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datawesomenessdoe-blog · 7 years

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TFtCS: Scientific Standstill

Melissa darted across the street towards where she last saw the strange man, a stern gaze of determination plastered on her face as she charges through the bullet-hell monsoon. Her teeth grin as the powerful wind grabbed at the loose ends of her plastic cloak; at this point the poncho was only a restraint, so the aggravated wizard ripped it off like a layer of plastic skin, it being released and tossed around through the air until the black void of night consumed the vibrant yellow. A group of enforcer-craft soon hovered a few blocks back, most likely where they’d meet up with Lynn. “Dammit!” Melissa shouted, determination and anger inflating her vocal chords. “VAAUBAN. SHOW YOURSELF.” She took a firm stand in the one-lane alley, foot stomping in a puddle, its wet contents splashing against her boot. Melissa balled her fists as a thin aura of purple engulfed her outline, yet despite its lack of thickness, the color was extremely opaque and potent, almost radiant. Her steps slowed; the sound of an opposing sprint coming to a halt. Her irises hadn’t change color, but rather, they had multiplied. Between the magician’s naturally-colored green eyes and her blackened pupils sat a thin ring. It was exactly the same as her aura: thin and opaque. As she slowly strolled north, a metal door to her left gave the tiniest creek, but this was still a conformation for the young woman. She aimed a hand at the door, opened it, and squeezed it once more. The staple-shaped emergency handle was crushed under the weight of Melissa’s magical power, the door being pried off from its upper hinge with extreme ease. The sounds of wet, hard-sole boots clack against the concrete surface beneath and the door is aggressively slammed shut, a crack in the gate’s top barely revealing the outside world. It was pitch black, well, aside from the small amount of light Melissa’s body had been shining with. While her aura was a bold shade of light purple and could easily be seen from a distance, it still failed at acting as a colored flashlight. The man lunges up from behind one of the many metallic containers, a makeshift Harbinger pistol in hand. He fires, the charge of electrified plasmic matter brightening up the room with its blue-white energy. Under normal circumstances, a high voltage handgun would’ve been enough to instantly kill an average armorless human, along with sending their body several feet away. However, Melissa merely backhands the dense ball of electrons, sending it into the iron wall to her left, the surface being slightly dented due to the amount of force. She grunts and approaches the man, grabbing him by the shirt collar, the patchy armor over his body in a similar design to the gun; old Harbinger metals, silver and sleet, chipped away at the ends, rusty bolts holding its form together. “M-Melissa…! W-what brings ya’ around here?” Vaauban forces out a fearful laugh, his artificial eye darting around the room with his biological one. Melissa grunts and tightens her grip, lifting the scrawny man up from the ground, her aura of neon color seemingly thicker as it flutters a white hue. “Gah! Alright-alright-alright! What-do-you-want!?” His voice echoes through the closed shop, they both being concealed in the back room. “Just what in THE FORERUNNER’S GOD DAMN NAME are you doing here!?” The fist squeezes, leaving Vaauban with barely little air as he’s indirectly choked. “Let me guess, you want to do just what you did to New Harmony? I should just kill you here and now.” The glow outlining Melissa’s unused right arm flames to a point, sharpening to a single, arched end, almost like some kind of elongated sickle of desaturated purple. “WAIT-WAIT-WAIT!” The old enemy aggressively wiggles and shakes in the wizard’s grasp, afraid for his life. “C’mon, it’s me! Good ol’ Doctor Gallagher!” She cocks back her arm, teeth grinding with hate-filled anticipation. “M-Melissa! We’re both wise Harbinger doctors, surely we can be civil!” The magician looks down, her eyes shaded from what little brightness was in play. “No… The Vaauban Gallagher I know died a long time ago… You’re no New World Harbinger, you’re a TRAITOR!” The woman swings, but finds her surely-swift movement to be rudely interrupted. The city, no, the whole planet rumbles beneath her feet. She drops the man, then covers her ears as a ping of sound echoes across the world’s atmosphere, masking the sound of enforcer sirens that approached from the distance. “SHIT! I’ve been using it for too long!” Vaauban goes into a sprint for the only remaining door, dashing to get into another portion of the store. Melissa lifts one arm from her head, trembling under pain as she struggles to form a circular barrier around the surviving exit. Her aura of power begins to dissipate, becoming translucent as she becomes ever-more weaker. A sudden burst of plasma stuck the woman along her face, registering her nearly blind. “Listen Mel, I like you and all, but I’ve got a feeling that if who I think just entered the orbit really is that person, well, they might like you more than me.~” The purple circle fuzzes away, letting Vaauban easily walk right through its once-protective body like mere fog. “I know your weaknesses; no vision, no grasp over your power. Now if you’ll just hand over the Shard, well, I’ll be on my merry way.~” He extends his free hand, HV-Handgun still being tightly kept in the counter. Despite the clear threat against her very own life, Melissa takes the situation quite oddly. Chuckles leave the downed woman’s maw as she looks up with a pair of beady, useless eyes. “V, you’re pretty dumb for a doctor; you know that?” The metal door that had been previously broken was met with powerful kicks from the reverse side, leading to a sudden jump from the man. “I have two friends with me. One’s a self-trained comissionist, and the other a retired Nullifier unit, so I’d get a move-on.~” Vaauban growls from the extensive pool of fury that found its way inside of him. “This won’t be the last time you’ll see me Melissa!” The scientist makes a break for the only free door, his broken, Harbinger armor clattering as the metal opening slams shut. Just as the criminal makes his escape, Davy’s robotic fist impacts on the opposing side of the sealed gate, sending the sheet of metal flying across the room. As the door is punched-in, the captain lunges forward, most likely from the abrupt amount of abnormal thrust that her extremedy generated. Behind her are Lynn and several Enforcers, some human, some not. Their armor is decorated with colors of deep blues, along with multiple tints of yellow and gold. In their arms are multiple same-modeled Impact Blast Cannons, assault rifle-esque machine guns that work more with strength and raw force, rather than the electronic pulse that Vaauban’s HV-Handgun had to offer. “Haha! I did it!” Davy poses atop the collapsed wall piece, her legs both split, one taking a knee and the other extended while her metal arm held down against it’s abused surface. The shaking becomes evermore violent, causing the redhead pirate to collapse down onto her knees. “Okay, look. We gotta’ getta’ move-on, now!” “Davy’s right! Listen, I have NO IDEA what in the world’s goin’ on here, but we need to go, NOW.” Lynn leans over and tightly grabs Melissa’s wrist, lifting her from the ground like a fallen soldier, her synthetic palm reassuring to the blinded female. “Wait…” Suddenly, the rampant shaking ceases. All is quiet in the city as thousands of flying cars all rest on the ground, the portion of the city that the protagonists have found themselves in not as empty as it once was. Davy, Lynn, and Melissa, along with the group of Enforcers all exit the structure with haste, the police heading in the direction in which Vaauban evaded. The three remaining trying to see just where the boom of sound originated from through the metal hedges that made the urban setting. Nothing. All was quiet. Another forceful shockwave suddenly juts out from Hammerspace, followed by one of the largest spacecrafts that any of them has ever seen, something that they have only seen few times before. The ship was ridiculous in size, taking up nearly the entire sky as a fleet surrounds it. Hundreds, possibly thousands of Vanguard frigates blip into existence around the colossal beast. “Is that…” Melissa begins to speak, still being able to see the gigantic foreign object due to its shear magnitude, even with terrible vision. “The Hammerhead Conclave…” Lynn finishes, staring up with an open, white-pupiled eye. She stares in a masked awe; the Hammerhead was a Vanguard ultimate-class ship- one of only three in existence. “Does this mean-” “HELL YEAH!” Davy shouts down the corridor-like streets, her excited voice echoing for an undistinguishable distance. “Brother’s here!” Triumphant, childish laughs escape the bold woman as her hands straighten and raise into the air, almost as if her new idol’s mere entrance is something to party about. Suddenly, the air heated up and everything slowed down, coming to a complete halt after ten seconds or so. Melissa looked to her left and right, jumping at how time had come to a seamless stop before her. An orange orb flew over from the invisible half of the hammerhead, it heading right towards the young wizard. Directly in front of her the figure landed, its torso twisting and rotating before falling to a knee, the other leg propped up with a hand held against its upper portion. The glow faded, leaving Brother in its place. He looked up towards the mobile Melissa, his singular eye scanning her body as his thick, orange aura pulsated. The many grooves in his metallic wires also pumped with the fluid-esque substance. “So.” His voice boomed through the soundless city as he honed in on the singular human. “Looks like I was right.” He stares and speaks in a flattened tone, clearly disappointed, whether in the woman or himself seemingly unknown. “W-what’s going on here!? Why has everything just stopped all of a sudden!?” The tiny, frightened organic began to panic, darting over from object to object for a quick, yet deep inspection on any kind of mobility. “Ahh… So you’re unaware of the Armaments’ properties… Allow me to explain. My crew had managed to detect a small, sudden eruption of Lunar Polarity coming from this exact location. We had a hunch that it couldn’t have been Sister, well, that was until the source of energy grew to unholy proportions…” Melissa stops running, looking up to the crouched Sapient as his soft, British tone explained with melancholy. “Dammit Vaauban!” Her hands became fists along the purple robe that she bad been baring, only to be stammered in her tracks. “Wait, so why exactly is everything frozen?” “... The Armaments have time-based powers, as you would probably know. This allows those powerful enough to have some control over time, the more of the Armament, the slower they can change progression. Despite this, all who have a Shard are in relative time with the slowdown.” His upper eyelid lowers, its left and right corners lifted higher than the center as his right arm lifts and extends, palm up. “Give me the Shard that you bare, and we’ll pretend that you didn’t steal and use a military superweapon. Fair?” He sits with little movement, leaving Melissa time to observer her own, much smaller appendage. A small piece of some strange, otherworldly symbol fizzles into her hand from Hammerspace, it being the blue shrapnel that the High General desired. “I don’t care that I’m Vanguard and you’re Harbinger; we both hate our enemy just as much, so help me keep her from gaining this power.” Brother’s eye turned back into its uninterrupted shape, a luminescent, red circle of compassion and sympathy. “...” Melissa stared at the floating object as it dropped into her fleshy palm, looking like nothing more than an old piece of metal that had been ripped from vehicular disposal. It was tiny, but the amount of power that could be siphoned from its depths was unimaginable. “No.” She boldly claimed, the end of her limb now clenching back whole with the piece of hardened material protected in the confines of her fingers. “Listen, I can understand why you’d want this, but I’ve kept this Shard of Luna protected for three years. Even though Sister wants my friends and I, Nemesis will surely be back for Davy’s blood, and without any Shards, we won't be able to stop her.” Eyes lift up from the unphased road, Melissa now looking dead into the godly robot’s visionary orb with her own. “If handing this over means risking my friends’ lives… Well I refuse to just hand this over. Kill me if you need to, but keeping my friends, my family, my Davy… It means keeping them safe.” Her chest swells with a huge breath, the sound of air leaving through her nose being the only audio left to leave the human. She was scared, possibly even horrified! Brother could easily kill her if he wanted to, and could definitely get away with it. However, he merely closes his eye and lowers his hand, a sigh of both disappointment and fatherliness escaping from his metallic, energy-making lungs. “McGregor. During the war, I wished nothing but your very demise; all Vanguard did. I’m well aware of who you really are, even if your friends aren’t. But I believe that your intentions are true, and while saying this breaks literally every single line that I’ve been told to follow…” The eye opens, well-relaxed accompanied by a gentle sound of relief. “I’m actually going to trust you. But if you lose your Shard of Luna, or anything happens to your accomplices… the punishment will be most severe. Am I understood?” She simply stares down at the item, taking half a minute just to look back up at the superior force of nature. A smirk dawns upon her face, closed lips and a thankful look meeting the High General, followed by a reassuring nod of the head. “Yes Sir, but let’s agree to keep this a secret, alright?” “Agreed.”

#TftCS #Tales From the Cosmic Sea #My Writing

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irlaimsaaralath · 7 years

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Aftermath [Solas/Lavellan]

This is primarily an exercise in self-indulgence. I tripped on @galadrieljones and her analysis of the variety of Lavellan options during the final Solas romance scene, and I fell hard into some feelings. I can’t have that, so gotta work that shit out. Nothing naughty below. Just typical fantasy-type violence, romantic-type grief, and some partaking in self-destruction.

This would all take place after their last romance scene, but before Trespasser. And the **** just indicates a change of perspective or location. Or something.

P.S. - It’s wicked long, so I’m putting it all below the break.

P.P.S - If someone were to accidentally art a fist fight between Cullen and Solas on behalf of the Inquisitor, I wouldn’t hate it.

The door to her quarters swung shut behind her, clicking as the latch fell closed. So late in the evening, the hall was largely unoccupied, and each of her footfalls echoed off the stone. Dorian and Varric sat engaged in a game of Wicked Grace at the far end of the hall, with Krem and Bull as spectators. All were caught within the frame of light from the hearth’s fire. Their voices filled the emptiness with boisterous laughter, but as Niyera approached, they grew nearly silent. They all looked up at her, some more subtly than others, but only Varric spoke.

“Inquisitor! Just in time to see Sparkler be humbled by my mastery of Wicked Grace! Have a seat and join us,” he invited, his tone of voice upbeat and welcoming as it frequently was when he was setting up a con or a particularly embellished story. Her eyes barely strayed from their forward gaze, but when the firelight caught them, Varric could see they were darkly rimmed and hollow. She offered only a few words as she passed: “Thank you, Varric, but no.” There was no inflection in her voice, neither happy nor sad – it was just uncomfortably flat. With nothing further, she exited the hall.

Dorian shifted in his seat to watch her departing form before passing a concerned and meaningful glance at Bull. Krem had already begun to rise when Bull’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. A silent understanding passed between the men as the Qunari rose, followed after the Inquisitor, and disappeared into the night. Dorian’s mouth twisted at one corner, and he made a sound that was rougher than a sigh and possessed of a deep and definite vexation. Tossing his cards face down on the table, the legs of his chair made a skin-crawling screech against the stone as he abruptly stood. “I need something harder to drink,” the Tevinter stated before departing for the tavern.

Varric threw down his cards as well and scrubbed a rough hand across his creased brow. Krem leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped between, as his eyes cut to the side. “How long is she going to do this?” he asked, and Varric could only shake his head as he tapped his deck of cards against the table sharply. “Until the outside hurts as much as the inside.” The dwarf slipped the cards back into their box and tucked it within an inner pocket of his vest before he looked dubiously at Krem. “Hopefully, she’ll still be alive when she reaches that point.” Varric’s broad chest heaved with a sigh and he shrugged his coat over his shoulders, saying, “Look, I’ll see ya later, kid,” as he made his way out of the hall as well.

****

Almost every night for the past two weeks, she’d been going out on her own. She always had an excuse – a small camp of Red Templars, reports of minor rifts, red lyrium smugglers. “Nothing I can’t handle on my own,” she would say when offered company or an extra pair of eyes to watch her back. It wasn’t that any of them thought her incapable, it was simply that she was beginning to seem lost.

What had passed between Solas and the Inquisitor was known to the closest of her circle – her advisors, Dorian, and Varric. Surprisingly, or maybe not so much, Dorian had asked her permission before filling Bull in. Cassandra knew the long and the short of it – she wasn’t big on details and just wanted to know which appendage she should break first. And, Cole. It was impossible for her to hide anything from him. He saw through her as if she were made of glass. Solas during this time kept mostly to himself – if he was at Skyhold, he was buried in a book, and if he wasn’t at Skyhold, he was off to himself in the Fade somewhere. The rest of them were vaguely aware, but largely went about their own concerns.

At first, she was angry, and that was reasonable. Beyond the initial sympathies and lamentations, everyone knew to just get out of the way. A storm mage in a rage is capable of unleashing a tempest, and none of them wanted to be caught in that. Only Dorian dared to get close during those days and even he did so with the utmost caution. But, there is only so long a cyclone can survive its own destructive forces before it burns itself out. Much in the same fashion, her rage eventually became unsustainable, and like a rift, it collapsed in on itself. By increments, she became despondent, all but stopped eating or sleeping, and turned in on herself. Never once did any of them see her cry.

In turn, they all had expressed their concern only to be blithely turned aside after being thanked for their troubles. Even Solas had attempted to reason with her, but she had sharpened her tongue for him. She effortlessly turned all of his words back on him, and their assault was brutal and punishing. When it became evident that he was causing more harm than good, he bowed out rather than continue to exacerbate the situation. That’s when she began her nightly excursions. Even the most trifling report of trouble or disturbances warranted her personal attention, and she eschewed any offer of assistance. Even when she came back wounded, she disdained the healer’s touch for her own remedies, seeming to prefer to suffer the prolonged pain of natural healing.

At times, the severity of her wounds were troubling, and she offered little in the way of explanation. A lapse in concentration, she might say, or simple miscalculation of her opponent’s ability. Eventually, they agreed that they should attempt to covertly keep closer tabs on her, but she was becoming more and more adept at losing them in the darkness. It didn’t help that she had commissioned a new suit of armor for her adventures, trading in the loose drape of the green leather robes she had preferred for a set of ebon-dyed silverite brigandine over chain. With her cowl drawn to hide her brilliant white hair, she blended into the shadows like one of their own and was as silent on her feet as the specter of a sigh.

****

It had taken more effort than usual to lose Bull, but when she was certain he was no longer shadowing her every step, she made her way to her target. There had been reports of a resurgence of Red Templar activity in the Emerald Graves. Like blighted rodents, she mused as she sat perched beneath an outcropping of rocks set high off the road. The vantage point gave her the benefit of observational range while providing adequate cover. In her crouched position, she braced an arm against her knee, while her free hand rested fingertips on the rock underfoot to steady her. She had been watching a crimson spark against the horizon, and it began to grow, splintering off into several separate motes of light as it drew nearer.

One would think glowing red would be a detriment to secretive travel at night, but the templars seemed oblivious to that logic. She was willing to forgive the folly in their decision-making as it made her job that much simpler. In a line along the winding path, each figure grew more distinct, and she counted seven separate individuals. There also seemed to be a load of raw red lyrium in tow. It had been so long since the Inquisition had cleared the last of the templars from the Graves that perhaps it had given them a false sense of security. They might have imagined that attentions would be elsewhere. No matter, she thought. Or, at least it wouldn’t matter for much longer.

Across their path, she laid down a static cage trap and slowly made her way behind its trip line. With any luck, the bulk of their number would find themselves within the barrier, and she could pick off those that scattered one by one from behind. As she dropped from the crown of boulders, her feet were the softest whisper of leather on the grass. She sat poised in a crouch, waiting, waiting, wound as tightly as a spring as she balanced on the balls of her feet. From the harness on her back, she took her staff in hand, gripped at mid-length, and readied herself.

This was what she came for, this feeling. It was like diving from a steep cliff and into a pool of water. Apprehension and excitement roiled in her belly, her heartbeat quickened, and before she ever moved, anticipation stole her breath. The world narrowed in these few precious moments, shrinking her breadth of thought to a single sharp edge. There was no room left for heartache or grief, no allowance for insecurities or doubt. No time to feel shattered on the inside, with just the membrane of her skin tenuously holding the shards in place. It all fell away, and in those few moments, she wasn’t broken.

When the first templar stepped on the cords of magic she had woven across the road, the scent of ozone filled the air and static crackled. Like threads on an invisible loom, tendrils of electricity met and meshed as they rose up to form the walls of the cage. She could smell the metallic twang of blood and the acrid notes of charred flesh as the rising barrier sheared through the first templar, depriving him of a leg. His screams were ragged as he fell, taking two of his comrades with him. That left her with four outside the cage. They splintered off as she expected, and taking a deep breath, she strode from the shadows.

Wisps of white hot energy spilled from the corners of her eyes as she chanted an incantation, and the remaining templars turned as one when they heard her. They charged, and she waited. When they were just close enough, her eyes flared a brilliant violet, and she slammed her staff into the ground. Lightning crawled outward and collided with the templar at the head of the pack, and he was thrown violently through the air. From his body, the energy forked, splintering into jagged barbs that pierced through the men immediately to his right and left. The electricity was conveyed to their skin through the metal of their armor, drawn by their swords, which acted like lightning rods in a thunderstorm. With no further fanfare, they dropped like sacks of rocks.

The last templar still on his feet outside the cage howled with fury, and the lyrium protruding from his skin flared violently as he rushed her, sword raised overhead. She met the blade with her staff, parrying the attack with some effort, then using the momentum to spin away from him. Even as she pulled an empty hilt from her belt, threads of magic spiraled down her arm and through the cold metal, materializing a blade crafted of her will alone. When the templar brought his blade to bear again, she met it with her own. The hum of the magic was palpable as the swords slid against one another until the hilts locked, and she was staring down the lyrium-crazed man over the V of their swords.

For certain, her strength alone was no match for his, but she drew from the well of her power, channeling it through her body and into her blade. A growl of effort left her from behind clenched teeth as her boots dug into the ground, and inch by inch, she began to push him back. His voice was a snarl as waves of invisible heat distorted the air around him, and the lyrium in his skin pulsed with radiance. He used the additional leverage of his height to gradually force the cross of their swords lower between them, and when she was sufficiently off balance, he threw all of his weight behind a punch that connected with the full measure of its force.

A coppery tang filled her mouth and her vision blurred as she staggered backward, losing her grip on her staff and barely managing to cling to her sword. The pain in her jaw and cheek was white hot, and she reveled as it washed over and through her in waves. Pain could be like a salve – applied properly, it could be a balm to the deepest of wounds. She was only distantly aware of a tickling sensation on her neck as blood wept from the corner of her mouth and the tear the templar’s gauntlet had left in her cheek. All of her attention was invested in willing her eyes to focus as she stretched out a hand toward the templar. The refrain of a spell spilled from her lips, and just as ripples of force began to emanate from her, she heard a high-pitched whistle that only preceded by seconds the arrow that ripped into her right thigh. She cried out, but all the breath left her when she felt another blow to the back of her left shoulder. The second impact upset her balance, causing her body to cant to one side even as it pitched her forward and onto the templar’s awaiting blade.

Time slowed to an impossible crawl as she felt the recoil of energy from her sword snap back into her arm, and her face came within inches of the templar’s. Her gaze panned down, and it took her a while to make sense of what she saw. The tip of an arrow was protruding from just beneath her collarbone on the left, and the templar’s sword was buried halfway into her right side. It was a passing thought that the only thing that kept his strike from being fatal was the fact that the arrow’s impact caused her body to turn slightly. The red glow of the lyrium embedded in the templar’s armor throbbed and fell menacingly across his features, distorting them, as he gripped her shoulder and drove his sword hilt-deep in her flesh.

Before her mind’s eye, regrets glittered like so many pieces of shattered glass, tiny mirrors that threw back at her all she was leaving undone. – Though sensation had left her fingertips, she pawed at the templar’s armor, vainly trying to find a handhold as she felt her legs trembling beneath her. Instead, it was his steadying hand on her shoulder that guided her to her knees as he let gravity pull her off his blade. – Bits and pieces of memories floated at the edges of her mind. Her clan and the forests she’d run as a child. Becoming the Keeper’s First. The Conclave. Sparring practice with Cassandra. Chess with Dorian. Solas’s lips on her bare skin. Though she looked unerringly into the templar’s face, it wasn’t him she saw. Shaking with effort, she raised a hand as if to touch his face, but he roughly caught her wrist. “I-,” she whispered, another trail of blood flowing anew from the corner of her mouth. “I wish I could hate you,” she managed at last as her eyes grew unfocused and her chin dipped to her chest.

****

Though time for Niyera had seemed to stand still, around her, it simply wound onward as time tended to do. Only one templar within her cage was yet alive, and he watched the scene unfold. She’d taken more of them down than they had anticipated, but it mattered little as he saw the first arrow strike her. The dregs of the dwarven Carta she’d attempted to dismantle were all too happy to lend their assistance to the templars and their deliciously twisted plan, and it was their arrows that flew out of the darkness. Expectantly, he waited for the walls of his cage to fall, as he knew they eventually would, but a gurgling noise drew his attention to the nearby crown of boulders. It would have been impossible to miss the mountain of a Qunari that he found there, fist crushing the throat of a Carta bowman. Though, by then, the second arrow had hit the Inquisitor, driving her onto his comrade’s blade. It was far too late now to stop what had begun.

As the severity of her blood loss grew more dire, the magic stabilizing the static cage’s walls ebbed away, and the templar was finally free. He hobbled over to where the Inquisitor was knelt, passing a glance to the raging Qunari only yards away. He was still engaged in neutralizing the Carta as their numbers drew from the shadows and set upon him. As the templar neared his objective, he stumbled, fell, slid on his knees, and sidled up to her from behind. “No, no,” the other templar said, slapping the elf’s cheek several times briskly. “Not just yet, Inquisitor. Stay with us,” he finished, and though she seemed largely unconscious, her head canted upward. From his pouch, he withdrew a small vial, and the blinking of her eyes was like the flutter of hummingbird wings as he waved it in front of her. The liquid within the vessel glowed with the same angry red that grew from the templar’s armor and lit his eyes from within.

Her eyes seemed to follow the vial as he waggled it in her field of vision a moment longer, but they never quite seemed to latch on. With a jerk of his chin, the bearer of the vial glanced at the templar at the Inquisitor’s back and spat, “Hold her.” Heavy hands fell on her upper arms, pulling back, straining the wound in her shoulder and her side as he bent her body back. A delirious groan was all she uttered as her head lolled to one side before a painfully tight grip on her chin pulled her face back to meet the templar’s gaze. He wanted to look into her eyes for this and shook her chin just enough to summon a hint of focus back to her eyes. Only when he had her attention did he shove the glowing vial of concentrated red lyrium into the rend in her side. The fire that erupted along her nerves pulled from the dryness of her throat what might have been a scream had she the energy, and he leaned forward to seethe harshly against her cheek. “The Elder One sends his regards,” the man’s words had no sooner died on his lips than he drove a gauntleted fist into her side, shattering the vial inside her against her ribs.

Pain exploded in the back of her eyes like a shower of white hot sparks, and the surge of adrenaline revived her voice. She screamed raggedly, and the pain that rippled through her lasted for only a heartbeat, maybe two, before an unspeakable agony took its place. Scarlet torment painted itself across the canvas of her mind, filling her head with a thousand raucous whispers and searing flame across every nerve and sinew. Her eyes snapped open, pupils so swollen they swallowed the green of the irises. Violent spasms wracked her body, and the templar restraining her arms was no longer able to control her. Her arms now free, hands that had been useless earlier finally found purchase on the templar across from her. Her grip was iron, and he struggled against her hold to no avail. The man at her back rose to flee, but when he turned, he found only the terrible edge of Bull’s axe as it cleaved into his face.

Veins of crimson rose through the whites of her eyes, luminescing, and misty red webs of energy slithered down her arms. The agony building at her core was a riot, loud and violent. It choked off every coherent thought she had and wriggled itself into her deepest reaches until there was nothing left but the torment and its insistent urges. – Within her body, the taint of the red lyrium clashed violently with the magic of her mark, and when the energy in her hand crackled to life, it was scarlet. All at once, she felt everything and nothing. She teetered on a knife’s edge as the last bits of consciousness that were her own fought the rising tide. But, in the end, she wasn’t strong enough, and the two forces competing for dominance within her coalesced with all the fury of a firestorm. The resulting explosion of force blew outward, throwing Bull and the templar backward through the air. When the last of the energies snapped back into her body, she was left a writhing mess of raw nerves and guttural screams.

****

Krem had fallen asleep in a chair by the fire, which was little more now than a heap of smoldering embers on the grate. Arms folded, head drooping, his legs stretched out with his feet propped on a stool, and he snored softly every few minutes. It was peaceful and still in the hall, but that soon changed. The tremendous doors of the hall didn’t swing so much as they crashed open with such force that they slammed back against the walls. Ever the soldier, Krem was on his feet and had his sheathed sword in hand before his chair, tipped over in his haste, hit the floor. Quickly blinking the sleep from his eyes, he found Bull with the Inquisitor in his arms. Krem only knew it was her because of the glowing of her mark, but even that seemed slightly foreign, a little off-color somehow.

The slender elf thrashed in Bull’s arms, erratic and tortured, and her voice was tinged with an odd thrumming as she keened. The sound shook Krem to his marrow. Niyera’s white hair was stained red in splotches, the braid against her scalp unraveling, and her normally green eyes were stained with a crimson sheen. Eyes wild and body contorted, her head tipped back, and she met Krem’s gaze for a split second. That was more than enough for his heart to skip a beat. Blood coated Bull’s forearms, running in rivulets to his elbows, where it collected and dripped. The effort it was taking the Qunari to maintain his hold on the Inquisitor spoke volumes about the gravity of the situation.

Cassandra appeared from behind Bull as she trotted ahead in the direction of the Inquisitor’s quarters. “Get Dorian! NOW!” she barked, and her voice shook Krem from his reverie. He all but stumbled over himself as he took off for the stairs. With Varric and the surgeon in tow, Bull shouldered through the door to Niyera’s quarters as Cassandra held it open. The elf’s guttural screams echoed through the hall, but were quickly muffled behind the door as it fell shut behind them.

****

The crash of the hall doors had woken him, and the heavy stomp of boots on the stairway that encircled his chamber only served to annoy him. “Why is there never any peace here?” Solas wondered to himself as he pushed up from his rest, but only briefly as a savage scream split the air. Grey-blue eyes widened a fraction, and he was suddenly on his feet and at the door. He arrived in time to see Dorian and Krem sprinting into the Inquisitor’s chambers, and he snagged a harried healer as he passed, arms laden with salves and bandages. “You. What’s going on? What has happened?” When the healer only stammered, Solas gripped the man’s arm tighter and shook him once. “Speak.”

Pulling on his arm all the while, the healer hastily offered, “The Inquisitor. She-, I-I don’t know. I must go!” Solas’s grip went slack at the words, and the healer peeled away in a rush. A shudder ran through the elf’s body, the equivalent reaction to nails on a chalkboard. Every thought fled his mind, a fist clenched in his stomach, and his skin turned to ice, while heat seemed to blossom in his chest. He’d been managing to maintain a reasonably calm outward-facing demeanor in the aftermath of Crestwood, with such skill in fact that some had accused him of being made of stone. Perhaps in some ways, he was. He’d spent many years, ages, distancing himself from his feelings. Shutting things out and off, locking them away. At this moment, however, he felt very much so wrought of mere flesh and bone.

His feet had numbly carried him across the width and length of the hall, and as he lifted a hand to reach for her door, it opened. Cullen emerged, forcing Solas to retreat a step, as the commander closed the door behind him. The men locked eyes when the larger gave no indication that he intended to step aside. “You need to allow me to pass, Commander,” Solas uttered, his voice quiet though strained with urgency. With a shake of his head, the former templar stood his ground and laid a firm hand against the elf’s chest as he attempted to advance. “No, that is what you need,” Cullen returned brusquely as his arms folded across his chest.

“I can help,” Solas reasoned, “if I can just see her…know what has happened…” There was a hardness in Cullen’s eyes that never wavered, and while it might have given others pause, Solas remained unphased. “She has enough help. And as to what happened,” the commander sighed as his arms unwound and he massaged the back of his neck with one hand. “All I can say for certain right now is that she ran afoul of some Red Templars and-,” Cullen began to explain, but his words were lost as an inhuman scream reverberated through the stairwell behind the door. Both men tensed in the wake of the sound, but Solas’s jaw set, making a tiny muscle in his cheek jump fitfully. Taking advantage of the commander’s momentary distraction, the mage murmured the words of a spell as he concentrated, and his body shed its skin in favor of an incorporeal form. The former templar felt the magic crawl across his skin but a moment before Solas fade stepped through both him and the door. When Solas rematerialized on the other side, he mounted the stairs in a series of long strides. Though he abstractly knew Cullen was following close behind, all he could hear were Niyera’s cries of pain.

“Inquisitor!” Solas called, bursting through the door of her chamber and rounding the top of the stairs, though the scene that unfolded before him brought him to a stumbling halt. Discarded and staining the carpet were a pair of broken arrow shafts dark with congealing blood and a trail of crimson-stained cloths that led his eyes to her bed. There, he found the surgeon on one side and Varric on the other, each bearing down to prevent the Inquisitor’s shoulders from lifting off the bed. Bull was bent over the footboard, a hand below each of her knees as he laid in with the bulk of his weight to keep her legs still. There was…so much blood. Her back bowed away from the bed unnaturally as she struggled against those that restrained her, and she was entirely unresponsive to Solas’s call.

Dorian stood over the bed, working furiously with Cassandra, and it took him several moments to notice that Solas had even entered the room. The Tevinter met the elf’s eyes and found a mixture of dismay and horror there before his gaze slipped over Solas’s shoulder. “Cullen! Get him the fuck out of here,” Dorian’s voice was uncommonly hard, stressed, as the commander clamped down a hand on one of the mage’s shoulders. Solas seemed not to have realized Cullen had caught up to him until the man laid hands on him, and the reaction he had was unexpectedly violent. Snatching his shoulder away before Cullen could find solid purchase, he drove an elbow up and back, catching the commander in the face.

Though she hadn’t responded to her title, Solas called out to her again, her name, and in response, her eyes flared, crimson tendrils leaking from the corners. The reaction preceded by only moments a renewal of violent thrashing, and her body bowed away from the bed in what seemed an impossible manner as she howled. “Any time now would be good, Commander,” Dorian shouted to be heard over the screaming, having to add his own efforts to the struggle to keep her still with his hands on her hips. A snarl bent former templar’s upper lip, and he paused only to spit out a mouthful of blood before he lunged at Solas. Cullen snagged the elf’s tunic and yanked him backward, and the two grappled for control before the commander got the upper hand.

It was no small measure of effort to wrestle Solas down the stairs, and he and Cullen all but fell through the door as the commander hauled him out. The elf hit the stone floor hard on his shoulder, but quickly climbed to his feet, body poised with coiled tension. Before Solas could move, Cullen made an exasperated noise and gestured threateningly. “Is now really the time? Have you not done enough already?” The hardened look of determination in Solas’s eyes faltered a moment, the hint of a question passing like a cloud over the face of the sun. The incredulous noise that fell from Cullen’s lips was punctuated as he threw his hands into the air, then jabbed a finger at Solas in accusation. “You’re the reason she was out there to begin with. For a fortnight! Maker, did you really not know?”

Cullen’s words hit him like a battering ram in center of his chest and stole his breath. “No,” Solas forced out, pushing his eyes past the former templar to the door behind him. “She didn’t…we haven’t,” he tripped over the words. They hadn’t spoken much since Crestwood. In the first days, Niyera had been angry, so angry, and she avoided him as much as possible. He thought it better to keep himself out of her line of sight, that perhaps it would lessen the burden. He had no idea. Cullen took a step forward, the fury in his voice barely restrained as he spoke. “Get out of my sight before I have you thrown out of Skyhold entirely.”

Though his lips were perched on the cusp of protesting, Solas’s mouth snapped shut, and he nodded mutely. He straightened himself and his tunic, donning his facade of composure like a shroud, and turned to begin to walk away. The elf paused and, without turning around, quietly said, “Please take care of her, Commander.” Cullen’s gaze bore holes into the mage’s back, and he simply replied, “We will.” – Solas didn’t dare take a breath until he’d exited the hall and stood atop the ramparts at the far corner of the courtyard, out of sight and out of hearing range. Once there, his breath left him in a ragged growl of frustration that trailed off into a sob of grief as the weight of his heart drove him to his knees. His body curled upon itself, with his forearms on his thighs and the curve of his back pressing his chin into his chest. This was his fault. He had done this. In his selfish endeavor to disentangle himself and preserve his commitment to his ultimate goal, he was destroying the first thing he had truly loved in ages beyond memory. The press of the heels of his hands against his eyes did nothing to prevent the hot tears that coursed down his cheeks. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he wept. Ever such was the downfall of Pride.

****

“But you can do it. You have the ability. Now is no time to be bashful, Seeker,” Dorian said, his voice perhaps as serious as it had ever been. The sleeves of his fine silk shirt were rolled to his forearms, stained with blood, and his hands dripped crimson. Cassandra pressed her fingers deeply into her brow, massaging and leaving a smear of red as she looked back to Dorian. “Of course I can, but it may kill her, Dorian,” the Seeker’s voice grew in pitch as she spoke, the strain in her voice evident. An hour had passed as they attempted to find a way to stop the Inquisitor’s convulsions, which kept them from tending to her wounds with any measure of success. She had screamed so loudly for so long, that her raw throat and vocal cords were no longer able to physically produce sound. That, at least, was a blessing. Bull’s report seemed to indicate that the templar had delivered an infusion of red lyrium concentrate directly into her bloodstream. Even handling her was a risk to them all at this point – all except Cassandra, who also happened to possess the ability to sear lyrium from blood.

Dorian’s tone of voice took on a particularly harsh, accusatory edge as he stared at Cassandra and made a flippant gesture. “Oh, yes, it certainly may. But you know what definitely will? NOT DOING IT AT ALL!” The Tevinter and Seeker seemed about to come to blows, when Cullen’s voice boomed through the room: “ENOUGH!” Pressing a cloth against the gash in Niyera’s side with both hands, the former templar glared up at the pair. “We don’t have time for this. How much longer do you really think she can last?” There was only a fraction of a second’s hesitation in his words. “Do it, Cassandra.” Dorian took a step back from the bed to give her room, and the Seeker drew in a deep, steadying breath, murmuring, “Maker guide me,” as she pressed a hand into the center of the Inquisitor’s chest.

****

There was only an hour or so before dawn would break, and the birds had begun to trill from their nesting. The stars yet clung to their place in the velvet dark of the sky, while the first pink of morning sun warmed the horizon. Solas had spent the remains of the night on the ramparts, alternately weeping, pacing, and swearing as he beat the fists of his helpless hands against his thighs. Surely there were bruises there now, but he couldn’t be moved to care. A sound from the courtyard below called for his attention, and when he looked down, he saw Varric trudging down the steps from the hall. A lump rose painfully in his throat, and his feet carried him to the stairs without thought.

He needed to know…he needed to see her. When he entered the hall, it was eerily quiet. The fire in the hearth had hours ago burned out, and no one had relit it. Long strides carried him to the outer door of her quarters, which he found unguarded, so he stepped through without hesitation. He had just rounded the corner to mount the stairs when he met Cassandra, who was wiping at her hands with a blood-stained towel. Solas’s grey-blue eyes searched her face for any hint of an answer before he questioned, “Seeker?” Cassandra’s features were drawn with exhaustion, and the gaze that she leveled on the elf made his heart thud painfully in his chest. The time before she answered seemed torturously long, but eventually Cassandra nodded, saying simply, “She lives.”

Solas’s breath left him in a rush, and he placed a hand on the banister to steady himself. He heard his voice shake when he asked, “May I see her? Please?” Cassandra’s eyes softened, and she made her way down the last few steps and over to him. A hand rested momentarily on his shoulder, and she said, “Of course, but know that she has not woken in hours. Everything we’ve done…after…she never woke.” Cassandra rubbed at her shoulder fitfully, uttering, “I’m sorry,” quietly before departing. Trepidation carried Solas’s feet up the stairs softly, through the door, and then up into her chambers. Gone from the night before were the remnants of arrows, the soiled cloths and bandages, the blood. It looked as if linens were fresh and that someone had washed the blood from her hair. She was…so pale.

The only other person there was Dorian, and he was asleep in the chair behind her desk, feet propped and resting on the leather blotter and his arms crossed over his chest. Solas’s steps were little more than whispers as he approached Niyera’s bedside, and as he neared, he took careful appraisal of her form. Stitches closed a deep gash in her cheek as well as an angry wound just beneath her collarbone on the left side. Other scrapes and cuts marred the visible skin of her shoulders and arms, though anything else was hidden beneath a breast-band and the covers that were drawn just below. Silently, he took to his knees beside the bed and reached out to brush his fingertips against her cheek.

His breath hitched in surprise when Cole’s hand caught his wrist before he could touch her. “She says no,” the spirit-made-flesh offered, gently forcing Solas’s hand back. “That you’re here…it makes her happy, and sad, and angry. And the pain,” Cole says, his voice growing distant as if listening to a voice only he can hear. The sigh that parted Solas’s lips was like a weight that bowed his head until it rested against the soft cotton sheets. “Ir abelas, vhenan,” he breathed, not even a whisper, as he folded his fist around the loose edge of the sheet. “Ar isalan na,” he said as he lifted his eyes to gaze at Niyera’s ashen face. “She…doesn’t believe you,” Cole said hesitantly as he shifted his weight to lean toward the Inquisitor. “…and now she’s gone,” he leaned back, folding his arms as he sighed.

At Cole’s words, Solas’s face lifted, and he stared at Niyera for several moments, watching the easy rise and fall of her chest that indicated she still drew breath. Confusion settled over the elf as he glanced up at Cole, “What do you mean when you say she is gone?” Beneath the drooping brim of his hat, Cole shrugged one shoulder as his head shook. “She’s lost, and she doesn’t know how to find her way back. The red lyrium…it sang a song in her blood and tried to carry her away,” he paused as he glanced back toward the stairs. “But, then Cassandra burnt up the song, the notes like ashes caught in a whirlwind. And now…now, no breadcrumbs lead home.”

Solas got to his feet, careful not to disturb the bed. “And yet you hear her? How?” The spirit’s thin shoulder rose again, “Sometimes she is closer than others. Almost here, but not. Like seeing the surface of the water from beneath, but not being able to break through. Sometimes she thinks she is drowning.” Cole’s head tips back just enough so that he can meet Solas’s eyes, and then he whispers, almost conspiratorially, “Sometimes…she thinks it would be better if she drowned, but I wish she wouldn’t.” Solas settled a hand on Cole’s shoulder, a sudden gravity filling his voice, “I need you to tell me everything, Cole. What you can see…where…I need to know. Can you show me?” The spirit-made-flesh nodded, tugging at Solas’s arm as he turned for the stairs. “But somewhere else. The quiet here scares me.”

#solas #solavellan #solavellan hell #dragon age #ow

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