble up and she threw her head back, surrendering to cruel delight. A witch's cackle. This is power, true power, unmerciful and unrepentant, and she had just used it to obliterate lesser demons with her spells. One look at the Pride demon and she knew she could shred its guard into nothing.
She is drunk with it, staff almost flying from her hands as she bore down on the demon's defenses.
Its guard was filed down to nothing but the demon rose to its full height once more. It conjured a ball of lightning in its hand and Aevina knew it was coming for her. And she sneered at it.
The ball of lightning sailed through the air, on a collision course to where she stood. She cast a barrier. Why dodge when she can test her limits by embracing it? She is powerful and she is lightning incarnate and—
She was knocked down. Lightning shocked her bones, wresting a scream from her lungs; intense pain arched over her skin, rattling her like a doll. She couldn't breathe for a few seconds as the lightning turned her mana into embers.
The demon laughed and swatted its hands, sending a soldier flying through the air.
Her body burned up like a fever that bit into her bones. Her mana crumbled like sand on her tongue. Steady, she told herself as she slowly picked herself up. Steady. Her barrier decayed like a snowflake.
A lightning whip cracked loudly, sweeping the air in an arc; Aevina saw its path and quickly jumped out of its way. Her head hit the ground and rang her ears, but she managed to escape the whip. Barely. Her staff fell next to her with a clang and rolled away, and for a second she worried she broke it from her fall. But she willed it back and it flew back to her hand, and it held when she used it to pick herself up and prop her weakened body upright.
Blood and scorched mana mixed on her tongue. She wiped the thin trail of blood and sweat above her upper lip. Her mana was low and the lyrium burnt away quickly this time.
It was power, it was poison, it was gone. She no longer had any vials left. All that remained was anger and terror and sadness at her impending doom. She knew, then, that she let Pride swell her sensitive ego as she rode the waves of her first intoxicating taste of lyrium. It only powered the demon's attack against her.
Focus, da'len! It was Deshanna's voice, but it was also her father's.
She took a deep breath and tapped into her dwindling pool of mana. Steady. She channeled it, directed its flow like a breath, let it collect while she threw sparks and arcs of lightning with her basic spells. Her training took over, muscle memory retracing the steps of a defensive-offensive dance. Quiet steps, da'len, do not wake the demons… Swing up, step, twist and swing down, following her father's large footsteps, one-two-three. Once she had sufficient mana, she molded it into a spell and released an energy barrage. It didn't matter then that the demon was immune; Aevina was not holding back. She pulled back her staff, pulled at the stray mana, then contracted to hasten mana pooling, like inhaling and holding, holding, holding, until the mana was enough again, enough to release one huge exhale, with force, all stored mana exploding into a spell that sent twelve bolts of lighting flying to its target.
In this short routine played over and over, there was no space for anything else but survival. Run, reposition, barrier, attack. Then papae's lessons on grounding, which turned into Deshanna's lessons, then to lessons she taught Imani and Gahariel.
This was easy, familiar, something she could do, but it was also somehow new. Like she had many hands holding her staff, holding it aloft, striking it down together: this arcane dance that was drilled into her muscles and that she drilled into her apprentices'. Hands that disciplined her, and hands she disciplined. Her hands, but not all hers.
Brown hands, wrinkled and spotted with age, hard like her tutelage. Again, said the Keeper's voice. Again, until you master it!
Big hands, scored by hard labor, calloused by many fights and different staves broken by misadventures. Warm and reassuring, the same hands that cupped hers over the first flame she ever conjured, the first hands that taught her to love magic…
Thin, bony hands, red with fresh scrapes from the grip of a smaller staff, fingers impatient but tempered by her own. Imani, da'len, she said to him, patience, child, you will get there.
And small, chubby hands, fingers full of love and spoiling, curious but terrified as she gently guided them to feel the magic blanketing the vhenadahl. It's not always bad and ugly, Gahariel, she whispered to the child, whose small hands trusted hers. Sometimes it's pretty and good, too.
She shouted in rage as she let loose another energy barrage. The mana that smoldered earlier now burned again with a different fervor. She is angry, for the difficult decision her clan forced her into, for fighting a battle not of her making, to benefit people who hunted hers for simply existing.
A barrier enclosed her. Not hers; her barriers were destabilized by her first lyrium crash, weeping and oozing, only to dissolve too quickly. But this new barrier was solid, anchoring her in place so that she could twist and turn with her staff without feeling like she was slowly sinking into the shadows with each step she took. She knew this barrier, tasted its essence in her body when he healed her. It was Solas's.
Maybe she wasn't alone after all. In spirit and in the flesh, she felt the presence of other mages—old ones and a new one. She continued her attacks, renewed now by the memories of her loved ones and the kind concern of a stranger. Their hands propped her up. Hands of people who were cursed like hers, blessed with power but burdened by responsibility. For the first time since waking up, Aevina did not feel alone. Her gods are silent but her memories—their memories—are alive in her: her father, Deshanna, Imani…and little Riel, awakened too young to magic. They are the reason she was in the Conclave, why she now works with people who imprisoned her, sacrificing her life on a battlefield and facing down the largest demon she had ever seen.
All twelve bolts of lightning from her energy barrage landed on the Pride demon's body. Finally depleted and defeated, the demon let out a scream as it fell on its knees. It crumbled into ashes and disintegrated with the cold wind.
"Now!" Cassandra shouted in her direction. "Seal the rift!"
Aevina raised her left arm, opened her hand, and willed the power inside to blast into the rift. This was bigger, a wider tear in the Veil, and it wept to be healed. The tear itself sought for connection and Aevina gave it her newfound power, like a lifeline. Take it! If she wasn't gritting her teeth through the effort, she would scream at the rift. Take it all away from me!
Just as quickly, that lifeline turned into a chain that enslaved her. Her body seized as the rift sucked at the power, sipping traces of her mana and blood and soul, turning her life force into a healing membrane to seal the gaping portal. She could feel them pressing against the skin of her palm, spreading her fingers wide: forces on the other side of the veil, the hungry and the unwilling, waiting for their turn to escape or else screaming to be released from this chaotic stampede. They were hurting for fresh air, pushing against the membrane she was building over the tear.
She was the only one stopping more demons from crossing over. Her skin prickled, mana and blood agitated. She was slowly draining of power, like the rift was slowly and painfully sucking her through a reed-straw. She felt it again, a sense of impending doom, death banging on her ears, or was that her pulse fighting for dear life? She was starting to feel lightheaded…
Faces flashed before her eyes again, papae on the back of the wagon, mamae placid on her cold bedroll…
Desperate, she prayed once more, falling again at the feet of uncaring gods.
Mythal, protect me. Deshanna, forgive me...
El'garnan, avenge me. Mahanon, protect my sister...
Dirthamen, shroud my presence. Hide my clan from danger...
The rift was indiscriminate in its hunger. Her fingers grew cold, feet trapped by weariness, her head heavy on her shoulders, leaden, like her eyes that fought to stay open, even while her muscles cramped and her lungs tightened into one prolonged exhalation that squeezed the air out of her.
Andruil, guide Aethenril. She is one of yours...
Falon'din, do not forget me. Do not let them erase me from this world...
Her body felt petrified and hollow, an empty husk chained to the rift. Her breath grew thinner and thinner, the beat of her heart slower but louder like drums beating in her ears. Shadows muted the sounds around her and slowly ate the light, edging closer and closer…
Fen'Harel, you have found me. I am tired of running. I yield.
Her throat closed, a thin breath escaping her like a death rattle.
Dread Wolf, take me...I am yours!