Solas' brow furrowed as he awoke with a throbbing headache. He moaned as he willed heavy eyelids to open, without success. It had been a dreamless sleep. Apparently even his mind was too exhausted to continue his search for Ell in dreams, as he had intended. The thought of her prompted him to open his eyes. He hoisted his aching body upright and looked around, as if expecting to find her there, having miraculously shown up while he slept. The sky was the same nondescript overcast it had been when he had fallen asleep. The lack of night here made it feel as if no time at all had passed, which only emphasized his fatigue. He rose to his feet and stared at the vast grey expanse before him. He could only hope that whatever corner of the Fade she occupied was more pleasant to look at than this.
Solas closed his eyes and reached for her. The low rumbling persisted. A cold draft hissed across his face, but he could feel only stillness. Silence… and the faintest pulse of her. Distant. And so he walked toward it.
...
Solas sat hunched over in an uncomfortable wooden chair inside a tent in the hastily built camp. Cullen was barking orders at soldiers and chantrymen alike. A servant brandishing a broom chased a wayward raven that had found its way into the infirmary tent. They had fled into the mountains after fending off Corypheus' demons. All told, the escape had been a success. There had been minimal casualties. Ell had been one of them. He had seen her plummet into a deep, rocky crevice, followed by a crumbling trebuchet. The grief of her loss was heavy, despite knowing her only briefly.
It was under the surprising weight of his grief that he had admitted to himself just how fond he had grown of the elf. He had tried to tell himself that he mourned only the loss of the figurehead that empowered a movement that had potential, perhaps the only potential in all of Thedas, to topple Corypheus and enable Solas to recover his artifact. But it was not the rueful re-imagining of his plans that occupied his mind now. Over the past few months, he had watched her brave hordes of demons that left grown soldiers shaking in their boots. She was attentive in battle, was never cavalier about the lives of her companions, carefully maintaining seamless barrier spells even as she summoned fireballs and sent them hurtling toward her prey. Her skill had grown as she incorporated some of his techniques into her casting, and he had even learned a thing or two. She was an impressive spellcaster, even by his standards. And yes, beautiful. But he had met many beautiful spellcasters in all his eons. The look in her eyes when he spoke of the Fade—curiosity, a hunger for knowledge. The questions she asked of him reflected a thoughtful, churning mind invested in knowing the truth of the world. She listened, and heard, and when she challenged him the challenge was earned. She was accepting when she was wrong, and he did not risk his standing with her by pointing out when this was the case. She was kind, and her kindness was unwavering. She was…safe, he realized. After a year in this strange, quiet world, he felt as though every step he took was over shattered glass, so wary were its inhabitants of elves, of mages, of apostates, of elven mage apostates. Now that she was gone, he realized for the first time that the only time he had felt relaxed in the past year—in fact, in the past several thousand years—were the few months he shared with her. As if she were the only thing right about this place. She had been gone only a few hours and already he felt exhausted. To know that she was no longer there to offer respite from the judgment and suspicion and ignorance of this world…it made him feel so tired. The anchor had been lost as well, which drastically shortened his timeline. He could not bring himself to strategize at the moment. He only sighed and dropped his head in his hands.
As he sat there, turning the unexpected feeling over in his mind, inhaled…pondering…exhaled…he became aware of some new commotion or other outside the tent. He paid it no mind until he began to make out shouts of "it's the Herald!" and "the Herald returns!" He pulled himself upright and peered through the open flap of his tent. He rose immediately to his feet as he recognized the elf limping across the valley and into the camp, held upright with the assistance of Cullen and Cassandra. He could not ignore the surge of his heart upon seeing Ell, alive. Still, the events of the past few hours had been revealing to him in a way that was both exhilarating and troubling. If she was the only thing right about this place, then there was something right about it. For now, he would allow himself to be glad for her safe return.
Hours later, Solas lay awake, trying to still his mind sufficiently to pass into dreaming. Cullen, Cassandra, and Leliana bickered over how the party should proceed. He tried to shut their voices out, but the sharp edges of their words seemed to imbue the very air with anxiety. After nearly the entire camp broke out into a reverent chantry song, it seemed that sleep would apparently not be welcoming him this evening.
"Solas?" It was a quiet, feminine voice, insulated from those outside by the canvas of his tent. Recognizing Ell's voice, he sat up, calling forth a sliver of magic to reignite the lantern beside his bedroll, and propped himself up on his elbows. She had changed into clean clothes, and had even washed her hair, though she still smelled faintly of smoke, and the cold had colored her nose and cheeks a bright pink, visible even by the dim lantern light. "Ell. It is good to see you survived. Again."
She stepped inside and sat on the ground beside him, instead of in the chair. "I suppose I should take the hint and just die already, no?"
"Perhaps the hint is lost on you. Clearly you are not meant to die, given your repeated failure despite your most enthusiastic efforts to do so." Ell snorted.
He pulled himself into a sitting position as Ell began nosily picking through the few books he had salvaged from Haven. For a moment they were silent. He found himself returning his gaze to her frequently. To confirm that she was indeed alive. To ensure she was still there. To discover more about this strange feeling he had about her. He almost wondered if perhaps he was under the same spell that had sent the camp into spontaneous song, and which had townspeople dropping to their knees before the Herald of Andraste.
"Your survival will only deepen their faith in the Herald of Andraste," he said.
Ell's brow furrowed and she responded, morosely, "I know. I nearly ran back out into the valley when they started singing."
He chuckled, and hesitated a moment before asking, "and what is it you believe? You wear the vallaslin of Mythal."
She continued to stare idly at the pages of The Nolader Anthology of Dwarven Poetry as she sighed, "I do not worship any god." Solas detected a hint of derision in her tone. "It is expected among my people to adorn oneself with the vallaslin of the Creators. It is as much a symbol of identity as it is a symbol of faith. I chose the lightest colored ink we had available."
"So you do not believe your gods existed?"
"They might have existed. All this," she gestured toward the opening of the tent, "has me convinced that they probably did exist, but if they did they were just people. Do you know not two minutes after I arrived to camp, a chantryman walked right into the infirmary tent to write his testimony of the 'Second Rising of the Herald of Andraste'?"
He knew this burden all too well, and he pitied her. And yet she had taken up the mantle of Herald, hoisted upon her unbidden, with a grace and thoughtfulness that reminded him of the very one she wore on her face. The thought brought a dull ache deep in his chest to a sharp point. That Ell may share the fate of the one he failed ages ago…
"Perhaps you are right. Or perhaps both you and the chantryman are right. You face a most formidable adversary. Faith can be leveraged. It is a powerful tool."
"It is a tool that is all too easily commandeered. The more I am the Herald, the less I am myself, and the less I am myself the less I steer this…whatever it is. I don't know. If I am to lead a movement I would have it know precisely what it is and is not."
Though she was naïve to believe she had any choice but to embrace the authority attributed to the Herald of Andraste if she was to have any hope of defeating Corypheus and his Archdemon, he admired her impulse to reject it.
She continued, with a bitter edge to her words, "Why should I not insist that if I am to have followers they follow me because I am good and wise? What kind of world am I saving if it remains a world that, were I not the Herald of Andraste, would sooner see me dead than sitting among its leaders?"
Suddenly the knowledge he held, knowledge that could empower one with her potential to achieve extraordinary things, felt so very heavy. That he would deny her this knowledge felt like a most abhorrent crime. For the first time, the thought of telling her the truth of her world occurred to him, automatic, fleeting, and easily dismissed.
She looked at him then. "I didn't have the chance to thank you for your casting today. It was a difficult battle and your efforts prevented many deaths."
"It is I who should be thanking you…for the opportunity to bear witness to a most unique and beautiful spirit." Solas regretted the words as soon as they left his lips. He had sat with his emotions for hours, and it was difficult to shake the sentimentality, unguarded as he was in her 's cheeks had somehow found an even deeper shade of pink.
"You must be weary," Solas said, seeking an exit from this conversation, "It would grieve me to keep you from the rest you have earned."
Ell's expression turned to mischievous excitement. "Not before I tell you!" she said, "I learned something I can do with the anchor," her eyes widening and an eager smile spreading across her face. Solas could not help but grin at her enthusiasm.
"I will show you tomorrow of course, but I can use the connection of the rift magic to pull a demon into position, immobile, all the while siphoning its energy. Anything in the immediate area suffers the effects. It almost feels as though I am sundering the veil, rather than reforming it. Your insights will be most fascinating. Surely there are to be more practical applications of this innovation, although I am eager to use it on those silly little war table figurines of Cullen's…"