#she knows spirits are different than people and solas isn’t going to stop unless he’s set free

[strawberry-halla]

pls comment/reblog on why i really am curious!! i love seeing everybody’s opinions 🤍

[dirthenera]

Secrets From Dreams

One of my contributions to Solavellan hell. Will be updating on AO3 under the same name. What if Lavellan lived two lives? One in our world and one as the Inquisitor, with sleep pulling her through to each?

Here's the first two chapters, there's more up and will be more as I polish what's already written, which is currently up to 35 chapters!

The first thing she noticed was that everything hurt. Well, that wasn’t exactly unusual. The pain in her hand was unusual though, and she tried to remember why, but nothing came to mind. She blearily opened her eyes, and looked into a space that looked wholly foreign, but… somehow familiar?

She tried to remember how she got there… Or, anything really. It felt like looking through a fogged mirror at a forked path, both blurry and indistinct. Her head pounded and she raised her aching hand to hopefully squash both pains with some judiciously applied pressure, and a guard shouted as a green light filled the edge of her blurry vision.

“The prisoner is awake Lady Cassandra!” He called.

Wait. A guard? And… this was a cell. And… Cassandra? Too familiar. She forced her eyes to focus, and she saw the green light crackling, the same color as the pain in her hand. Something lit up on one of those forked paths. The anchor, she remembered. She saw a smiling face, and then her mind recoiled from the memory. There was also something else there, down the other fork? A campfire full of familiar faces, laughing and trading songs and old stories over the days hunt. That fork hurt less.

She didn’t have time to think about it more before she was hauled roughly from the cell and a tray of food was shoved at her, and she tore into it ravenously. Her hand crackled in pain, glowing. The anchor, her mind insisted again with a twinge. She fished the food and gulped down the cup of water the guard offered.

She saw two women enter, dressed in armor and eerily familiar. Cassandra, a friend. Leliana, a trusted ally. She looked up in hopeless confusion as her mind played the words a heartbeat before Cassandra could speak them.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now. The conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended it is dead. Except for you.”

“You think I’m responsible?” Her voice floated out in front of her. It sounded strange to her own ears.

“Explain. This.” Cassandra grabbed her marked hand, and images flashed through her mind. Her hand connecting with a rift. Burning bodies surrounded by slag. A creature of immense power, glowing red, looming over her. A gentle laugh that stirred her soul. A broken orb. Pain.

“I… Can’t.” The images were moving too fast, dizzying. And still, her mind echoed Cassandra’s words before they were spoken.

“What do you mean you can’t?!” Cassandra was enraged. Truly, she should be afraid, but she heard an echo of her own oddly unfamiliar voice. Cassandra’s like that with everyone.

“I don’t know what that is or how it got there!” The pieces would fit together but there was so much, too much to process and everything ached.

“You’re lying!”

“We need her, Cassandra!” Leliana cut in. She always was the voice of reason. Brutal, unyielding reason. Her hands were carefully placed behind her back. In control. The images flashed to what must have happened before, and the screaming bodies surrounded by slag.

“All those people, dead?” Her stunned voice broke. Why did this feel like a dream but not? Why was it so familiar?

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?” Leliana asked, gently. A few pieces fell into place.

“I remember running… things were chasing me. And then… a woman?” She glowed. A spirit. You will meet again.

“A woman?” Leliana asked. Her silent questions hung in the air like a prayer. She believes it to be Andraste.

“She reached out to me. But then?” There was a tear, and she fell through. Pearls of memory to chase later.

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.” Cassandra said.

“What did happen?” What was real?

“It will be easier to show you.” With her lips set in a thin line, they went outside.

She felt the maw before she saw it. The breach. A mournful wolf’s devouring gape. Her gaze drew up, unable to stay away, and she felt the link between it and the mark on her hand. Her mind screamed at the pieces scattered, filling her with dread, and the strangest sense of… adventure? Promise?

“We call it the breach. It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the conclave.” Cassandra explained. She knew. She didn’t know how, but she knew.

“An explosion can do that do that?” The words tumbled from her mouth before she could stop them. Familiar. She had heard them before, but from outside herself?

“This one did. Unless we act, the breach may grow until it swallows the world.” Cassandra’s brows knitted together. The maw pulled at her again, and her hand responded, tearing her open and replacing pieces of her with pulsing, crackling pain. This will kill you, but not yet.

“Each time the breach expands, your mark spreads, and it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.“ Cassandra turned to her, small movements different than expected, only increasing the uneasy déjà vu.

“I understand.” She felt the path stretch out before her and knew the steps. She felt the choices open up ahead, unnerved but certain.

“Then..?” Cassandra choked back hope.

“I’ll do what I can. Whatever it takes.” Cassandra nodded in approval, and began walking with her towards the breach.

They made their way through town. Haven. The mutters of townspeople reached her ears as they walked, harsh. Calling her knife ear, traitor, murderer. Her brows furrowed.

“They have decided your guilt. They need it. The people of Haven mourn our most holy, Divine Justinia. We lash out at the sky, but we must think beyond ourselves, like she did. Until the breach is sealed.” She said the last part as much for herself, taking a steady breath and releasing some of her anger.

“There will be a trial. I can promise no more. Come, it is not far.” She didn’t ask where they were going. She knew.

2

“Quickly, before more come through!”

He grabbed her hand and lifted it to the rift. The energy rushed out from inside her, somehow both deafening and serene, painful and desperately cleansing. It felt like a freezing winter wind snapping through every part of her being and leaving her clear. All the pieces fell into place. This was a dream of something she loved. Something she had played many times. The other world was faint and far away here, and this one had never been so real. She even had memories of aravels and hunting for her clan. She hoped, desperately, that she would remember this when she woke. She glanced in awe at the elf who now held her hand. Not fair, his cheekbones were even better in person. And even though all of this was his fault, his smile broke through the haze and she was suddenly, solidly, here. Not dreamlike anymore. Maybe the other world was the dream? But then how could she explain knowing so many of his secrets?

They had pushed through demons, thankfully finding a bow on the way. She had wondered what it would be, but now that she remembered the other world, it made sense. She looked up at him and didn’t even know what to say.

“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 opened in the breach’s wake. And it seems I was correct.” He said. His posture was much more humble than she remembered. An affectation? Or a variance?

“Meaning it could also close the breach itself.” Cassandra added.

“Possibly. It seem you hold the key to our salvation.” He held his hands in front of himself carefully, full of hope and good cheer. She knew it was only for the safety of the anchor, but her stomach still did a stupid little flip. Luckily Varric interrupted her mooning before anything suspicious could be noted. Definitely not a good time for it, surrounded by death and destruction.

“Good to know. And here I thought we’d be ass deep in demons forever.” He fiddled with Bianca, and she smiled. The first real smile since coming here. It would be ok.

Introductions were made, and she grinned at Varric, despite Solas’ protestations. Except then it was her turn. And she had no idea. Wait. Dreams. Uthenera, the enchanted sleep of the ancient elves. Thenera would do, if she was to be a dreamer in this world.

“Thenera Lavellan, of Clan Lavellan.”

“I am pleased to see you still live.” Solas smiled, the very picture of a humble apostate. Ah, affectation.

“He means: I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.” Varric added wryly.

“Well then I suppose I should thank you.” She…. Thenera, said, matching Varric’s wry tone. She knew it would be a long day yet, but longer with only Cassandra’s dour sensibilities. Also. Kinda his fault the mark was killing her in the first place. Kinda.

“Thank me if we manage to close the breach without killing you in the process.” He said solemnly, and turned to Cassandra. “Cassandra, you should know. The magic involved here is unlike any I’ve seen. Your prisoner is no mage. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”

“Understood. We must get to the forward camp quickly.”

“Well. Bianca’s excited.” And Varric strode off without explaining.

[feynites]

could we have more of mana'din and forced to take a body solas please? how is solas different and how is he the same? what kind of person does this kind of change make him?

As Ghilan’nain promised, Pride’s dazedness wears off after a few hours.

By then, Mana’Din has him situated back in Daran. She is not certain if that is the best place for him. But for the time being, it is the safest one she can consider, so that’s where they go. Pride walks carefully alongside her. Illusions and carefully chosen paths ensure that very few people see them, and those that do only do so at a distance. At least until they reach the palace.

Then they earn more curious stares. Mana’Din suppose she wouldn’t have been able to keep this a secret anyway. She takes Pride to her own chambers, and checks them over before sealing the locks. Now would not be the time for some would-be assassin to come lunging out from beneath the bed. But by the looks of things, none have tried it today.

Pride stands in the middle of the room. Blinking, and looking around with somewhat more lucidity.

“You can sit down, if you would like,” she offers. “Are you thirsty?”

The offer and the question both seem to confuse him. After a few awkward, uncertain moments, as Mana’Din tries to wrestle her own feelings into further subjugation, she reaches out and gently guides him onto the nearest couch. And then she goes and fetches a pitcher of clean water, and some glasses, and some travel bars she keeps in her bedroom cupboard.

Just in case the assassins get hungry while they wait.

She pours to glasses, on the hunch that Pride might not even know what to do with one, and could require a demonstration. But once she gives him the water, he does drink it successfully. A little clumsily, but, it seems he grasps the basic concept. The water sloshes and spills into his collar. Droplets stick to his skin, and seem to make its odd smoothness all the more pronounced.

Some distant part of her, that isn’t currently occupied with her internal screaming, wonders who decided on that. Smooth, unblemished, pale skin. Sylaise? Ghilan’nain? Did they think it part of her ‘tastes’, or is it something meant to adhere to Arlathan aesthetics, or is it just easier to make skin that way when starting from scratch?

Pride makes a face, after taking a single sip of his water.

“Is something wrong with it?” she checks, worriedly. Testing her own. If it’s been poisoned...

But, Pride shakes his head. And then winces again, and puts down his glass to cover his face.

“Strange,” he manages. “I... it’s, it’s strange. Sorry.”

“No, no. Don’t apologize,” she insists. “I am the one who is sorry. I had no idea that they meant to do this. I would have stopped them, if I did.”

Pride’s emotions start to filter through, at that point. They already had been, somewhat. But not to a noticeable degree. As the dazedness fades, however, his feelings become more defined and expressive. Confusion. Disorientation. Disgust, and fear, and intense discomfort. Mana’Din lets him sit for a while, and considers their options. Sometimes spirits reject bodies. If it happens early enough in the process, they generally don’t come to harm over it. But they’re well past that point already. 

Still, Pride had been powerful. The more powerful the spirit, the more likely they were to survive strange circumstances. With a murmured apology, she checks him over.

There is a sigil tattooed in vallaslin on his back. Blood magic, and a spirit shard, too. A sliver of Pride - not the spirit she knew, but a fragment from another Pride, by the looks of it. She takes off her mask, and really looks, as best she can. Seeing the currents of magic, the way they connect to the body and the Dreaming, and the spirit housed within.

...It’s the magical equivalent of a barbed trap, she realizes. Trying to pull the spirit away from the body will sink the sigil’s tethers deeper into it, forcing it to either abandon the effort or else break.

“That is the trap,” Pride murmurs, as she straightens back up. He stares at the water in his glass. “The second one, to hold me. The first one caught me. I thought it was too small to impede me, but the second I got close, it grew bigger... and then the Huntress came.”

He sighs.

It’s almost worse than if he’d sobbed. The despairing nature of the breath, as the pain spikes in the air.

“I failed,” he says. “Now I will just be Pride made flesh, forever. It is so heavy...”

Carefully, Mana’Din reaches out, and takes one of his hands.

“We do not know that,” she says. “Pride, listen. This is an awful transgression, what has been done to you. It is a violation and it will be a great challenge to recover. Adjusting to such a monumental change in form is frustrating and frightening, and there will be times when you feel broken. But this is not defeat. There is too much in this world to say for certain what is permanent, or what can and cannot be changed. This is a hurdle, but... you may yet become Wisdom. There is no need for you to stop trying, unless you wish to.”

Pride blinks. His fingers twitch.

He is quiet for a long moment. Long enough that she feels her own ineptness keenly.

“I will help you. No matter what you decide, I will help you,” she promises him, after a moment. Before pulling her hand away.

Or trying to. Pride’s grip tightens as she does, though, and so she stops, and waits instead. Sitting beside him, close enough that his emotions bleed into her own. Until it’s hard to tell where his end and hers begin.

“I dislike this form,” he admits, at last.

She nods in understanding.

“Alright,” she says. “We can start there. Perhaps, we can change it to something more comfortable. Still a body, but... a better shape for you.”

Pride swallows.

Mana’Din can at least suggest one form that might, perhaps, suit him more.

~

Bodies are uncomfortable, awkward, messy things, and Pride dislikes his.

It is a very frustrating prison. Pride’s body does very few things well. It does not like to move through solid objects, and it is resistant to changing its shape. It still does, at least - he is not trapped in a singular form, the way that some are. But it fights him. It is like he is covered in a thousand wet, heavy blankets, that he cannot escape or pass through. Nothing moves the way it should.

He is too short, and his magic works differently, and every time he tries to escape the sigil on his back aches.

And that is only the start of it.

Bodies require fuel. They require rest. They must be cleaned, and the make discharge and waste. Pride finds most of these things easier to manage once he switches from an elven body to that of a wolf. A large wolf, because he dislikes being trapped seeing things from only one angle, but at least when he is tall that angle is somewhat high up. But there are limitations even there, because he must still fit inside of rooms that are built mainly for elves.

The first week, he spends in Mana’Din’s chambers. And then Mana’Din takes him to another set of rooms. These are to be his rooms, though at his request, Mana’Din stays with him there for a while, too. The rooms are spacious and sparsely furnished. They have access to an empty, walled-in garden, and for a long while, Pride spends most of his time there. Lying on the soft earth, sleeping as much as he can.

Sleeping is a relief. In dreams, he feels more like himself again. He can explore and roam and pass as a spirit once more, though even that feels different, too. There are things missing from it. Place he can no longer reach, and depths he can no longer see. The more time he spends awake, the harder it becomes to even recollect what he is missing.

It is hard to articulate.

Mana’Din does not object, though. Pride thinks she is trying to at first, for a while, but then she only explains that bodies cannot sleep for all their days. Not unless Pride wishes to enter uthenera, and if he does, she will not stop him. But that is a choice that must be made before he can properly embark upon it.

Pride... does not wish to sleep forever. Even as he feels compelled to sleep more often than not.

His feelings are hard to articulate. Being in a body makes them hurt, in new and nuanced ways, at times. His throat grows thick and his chest aches. His stomach twists. His temperature changes, fluctuating hot with anxiety or cold with dread. His emotions spill out into the air, and his skin itches with his frustration.

He wants to escape it.

He begs to, sometimes. And that is strange, too, because begging is undignified and unprideful. It should rip at him, but... it does not. As if the body is also somehow keeping any disparate elements from breaking him apart, even as it traps him in place. Pride isn’t sure he can even appreciate that much of it, though, when despair and frustration cleave at him too greatly, and he finds himself burying his head against Mana’Din’s stomach. Whining like the wolf he appears to be, and pleading with her to put him back to the way he was.

She promises that he can find a way to go on like this. And perhaps he can.

But the shameful truth of it is, he thinks he would rather go back to being Pride, and stay that way for always, than carry on like this. Even if, someday, it could lead to Wisdom.

“I know,” is what Mana’Din tells him, in the dim light of the empty garden. “I know it is hard. I know this does not feel like you. But little by little, we can make it feel better.”

Pride whines again. He does not want consolation. He wants it over with, he wants things to be fixed.

And they cannot be.

It is a hard thing to wrestle with. It makes his dreams dark, sometimes. Fills his mind with thoughts of what he could do with his ungainly, messy form. He still has claws. And he has teeth. Great big jaws, and sometimes he dreams of closing them around Andruil and Ghilan’nain’s necks, and snapping them. Making their own bodies leak blood and making their own flesh pain them, until they are just heaps of torn meat and bone.

He does not know what to do with these thoughts. They are powerful, but they are not good. He wants to hurt people. He worries that he is corrupting, until he remembers that he is in a body, and things no longer work in such a way.

It is hard to get his thoughts around.

Sometimes, when he dreams, Mana’Din is there. Sometimes she helps him kill Andruil and Ghilan’nain. She does not seem to think badly of him, for dreaming of that. And sometimes she shows him things. Pathways in the Dreaming that he can still reach, even like this.

He is not sure when he starts to take on the wolf shape in dreams. He does not notice it at first. It is around when Mana’Din brings the first tree to his garden, though. To shade him, as the season grows warmer.

Things change slowly.

But Mana’Din keeps her promise. Bit by bit... they do get better.

Pride likes the tree in his garden. So Mana’Din takes him to another, bigger garden, and to the orchards, to look at more plants, and decide if he would like any for his own space. And then they begin to do the same with the indoor areas of his chambers, too. Pride mostly remains a wolf, but sometimes he changes into his elven form, if a task demands it or if it is more convenient. He picks out furniture for his indoor sleeping space. Blankets and cushions, mostly. He does not want a bed, so they take it out. But he decides that there should be elf-suitable furniture in the main rooms, so that Mana’Din and other guests can be comfortable there.

Most of his guests who are not Mana’Din are spirits, though. Sorrow and Compassion and Curiosity, Frustration and Remorse and even Wisdom, at times. Anger, too, comes and goes as it is draw to. Pride hangs artwork that is interesting for spirit eyes, and he asks for fountains, until he has enough to place one in each room and one in the garden as well. He likes cushions. They are soft and they can make him comfortable no matter what shape he is in, so he gets a lot of them. And he likes rugs with shifting patterns, so Mana’Din brings him some from Arlathan.

He hangs chimes from his ceiling, so that he can hear the wind - it is very hard for him to see it, now. 

And he acquires bookshelves.

Mana’Din says that he can have one on every wall if he wishes. And he does, so this is nearly what happens. Some walls are unsuitable for it. But most can have at least some form of shelving. Mana’Din brings him books, at first. So do the other... the spirits, sometimes. But eventually, he decides that as with the furniture and the plants, he should venture to find some himself. So he goes with Curiosity to the archives.

The elves of the palace treat him differently, now that he has a body. They are much nicer. Not that they were ever cruel before, but sometimes they would chase Pride away, or cast spells to keep him out. Now, though, they seem to always greet him with kindness and some sorrow. Sympathy. Even Elalas is more patient with him, and none of them are impatient with his clumsiness.

He supposes they understand, though. They must have all mastered their own bodies too, at one time.

Also, he thinks Mana’Din has told them all to be nice, and many of them are frightened of her.

Pride has no idea why. But it is something he knew even before he was forced into a physical form. He knows at least part of it is because Mana’Din is powerful, and that makes him think of what she once told him. Of how others might fear him for his power - not for his potential corruption. But for what he might have become simply of his own accord.

Whatever that was, it has been thwarted now, he supposes. There is nothing for people to fear about a wolf who drops things and slips on smooth floors all the time.

Still... he looks for things, in the books he finds. Books are almost like dreams. At first he thinks they are a more limited version, but then he realizes that this is not true. Books can reflect his own thoughts back at him, and provide information. But they also give insights to others’ thoughts and experiences. Just like the Dreaming. He only needs to figure out how to fully work his thinking around it, to appreciate the many different ways in which they do it.

Fiction is very confusing. But... he likes it. It is not a bad confusion, and under the circumstances, that counts as a good thing.

When there are enough books in his rooms that he actually has to start looking for spaces to put them down, Pride’s back stops aching.

By then he has settled upon a standard wolf shape. Rather than changing it as often as not - the one he picks is white-furred, and stands as tall as most elves. A little taller than Mana’Din. It has six eyes, and pale green whorls across the white fur, that look almost like the shifting energy that once made up his form. As an elf, his body changes almost of its own accord. His skin darkens a little, and freckles a lot. His eyes are grey rather than red, but his hair, in turn, becomes more red than brown. His features change. Some of the archivists tell him that he looks more ‘wolf-like’, though it takes him a while to understand what they mean. His face grows longer, and his eyes get higher, and his features become more angular. Less soft and smooth.

Sometimes Mana’Din looks at him, and her emotions shut themselves in tight. When they escape, it usually looks like guilt.

Pride does not blame her for what happened. She did not decide it, nor approve of it, nor even know about it. But Mana’Din feels differently, and he cannot dissuade her of it. Even when she herself asserts that this is not a fate she wished for him - still, there is guilt.

It is another unpleasant aspect of things.

Pride wonders, though... perhaps, in time, that too will ease.

[pristinepastel]

yay! finally updated again, sheesh. in this i gain some sidekicks! and we learn that in the fade, there is no language.

Chapter 9: A Brief Intensity Surrounded by Repose

As soon as I notice the fact I haven’t dreamed yet since I got here, I poof into the fade. Not like how most people dream in the fade- No, this looks more like how the fade shows up in origins with the Sloth demon. Basically, I’m in the remains of half of my bedroom back in my dorm. Very uncanny valley. Very fallout-like, even. Wonder what ohio looks like in that series? Maybe it’s an area you can travel to in fallout 76. I mean, West Virginia is pretty close, right? I think.

I see a glimmer out of the corner of my eye. I turn, and see a small sparkly cloud. Ooh, is that a wisp? It’s a purple one! Very nice. Hello friend!

It shifts into a slightly different shape, I think that’s how it waves at people! Cute! It zips around a bit, then stops, hovering in front of one of the plushies on my bed.

“Curious? That’s Cayde holding Colonel the chicken. they’re good people.” It floats around over my be, settling on top of a cat plushie. Awww. Adorable, but I kind of miss Molly now-

There’s a rubbing sensation around my leg. I look down-

Oh my goddess it’s a cat-shaped spirit. Oh goddess I could cry. This place is amazing.

Ok ok, calm down. Don’t get too excited. Don’t want to draw too much attention. I pick up the cat-spirit, and sit on my bed with them on my lap. Alright, so I can dream here, That’s good! Some people come here without the ability to enter the fade. This gives me a place where I can sit and actually think without any interruptions. Wonder if I can walk between dreams..? Eh, I’m alright where I am actually. I don’t really want to risk that sort of thing. I mean, sure that’d be cool, but I’m not really good at... exploring in unfamiliar places without getting really anxious and panicky. And on the fade, that hurts more than just me. I pet the cat-spirit friend, whose name I don’t know yet.

Hmmm... I wonder. I get the feeling it was my inner voice that drew the wisp and cat spirit here, but I wonder if I can give them other cool things too, like... music maybe? Hm. What should it be? Don’t want to go too intense or morbid with the first one, and it should be one I know pretty well already. I don’t want to sing actual foreign lyrics that I can’t remember correctly without having the information on my phone. So. Hearse song, Walk On Water, and Yoi Yoi Kokon at off the table for now. Last one is a bit too fast for me anyway. Maybe... Hallelujah? But which one? I can go with the Leanord Cohen one, or the one Brendon Urie wrote. To be honest when I saw that title for a Panic! At the Disco song I assumed it was another cover of the first one, but no it just has the same name. ... If someone I know actually walks in on this, I think it’s better if it’s the first one. I really don’t want him to get the wrong idea about me.

How does it start again? Oh right.

“Now I've heard there was a secret chord

That David played, and it pleased the Lord

But you don't really care for music, do you?” The wisp seems interested, and Cat starts purring. Approval! Good.

“It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth

The minor fall, the major lift

The baffled king composing Hallelujah~” I make sure to keep my eyes part way open during the chorus. I don’t want to get startled if more people show up.

“Your faith was strong but you needed proof

You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you

She tied you to a kitchen chair

She broke your throne, and she cut your hair

And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah~”

No Solas yet, but there are a few silhouettes creeping in around the edge of my room near my desktop.

“You say I took the name in vain

I don't even know the name

But if I did—well, really—what's it to you?

There's a blaze of light in every word

It doesn't matter which you heard

The holy or the broken Hallelujah~”

Cat is really calming to pet. Like a chinchilla, with more fur than a cat actually has in real life but I don’t mind, they’re trying their best to be a cat.

This next part is probably the most important one, so it’s good that I can kind of sense the spirits reacting to him being nearby. I’m pretty sure that’s who they see, anyway. They’re kind of parting to make room, and looking back.

“I did my best, it wasn't much

I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch

I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you

And even though it all went wrong

I'll stand before the Lord of Song

With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah...”

Yep, there he is. I finish up the final chorus, then wave.

“Solas!”

“Making friends, I see.” Woah, I can understand him! This is great! I was worried about how I could talk to him without making Shiloh involved.

“Yeah, these two showed up when I first got here! They’re adorable, right?”

He seems a little surprised by my response, but recovers quickly with a raised eyebrow. I can’t tell if he’s surprised I could understand him, or by my... unique personality.

“Most wouldn’t describe them as such. You aren’t suspicious of them?”

“No, not really. They’re just curious after all- As far as I’m aware, they haven’t seen anything like me or my room before. I don’t blame them, if I’d never seen a computer before I’d be confused too.”

“... I’ll admit to some curiosity myself. A... computer?”

“The black square thing on that desk over there.” I point to the other side of the room, across from where I’m sitting on the bed. Huh. “You’re not asking about how I know they’ve never seen anyone like me before?”

He turns back to me after inspecting my desk. “I didn’t expect you to answer.”

“Why not? I don’t mind. I already told the others- or... tried to tell them I had information to share. Go ahead and ask!”

He looks at me perplexed. “You’re certain? Why share personal information with someone you know so little?”

Time to store the pot a bit, I guess. “First of all, that’s how meeting people goes, isn’t it? Everyone’s a stranger at first. Then you exchange tidbits about each other to get to know people. Then those tidbits get bigger and more important until you can say you really know someone. Second, I already know quite a bit about you guys, so. It’s only fair, right?”

He narrows his eyes. He took the hint, I think. “... Is that so? How, exactly, do you know me- us- so well?”

“I have some prior knowledge about what’s going to happen. I kind of want to wait until everyone’s in the loop to share it all though, if that’s ok. It’s only fair, if it involves everyone, right? Suffice to say, I like you guys and I want to make sure everything ends up in a good way.”

“How do you classify ‘a good way’ in this case? There’s a hole in the sky. Is the best case for you the closing of the breach?”

“It doesn’t end there, but that’s definitely part of it.” I snort. “I know you’re trying to find out how much I know. I don’t intend to share secrets without the express permission of the person who they’re owned by, unless that person is an irredeemable ass waffle, in which case I really couldn’t give less of a shit what the striped stockings corpse man thinks.”

He raises an eyebrow. “... Striped stockings corpse man?”

“The Elder One. The guy who probably brought me here in the first place. And before you ask if I think I’m here through some divine will slash ‘providence’ as Cassandra puts it, I don’t know. I’m keeping my options open, I guess. Just because Corypheus brought me here directly doesn’t mean no one guided that to happen indirectly, you know?”

I can’t read that expression. “You aren’t andrastian, I take it?”

Snrk. “Hells, no. I’m not a member of any organized religion to be honest. At least, I’m not part of any widely recognized group or church. You could say I’m agnostic. I believe figures did or do exist, but I have no reason to believe any of them are solely in charge, or that any of them aren’t the same people.” I pause to take a breath. I probably don’t need to though, this is a dream. “But... I am a witch. I do have one entity I kind of... ‘follow’, I guess. It’s more of a partnership than a worship thing though.”

“And what entity is that?” At this point, he sits on my desk chair. He gets a little startled when the chair moves a bit more than he expected, and I giggle. No one here has experienced chairs with wheels, I guess.

“Where I’m from, she’s called Baba Yaga. She’s more of a mythical creature than a goddess, a lot of people call her a witch of the wilds. She shows up in a lot of old legends and tales as a character with various names, who either tries to trick or teach the hero lessons, kind of a trickster. It’s not just in one culture either, a lot of places have similar stories just with different names.”

“Speaking of culture, you seem rather out of place here. Where are you from, beyond the sea?”

“To be honest, I have no clue if that’s true or not. Where I’m from, people have already found at least 90% of the land of the world. The only places we haven’t looked are under the oceans and past the stars.”

“That far? Your people sound well travelled.” He sounds intrigued.

“I guess? But to be honest, it’s not really a ‘my people’ sort of accomplishment. We have various cultures back home who discovered places mine hadn’t. And it’s not exactly... the process wasn’t exactly peaceful.”

“Oh?”

“I’d assume war is a pretty common thread in many worlds. And empires.” I pet Cat a bit more. “And bigotry. And manifest destiny. Do you guys have a word for manifest destiny?”

“That depends on its definition.”

“People saying they have the right to take whatever they want because their god- who they also claim has ‘chosen them’- says they can.”

“Ah. Yes, that’s happened before.”

“Yeah.” I sigh. What a long and exhausting conversation to have after not being able to have one for a while, sheesh. “That got... a bit heavy. Sorry, I went on a tangent.”

“No worries. The conversation was quite enlightening, in fact.” He stands up from the chair.

Hells, I’m sure it was. Oof. “Hey, before you go- I know the little one next to me is a wisp, but do you have any idea what this one’s name is? I’ve just been calling them Cat and it feels a bit rude.”

“Oh?” He inspects the spirit currently purring on my lap. “It seems to be a young spirit, perhaps recently formed. If I had to guess, I believe it’s a spirit of Repose.”

“Repose? That means calm, right? Fitting!” Hmm. “That’s a pretty formal sounding name for such a young one though. A nickname might be nice. Oooh! Posey! That’s perfect!”

Solas chuckles. “Varric was right. It’s hard to tell your age- you seem older than you should be one moment, then have a moment of childlike innocence the next.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know, I look more like a weird, sick-looking child. My eyebags could hold barrels. But I swear, I am 21. I just have some... mental and physical issues that make me uniquely weird.”

“Such as?”

“Where would I even begin? Besides, I don’t know how long we’ve been here, but I have a feeling it’s almost time to... ‘wake up’?” Wiggle brows.

His expression becomes more serious for a moment, then he sighs. “You’re certainly an odd person, Pristine. Though I suppose you’re right, I will need to wait to learn what you know.” He gives me a narrow-eyed look. “Understand, however. I will learn what you know eventually. And if you intend to endanger-“

“Solas. Dude. You’re getting a little intense here. I literally just said I’ll be telling everyone what I know- so long as I have the permission of the individual it belongs to, unless they’re an asshole like Corypheus. I’m not going around blackmailing people here.”

He’s silent for a moment, as he holds his look. Then he raises an eyebrow. “... You are very sure about this, aren’t you.”

I laugh. “Hells, no! I have some inkling of what I’m doing but specifics of each bit of the plan? Fuck no. Now, is there anything else you wanna ask before I wake up? Cus. If I sleep in, my sleep schedule is going to go back to nocturnal mode and that won’t end well.”

He chuckles, as he stands up. “No. I will leave you be, I’ve intruded in your space long enough tonight. Though, I do have a request.”

“Hm?” I start petting Posey again.

“Tell me more of your world in the future. It makes for an interesting conversation topic.”

I snort again. “Sure. I have no doubt it’s going to be a very popular one in the coming days. Especially from Varric and some others- Oy vey he and Josie are going to be insatiable.”

He nods, and disappears. For a while longer, I relax with Posey and the wisp, humming in relative silence. Other than a few curious spirits who watch from a distance, no one else visits. It’s a pretty satisfying night.

And then I wake up.

———

While I wait for the rest of the inquisition to finish setting everything up, I have time to think about how I’m going to explain myself. Because a lot of other people would, in my place, hold off telling anyone what they know until much later when they think it’s safe, or when the information is forced out of them. In another world, like Naruto for instance, I’d probably do just that. In that world it wouldn’t be safe to share what I know until I’d be sure no one would spread the information around willy-nilly, too many people behind the scenes would eavesdrop, kill me for knowing too much, or try to kidnap me for their own agenda.

Here though, it’s different. I have a filter through Shiloh, who I trust with my entire being, as well as a position of some importance to the inquisition and therefore protection. I trust it’s safe to tell them because they can’t risk losing my mark, and they’ll have to work with me until the breach is sealed at least. There’s also the whole “Herald” thing- while I’m not sure Andraste is the direct reason I’m here, a lot of people here do. It lends some credence to my other-worldly story. If I was sent here by the Maker, who’s to say they didn’t give me prior knowledge of what’s going to happen? And even if they don’t believe me, the events coming up will definitely help me convince them somewhat.

That isn’t to say I’m going to reveal everything I know- I’m not showing what I know about some people to everyone else. I fully believe they should be the ones to tell people themselves, it’s not my place. Also, I want to at least talk to everyone individually at some point- hopefully convincing some of them to change their minds about certain things. Looking at you, Solas.

Of course, there’s also the other inner circle. The characters only I really know back in my world. They’re going to be a bit... tricky. I’ve met Shiloh and Osiria, they’ll be very helpful, and they have similar goals to me. The others- I’ve seen one or two of them around Haven, but I haven’t approached them yet. I know I’ll meet at least two or three of them soon, the Trevelyans usually stick together after all, and Jaimie is going to be important to the Inquisition with her mages. Haven’t seen the Lavellans yet, but they should be ok. In my story, they evacuated the Conclave before it blew up after being warned by Shiloh and set up camp further down the mountain with Cadash. And since Jaimie and her group got the same warning from Shiloh and they made it out, I know Sahrel and Olivia are safe and with Elisa.

Then there’s the Valo-kas. Osiria had left the group before the conclave was even arranged and kept in touch. They weren’t even in the temple before it blew, and they left after rightfully assuming it was too dangerous to stay. We might be able to recruit their help later. I hope so, my Shokrakar and Cassandra are so cute together.

The game’s inner circle will be recruited as normal, of course. I plan to reveal the knowledge I have multiple times as we take them in, repeating what I know is better than keeping some out of the loop, or worse making everyone wait until after the breach is sealed the first time.

Thinking about everyone we’ll be bringing in brings up another point- no not the mage vs templar thing that’s a different point altogether. An important point, but still. I wonder if the fact I have multiple Hawkes and Wardens will change the story at all? I know Gerard would never leave Anders and Fenris behind. And Aahil isn’t one to let Morrigan and their son go so easily. Then there’s Abeera as queen... Oof, my head. This is emotionally tiring me.

The point is moot for now, anyway. I watched Cullen put up the sign on the Chantry door today. I’m going to have to pull my social skills together soon. Time to explain myself.

[dragonagecompanions]

how would the da:i companions react to the inquisitor having a blood disease? (i'm trying to come to terms wth mine..)

Cassandra: It frightens her, and she will be honest aboutthat. As a Seeker she is used to enemies that she can see and fight, and theidea of something that can get in the blood and cause damage within. But as aSeeker she is also used to needing certain tools to fight enemies, and once shegets a handle on those things that she needs to keep herself and others safeshe handles it calmly and professionally.

“This does not define you,” she says to the Inquisitor, chinset in her quintessential stubbornness. “The anchor did not stop you—neither willthis.”

Solas: He’s seen such things before, both in Arlathan and inthe Fade. It is not a disease limited solely to humans, and while that giveshim cause to be cautious he sees no reason to shun them. If they are truly waryof being around others he seeks them out in the Fade and builds a rapport withthem until such a tie as they are willing to make that friendship corporeal.

“You are stronger than you think, lethallin. Do not let thisdampen your spirit.”

Sera: It frightens her. There’s no getting around that, andonce it’s explained to her she wastes no time in putting distance betweenherself and the Inquisitor. But their hurt-even when they tell her that it’salright and they understand- eats at her, and within a few days she seeks outDorian or the Iron Bull and badgers them for an in-depth explanation of how thedisease works and how to deal with it. Once she gets herself settled and calmershe marches up to them drags them off to the tavern.

“Not gonna judge you for what you can’t change,” sheannounces, after they share a drink or three. “And arrows to anyone who does.”

Varric: It unsettles him a little, but the dwarf has alsoheard of such things through Merill, who has made a study of almost all thingsblood related as part of her preferred magica study. So he knows the basicprecautions, and certainly he isn’t going to demean the person who has alreadygiven up so much to help Thedas. If Hawke is a blood mage he is even moresympathetic, and is always there if the Inquisitor is feeling down about it.

“If its any consolation you really shouldn’t be bleeding everywhereanyway. Just think of this as double incentive to not get injured—I’m not sureThedas can handle losing another hero right now.”

Vivienne: Blood diseases have long been an academic pursuit amongresearchers in the circles, but the Inquisitor is one of the first people thatMadame de Fer meets who has such a disorder. Its association with blood magicmakes her a tad wary, but when the Inquisitor assures her that they do notpractice she is relieved. Using her influence amongst the magically inclinedshe orders copies of the most current research on the subject and takes theeducation of Skyhold as a pet project. She also helps them make gloves afashion necessity in Skyhold, cutting down on comments form that arena.

“This does not lessen your authority, darling. Indeed,learning caution in this aspect of your life will only increase your controlover other factions. It is a blessing, if one well disguised.”

Blackwall: Of all the companions, he is the one least botheredby the prospect. In his mind it is no different than the Blight, and he hadbeen willing to take that onto his shoulders. He treats no differently, and if they ever ask if the matter bothersthem his answer is almost casual in it’s indifference.

“The Hero of Ferelden saved the whole world, and their bloodwas as tainted as any. Why should this be held against you now?”

Dorian: Of all the companions Dorian has perhaps the mostexperience with blood borne illnesses. They are dreadfully common in Tevinteramongst both slaves and the less cautious of blood magic practioners, and froma young age he has learned how both be cautious of and to work in proximity withthose who have such diseases. Along with Vivienne he helps spread informationon how to “not be an ignorant child about such simply handled matters”, and is probablyhelpful in Vivienne’s venture into making gloves fashionable.

The Iron Bull: The Qun is nothing if not thorough in theirresearch, and after Dorian Bull probably knows the most about such matters. Heis cautious, of course, but doesn’t really say much either way unless theInquisitor brings it up. He might take to wearing armor or some other sort ofcovering- as well as the omnipresent gloves that become a staple in thefortress- but that is more for the Inquisitors comfort than his own.

“Don’t let it get to you, boss.” He says cheerfully, whenthey come to drink with the Chargers. “Just makes you more bad ass, that youcan live through that and the rest of all this shit.”

Cole: “Can’t bleed, can’t get hurt, what if it someone elsegets it? Have to be in control and stay away to help others or they’ll hate me.”

Cole seems imminently unbothered by the whole thing, and isthe first person who helps the Inquisitor when they get hurt. If asked about ithe simply shrugs and readjusts his hat. “The blood doesn’t want to hurt anyone,and the Inquisitor doesn’t want it to either. Why take attention from otherthings that do?”

 (We are here for you, Anon. You’ve got this licked. Don’tlet anyone get you down about it.)

 -- Mod Fereldone

[liaragaming]

Andaran Atish’an

For anyone who might be interested, I’m working on a fic involving my Lavellan returning to her clan after Trespasser. It mostly focuses on the relationship between her and her best friend. But Solas will make an appearance at some point.

Inan Lavellan returns to her clan after years with the Inquisition, but coming home is even harder than she thought it would be. She's changed in more ways than her family may be able to accept. And there are secrets that may turn even her best friend against her.

ArchiveOfOurOwn FanFiction.net

Inan shifts her weight from one foot to the other. It feels like she's stood by this tree for hours waiting. She shouldn't be nervous. This is her home. But she knows she can't just walk into camp like the past three years never happened. Too much has changed, and she's not the same person she was. She isn't even sure the Keeper will recognize her.

She had to sneak around the camp's patrol. It wasn't hard with her magic and given she knew their usual walking pattern. She didn't like having to do it, but dressed as she is in peasant's clothing and without her vallaslin…

It's not that her clansmen would have been hostile. They've always been friendly to outsiders unless given cause. But there would have been confusion and questions, and that wasn't the homecoming she wanted.

Now she stands by an aravel near the edge of camp waiting for the Keeper to appear, and she wonders if this wasn't the best idea. What if too much has changed? What if she isn't welcomed back? What if no one understands? Would it have been better if she hadn't come at all?

It's not like she has anything to go back to. She disband the Inquisition... in a fit of rage and heartache. Certainly not the most dignified way of ending it, but she was done, with everything. After three years as Inquisitor, the only thing she wanted was the same thing she'd wanted since the conclave. She wanted to go home. But now, standing at the edge of the forest looking in at her clan and thinking of everything that's passed since she was last here… Could it ever be the home she remembered?

Keeper Istimaelhoriel rounds the back of the aravel, and the first time she opens her mouth no sound comes out.

She tries again, and her words shake. “Andaran atish'an, Keeper.”

He steps back at her voice, does a double take when he sees her face. His long braided white hair, tanned skin, and Sylaise vallaslin are so familiar, but he approaches her like a stranger, slowly and with caution.

What if she's changed so much he doesn't recognize her at all?

His eyes roll over her, from her foreign clothes to the nonexistent vallaslin. There is no recognition in his face. But then his brown eyes focus on hers – blue that deepen to purple around the pupil. It's how she got her name. Inan, the elven word for eyes, the place inside, windows to the soul.

“Da'len?” he says, his head tilted.

She smiles, relief flooding her. She'd hadn't realized how much she missed being called “child.”

He straightens and opens his arms wide. “Da'len!”

She embraces him, tears coming to her. “Aneth ara, Keeper.”

He repeats her greeting and pulls back to look at her, his gaze scanning again for the vallaslin that isn't there. “So much has changed.”

She nods, afraid that if she speaks she might sob.

He wipes the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. “Be at peace, da'len. You are home now.” He takes her hand and squeezes it. “Come.”

She follows him into the aravel and closes the door. The wagon is cramped, filled with cabinets, barrels, and benches that hold artifacts, food stores, and other supplies.

The Keeper gestures at a cabinet above her head. “Grab a pair of glasses, da'len. Your return calls for a celebration.”

She pulls open the cabinet door, then pauses as she reaches for the clay mugs. Yet another thing she can't do the way she used to. She takes a breath and stacks one cup on top of another, then holds the stack out to Istimaelhoriel. He pauses, blinks, and his gaze travels down her left arm that stops at the elbow.

“Oh, da'len. When?”

“The Exalted Counsel.” She gestures with the mugs, hoping the Keeper will take them and change the topic.

He hesitates but takes the cups and doesn't ask her to elaborate. Istimaelhoriel busies himself with one of the barrels used for brewing wine, usually reserved for special occasions such as births or bondings… or the return of lost clan members.

He hands her one of the mugs and she breathes in the dry, fruity scent. When she looks back up, Istimaelhoriel's eyes are trailing along her face again.

She freezes under his gaze, knowing there's nothing she can say to him to explain.

Eventually he sighs. “I never would have imagined the vallaslin could be removed, but… Were the humans cruel to you? Did they coerce you?”

Her eyes widen in horror. “No.”

“Then you… chose this for yourself?”

She can't keep his gaze. She looks at the floor, tears coming to her again. “I meant no disrespect, Keeper.”

His fingers, firm and steady, lift her chin. There is no anger or scorn in his soft eyes. He smiles. “I suppose it would be crass to...”

She averts her gaze, terrified again. If he asks whether she'd consider putting the vallaslin back on, she isn't certain she can handle giving an answer.

But he doesn't ask. His fingers caress her check like a parent might. And when she looks up, he's gazing out one of the aravel windows. The sound of footsteps and laughter floats through.

He sighs. “This will not be easy to explain to the clan.”

She looks down at her wine. Facing the clan is the second biggest thing she's been dreading today. And then it hits her. “That's why we're in here… drinking alone.”

The corner of Istimaelhoriel's mouth lifts in a sad smile, his eyes crinkle in apology. “We'll have a full celebration in your honor once I know what to tell the clan… Not all of them will understand.”

She stares at her wine again. “Tell them… tell them...” She struggles for the right words to explain, but she knows there's nothing she can say to make it right. “It was a personal choice. Let them decide what to with it.”

His eyes widen at her bluntness, but he nods and looks away. “Is there… a favorite dish you'd like prepared?”

She thinks of roasted string squash with halla milk sauce, wild flowers, and pine nuts. Her mouth waters, and she sighs. “It's out of season.”

He chuckles. “Something else then?”

“Anything would be wonderful.” A home cooked meal is one of the things she's most looked forward to.

“Ma nuvenin,” he says. “I suppose we'll have to find you some clothes as well.”

She freezes again. She hadn't thought about clothes. Does she want to wear Dalish clothes? Is she a traitor to her people if she doesn't? Is there anything she's not a traitor to her people for? First her face, now her clothes. Maker forbid anyone discovers she doesn't believe in their gods anymore.

She bursts into tears.

“Oh, dal'en.” He sets down his cup and takes hers from her. “Da'len.” He folds her into his arms, and she cries into his shoulder. “Ma ghilana, da'len.”

“Ir abelas, Keeper,” she sobs.

“Tel'abelas. You are home."

She tugs and pulls at her clothing. It fits fine, but it feels like a costume, like she's trying too hard to fit in. Nothing will change the missing markings on her face. Nothing will change the difference in her heart. She loves her people, but more and more she fears it was a mistake for her return.

She could run. No one's seen her save the Keeper. She could easily…

She slams her fist against a cabinet to jar her thoughts. These are her people, her family. Where else does she have to turn if not to them?

She pushes the thoughts from her mind and the tears from her eyes. She will pull herself together, and she will walk out and face her friends. And one way or another, she'll put her fears to rest.

She takes a breath and steps out the aravel, no longer caring to wait for Istimaelhoriel to signal her to appear. Everyone's gathered in the center of camp. The aravels form the camp's perimeter so she has a ways to walk. Istimaelhoriel's voice comes to her on the air, but she doesn't hear the words. She's too fixated on the crowd in front of her.

Some look up as she draws closer and then more. Eventually, their gaze freezes her, and she can no longer move. They're all looking at her face and what isn't there. She finds herself fighting tears again.

This was such a terrible, terrible idea.

Istimaelhoriel turns his attention to her and raises his voice. “Welcome home, Inan!” He claps his hands, and slowly the people around him join in.

Some of those staring at her look away, and she lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. If her people are going to hate her, they won't voice it now.

Maker, she hopes that's a good sign.

She barely recognizes the olive skinned brunet before she pushes her way through the crowd and throws herself at her.

“Nani!” She wishes she had two arms to hug her best friend properly, but she still holds her as best she can.

“Ma vhenan abelas,” her friend says.

“I've missed you too.”

Nani pulls back. She smiles and grips her friend's left shoulder… the one that ends at the elbow. Her eyes trail down and back up. She tries not to let her smile falter, but fails. “The Keeper told us.”

Inan turns her face away. She doesn't want to discuss it. Thankfully, Nani takes the hint and grips her hand. “Come. The Keeper broke out the good wine.” She pulls her through the crowd.

She doesn't have the heart to tell her she's already had a cup. But smiling is good. Not worrying about holding in tears is good. And being with Nani lifts her to the highest spirits she's been in since… since the Exalted Counsel over two months ago.

It feels like another life… before everything spiraled into the worst thing imaginable, or unimaginable. She's doesn't remember what it's like not to feel exhausted all the time, like her thoughts and her emotions and her own missing hand aren't fighting against her constantly.

But this is the opposite of what she wants to dwell on. When Nani finds a spot at the camp fire, she tries to focus on her friend and not think about the stares and whispers from everyone around them.

“You have to tell me everything!” Nani insists.

“Everything? All three years?”

“Yes, all of it!” Her eyes are wide, sparkling.

She has no idea how she could possibly keep up with her friend's enthusiasm. “Didn't the Keeper share my letters?”

“Of course, but I want to hear it from you. I want to know what you did, all the places you've been, all the people you met.”

She doesn't know where to start. Trying to think about it all is draining. Her mind settles on something exciting. “I killed a dragon.”

Nani's wide-eyed expression deflates.

“I'm serious.”

“You're having me on.”

“I'm not. I swear I killed a dragon.” She is nowhere near enthused enough to sound convincing. She casts her mind around for something else. “One of my companions was a qunari.”

Nani perks up.

“With big horns.” She runs her right hand from her head and traces the shape. “Named Iron Bull.”

Nani lets out a laugh. She swirls her cup of wine. “The Keeper said the Inquisition gathered people from all walks of life.”

“Like you wouldn't believe,” she tells her.

Nani smiles at her. “You really must tell me everything.”

Inan shakes her head. “It would take weeks… months.”

“Well, the Inquisition's disbanded. You have all the time in the world now.”

She does, but she isn't sure she has the energy for it. Thankfully, she's spared from replying as food is passed around – a simple stew in wooden bowls. But to Inan it's the one of the most delicious meals she's had in months.

“Bet it's meager picking compared to what you were served in that mighty castle, harellan.”

Nani spins around to face a tall boy with short dark hair. “Falon!”

But he ignores her and focuses only on Inan. “We all know you don't really want to be here. It's as plain as your face.”

She has no response. It was only a question of when someone accused her of being a traitor to her people. And now they have, and she has nothing to refute it.

But Nani continues to defend her. “Falon, stop! You shame yourself!”

He stands. “I shame myself?” He glares at Inan. “Use your eyes, Nani.” He stalks away.

Inan stares at her soup, her appetite gone. She doesn't deserve to sit among her people, let alone eat their food.

Nani puts a hand on she shoulder. “Don't mind him,” she says. “He's become more and more bitter since Wycome.”

Inan looks up from her bowl. “W-what do you mean?”

Nani's eyes widen. She looks away.

“Nani.”

Her friend won't look at her. “It's just…” She sighs and stares at her knees. “His mother passed away in the initial bandit attack.”

“What?” Her grip loosens on her bowl, nearly spilling its contents all over herself. “The Keeper never said anything about-”

“He didn't want to put that on you,” Nani tells her, looking her in the eyes. “There was nothing you could have done. The rest of us are all alive because of you.”

She casts her gaze over the faces around them, trying to determine if there's anyone missing. Her lips tremble. “Who else?”

“Inan–”

“Who else?!” she demands, loud enough to turn faces toward them.

Nani sighs. “A few of our warriors. One of the children.”

She does lose her bowl this time, its contents spilling on the ground as she stands to leave.

Nani grabs her. “Inan, stop. It was the very initial attack. There was nothing you could have done. This isn't on you.”

If it isn't on her, then why does it weigh so heavily? “Falon–”

“Falon's an idiot!” she says. Then she closes her eyes, shakes her head. “And a boy grieving the loss of his mother... But that doesn't excuse - His father would have admonished him had he been sitting here.”

It doesn't make her feel like less of a failure, even when she knows it doesn't make any sense.

“I'm just really tired, Nani.” Her voice is more watery than she would like.

Her friend relents and puts an arm around her, steering her toward the aravels. “Come on. You can sleep in my tent.”

Away from the voices and faces around the camp fire, laying on a bedroll next her best friend, it's easy to forget the rest of the clan, to find solace in enjoying the company of someone she cares about.

“I'm glad you're back,” Nani says as they settle in for the night.

For every instant today she thought she wouldn't be able to stop herself from sobbing, she's very grateful for this moment right here, right now where she feels she couldn't be happier.

“So am I.”

Elven translations in order of appearance:

Andaran atish’an - A formal elven greeting. Literally: "I dwell in this place of peace."

Da'len - child, or little one.

Aneth ara - a casual friendly greeting, used among the Dalish themselves rather than outsiders. Literally: "My safe place."

Ma ghilana - guide me, or explain

Ma nuvenin - as you say.

Ir abelas - I'm sorry.

Tel'abelas - (contested) Don't be sorry.

Ma vhenan abelas - (invented) I missed you. Literally: "My heart sorrowed."

Harellan - traitor

[wolfoncaffeine]

the anchor’s weight

summary: the prologue, with first impressions and musings on the anchor. 3k words. ao3

_______________________________________________________________________

As soon as the last demon fell, the mage ran to her. “Quickly! Before more come through!”

Eirlana stared at him, at the bare-faced elven man who fought like a mage from neither clan nor Circle. “What —”

He grabbed her marked hand and raised it to the rift.

With a sound like snow crumbling down a mountain, a stream of green light snapped into place between the two. Pain erupted in her palm, radiating from the thing at its centre, absorbed her entire arm, and echoed to her toes, a bone-deep and burning ache that only worsened as the thunder rose to a shriek —

The rift exploded, its force throwing their arms back, and vanished.

She gaped. It’s gone. Fist clenched against the lingering pain, heart rate still at a gallop, she spun to him. “What did you do?”

“I did nothing,” he said, lips quirked. “The credit is yours.”

She shook her head. “Mine? How?”

“Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized that the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake. And it seems I was correct.”

A soft laugh, part relief and part surprise at his apparent calm, escaped her. “It also seems that you’re owed a little credit, at least.”

“Ah, well. Thank you.”

“So, in theory, the mark will also close —” she gestured toward the gigantic rend in the sky “— that.”

“Yes. In theory.” He tipped his head toward her. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

“Good to know,” the dwarf cut in. “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” He ambled over with a grin, crossbow now holstered. “Varric Tethras — rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tag-along.” He winked at Cassandra and received a glare in response.

“Eirlana Lavellan,” she said, smiling in return, “mage, historian, and currently a prisoner.”

He laughed, short and sharp. “We’ve that last one in common.”

“You are not a prisoner,” Cassandra growled. “I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine. Clearly that is no longer necessary.”

“And yet here I remain!” he replied, arms spread wide. “Lucky for you, considering current events.”

Cassandra’s glare sharpened. “Absolutely not. Your help is appreciated, Varric, but —”

Eirlana stepped in front of her, meeting her eyes. “Exactly. Judging by the number of demons we’ve already fought, anyone’s help would be welcome.”

Cassandra’s jaw tightened and Eirlana prepared to argue. Then, the warrior nodded and turned away, moving to inspect the surrounding ruins.

She conceded. To a suspected murderer. Eirlana looked at Varric, who whispered, “Half bark, half bite. Maybe it depends on who she’s talking to.”

The mage merely smiled and stepped forward when she turned to him. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,’” Varric added.

Eirlana smiled. “Ma serannas.”

“Unfortunately,” Solas continued, “the mark has worsened to the point where my efforts are no longer effective.”

Her mind blanked, just for a moment, and too many questions leaped up. She clenched her jaw, trapping the torrent of panic, and remembered Cassandra claiming this man could help. She glanced her hand, its jagged mark spitting sparks. “Closing the Breach will stop this from tearing me apart?”

“I believe so, though without an energy input equal to the explosion’s, more likely it will only be a short-term solution toward preserving your life and completely healing the Veil.”

“So I need a source to draw from to permanently seal it.”

“Yes, therefore —”

“You can speculate later,” Cassandra interrupted, gesturing at the mountain path. “Right now, our priority is stopping the demons.” After a sweeping glare, she continued on.

“Well,” Varric sighed, “best get moving before she decides to drag us all the way there.” He followed, trudging through the snow.

Eirlana glanced at Solas, who motioned her forward.

“Speaking of,” he began as they walked, “how is the mark?”

“Painful.” The mark continued to pulse with her every heartbeat, tingling her fingers and sending tremors up her arm.

“The pain was worse while closing the rift?”

“Yes.”

He hummed. “Closing the Breach, if only temporarily, should lessen the pain, as well as keep any more smaller rifts from tearing open.”

She glanced at him — expression neutral, eyes forward, tips of his ears red from the cold. “You seem…rather knowledgeable about what’s happening.”

“My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of one constrained to a Circle or clan.”

Something clicked and she turned to him. “Are you a dreamer?”

“I am.”

She grinned, a dozen questions already on her tongue. “That’s —”

In a flurry of snow, a terror demon crashed out of the trees, nearly knocking Varric down. He squawked and scrambled away, backing up toward her. On the other side of the monster and another twenty paces up the path, Cassandra spun.

Hearing her companions draw their weapons, Eirlana yanked her staff from its harness.

“Well, shit,” Varric muttered, as the demon stepped closer.

Cassandra, already charging down the path, wouldn’t reach the demon before it reached —

It lunged, one hand swiping for her face. Pulling on lightning, Eirlana swung her staff. As claws caught her cheek, crackling ice shot past her.

The demon collapsed in the snow, bearing gashes, crossbow bolts, and magical burns.

Solas watched its body dissipate. Such a waste. Even the losses of lesser spirits darken this world. He sighed, then turned to his companions.

Both the child of Stone and the human were visibly unharmed, while the Dalish mage had only received two shallow cuts beneath her left eye. And yet, she was dying. Visible to only mages, the Anchor’s magic crackled through her.

When he’d examined her the day prior, he’d found her organs already straining against the magic. Though his healing and wards had initially proven effective, the Anchor was steadily tearing them apart. Healing her and quelling the magic would be simple, if exhausting, yet doing so would risk someone realizing that his power was too great for an elven apostate, even one so widely travelled as he claimed.

Unless the Breach is sealed, she may die by nightfall, which is not ideal, but perhaps ‑ no. Corypheus has vanished, and the orb with him. I cannot seek him out now, without knowing the full extent of his power and without aid. Waiting, and learning if this mage is capable of wielding the Anchor, may be the best course.

He watched her brush her knuckles over her cut cheek and smear the trickling blood. Ironic that this ancient magister would be fooled by one of the Dalish. And even more so that one is even here. Certainly it would be easier to wait out a human conflict than involve themselves voluntarily. And for a mage to come, of all possibilities, when magic is so highly valued among her people.

When she turned and noticed his gaze, she frowned. “Solas, is something wrong?”

He considered her for a moment, Sylaise’s vallaslin etched in a watery blue on her copper-coloured skin. “No, though I am curious. You are Dalish, yet clearly away from the rest of your clan. Did they send you here?”

She stiffened, shoulders going rigid, and her concern vanished beneath a blank expression. “No. I’m here of my own volition. Why do you ask?”

“I know how crucial magic is to your people. Is it not unwise for you to be here, when someone less important would suffice?”

Anger flashed into her face — eyes narrowing, jaw clenching. “I am not worth more than someone who isn’t a mage.”

“Of course,” he said, his level tone a counter to her bite. “Even so, mages are integral to your cultural heritage, as I understand it. Surely it was foolish to risk your life in attending the Conclave.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m not Lavellan’s sole mage. It’s no great risk. My turn,” she added before he could argue that point. “You claim no ties to any clan, yet clearly you know about us. Any particular reason?”

“I have wandered many roads in my time and crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion.”

“And by ‘crossed paths’ you mean what, exactly?”

“I offered to share knowledge, only to be attacked for no greater reason than their superstition and distrust.”

Her expression softened a touch, even as she snorted. “Keepers who scorn and turn away city-elves do nothing to further our people, much as they may think differently.”

“Your people,” he said automatically.

She frowned, confused one moment and annoyed the next, lips twisting. “Different lifestyles doesn’t change our shared blood or shared history.”

“The Dalish I have met disagree.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “And the opinions of the few clans you met stand for all of us?”

“I…. No. I see your point.”

She relaxed slightly, fingers loosening where she gripped her sleeve.

"As much as I'm enjoying this debate," the dwarf interrupted, "I think we're testing the Seeker's patience." He glanced pointedly at the human, who had finished searching for any additional lurking demons and was stalking toward them.

The elf nodded. "Right. Let's go."

Chill seeped off the stone walls, often slick with ice. An occasional burning torch would stave off the cold a little, but only during the quick heartbeats Eirlana strode by. Even out of the wind and snow, it felt colder within the temple’s depths.

Old, latent magic, perhaps. Raan did fight spirits when she was here ten years ago, looking for that human relic. Or maybe the explosion caused —

The mark flared and pain burst from her palm. She doubled over, spasming limb pressed against her stomach and nails into her palm, and trembled. Her knees felt loose.

Fenedhis fenedhis fenedhis —

“Give me your hand.”

Addled by pain, she moved automatically, if slowly. “What happened?” she mumbled between one deep, conscious breath and the next, as fingers gripped her wrist.

A surge of magic enveloped her, drowning enough of the pain for her to straighten.

“The magic broke through my original wards,” Solas replied, face impassive. “These new ones will block more of the pain, at the cost of failing far sooner. An hour at most. We should hurry.”

Cassandra’s gaze flicked to her hand, concern in her furrowed brow. “Are you alright?”

Eirlana nodded. “The sooner the Breach is closed, the better.”

As Cassandra strode ahead, checking around the tight corner for demons, Varric whispered, “How're you really holding up?

“I’m fine. The wards are blocking the mark.” All that remained was a headache, likely stress-induced and steadily building.

“No need to play the hero. We’ll carry you up the mountain if we have to. Well, Cassandra will. I’ll shout encouraging words.”

She smiled, hoping it didn’t come off as a grimace. “I’d appreciate it.”

Another few turns brought them outside the temple and to soldiers in need of rescuing from demons. Not trusting her aim, Eirlana hung back, maintaining barriers, and sealed the rift when the fight ended.

Her headache continued to thicken, blurring the pines and mountains together, while the mark’s magic pushed consistently against the wards, nearly numbing her hand, and she followed her companions’ voices and footsteps in a daze, squinting against the sunlight, bright despite the clouds and —

“Andraste’s ashes.”

Jolted alert by the strange curse, she looked up and froze.

Huge spires of dark stone loomed above them, pulsing with veins of green light and angled away from the explosion's centre. From where the Breach lingered, its stream of light visible between the jutting rocks.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Solas said.

“What’s left of it,” Varric muttered, as they passed the crumbling remains of the temple’s walls, some barely of height with him, and the corpses, burned black and frozen in place, terror on their faces.

“That is where you walked out of the Fade and our soldiers found you.” Cassandra’s voice was quiet, sounding almost awestruck. “They say a woman was in the rift behind you, but no one knows who she was.”

Eirlana frowned. “No one recognized her?”

“She was not recognizable,” Cassandra clarified. “The soldiers claimed she shone so brightly her features were obscured.”

“A spirit?”

Solas hummed. “It is possible.”

“If your memories return, perhaps we will know for certain,” Cassandra said and lead them down a flight of stairs and around a corner to —

A massive rift, hanging above the empty crater and rumbling like an avalanche, and streams of green light linking it to the Breach, high above in the clouds. On the ground, among the spires of regular stone, were ones that glowed a deep red.

“Mythal’enaste,” Eirlana swore, skin prickling, and her headache spiked. Vision blurring, she moved to the banister and gripped the stone, stabilizing herself without leaning any weight on it. After several slow breaths, her sight cleared.

Cassandra’s boots shifted the rubble as she approached. “Lavellan?”

“Yes?”

“This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?”

She took a deep breath, turned, and nodded. “Get me to the Breach and I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Solas shook his head. “No. This rift is the first, and it is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

Swallowing the “fenedhis” crawling up her throat, Eirlana nodded. “Lead the way.”

Cassandra did, with Varric warning them away from the red stone — red lyrium, he called it.

I’ll have to ask about that, Eirlana thought, edging around a large piece, gaze turned away from its harsh light. Lyrium is definitely not red.

“You seem to be in pain. Are the wards not holding?” Solas asked, walking beside her.

“Headache.”

He frowned and gestured for her to stop. “Seeker, a moment,” he called, before turning to her and raising his hands, healing magic gathering on his fingertips. “May I?”

“Please.”

He pressed his fingers gently against her temples and cast, flooding her vision with blue light. She dropped her gaze, eyes half-closed against the glare.

A chill akin to the Minanter’s water flowed over her, seeped beneath her skin, and began carrying away the ache. She sighed, jaw unclenching, shoulders dropping, and waited as the magic worked every bit of the pain away.

When he removed his hands, she looked up. “Ma seran ‑ thanks."

“Ma isala halani, dirthera,” he replied, an annoyed edge to his voice, and continued walking.

She stared after him, barely registering what he’d said, then jogged after to catch up. “You speak Elven?”

“Indeed."

‘Indeed,’ he says, as if speaking fluent Elven is trivial.

"Why are you surprised? You thanked me before in Elven, did you not?"

She frowned, thinking back. "I ‑ yes, I did. Slip of the tongue. I've rarely had a reason to say 'ma serannas' in Common before."

"You've never left your clan before, I gather."

"As I understand it, there's little reason to risk the life of a valued First for mere trips into town." He grunted at that. Swallowing another jab, she added with less of an edge, "Firsts aren't permitted to travel away from the clan if it isn't necessary for our studies."

"Misguided, though understandable."

She suppressed a sigh. Fluent Common, too, in his strange accent. Well-read and widely-travelled, but vague about where he's studied and what he's learned. I see why clans would be hesitant. But to deny him completely, gain nothing, and lose a potential ally?

“Solas.” At his name, he looked down and she caught his gaze, lifting her marked hand. “If I sur—” She cut herself off, quashing that thought. “When this rift is sealed, will you tell me what you know about this?”

For a moment, he remained silent, merely returning her steady gaze. “Ma nuvenin,” he said softly.

She smiled. “Ma serannas.”

The pride demon fell, shaking the bowl of the crater with its weight.

Wincing, the elf staggered to her feet, one arm wrapped around her torso. The demon’s swipe had likely fractured a rib, if not broken several.

“Now!” the Seeker shouted, sword still in hand. “Seal the rift!”

She staggered forward to stand beneath the rift and wedged the butt of her staff into the rubble at her feet.

To steady herself, Solas realized, when she gripped it so tightly her knuckles whitened and raised the Anchor to the rift.

She spasmed when mark and rift connected with a roar, yet held herself up as the Anchor’s magic shoved against the tear, stitching it back together, achingly slow —

The rift resisted, yanking on the Anchor, and the wards snapped.

The elf screamed, the sound barely heard beneath the ear-splitting whine of straining magic.

Almost too late, Solas cast a barrier over her.

The rift collapsed, its released energy rushing outwards and buffeting every being in the crater. Solas leaned into the wind, watching the link to the Breach shoot upwards, collide with it, and vanish with a second blast. He peered up, fingernails biting into his staff, and — the Breach was closed.

For now. He sighed and turned his gaze to the elf, sprawled on the ground ten paces from where she’d stood, tossed by the blast and unmoving. Even though his barrier had held, closing the rift could have exhausted her body beyond repair.

He strode over to her, followed by the dwarf, and reached for her throat. “She yet lives,” he announced, pulse drumming under his thumb.

“Good to hear. This shit looks far from over.”

Unfortunately, he thought, releasing the barrier and beginning to search her body for damage. No doubt Corypheus will retaliate, in the hopes of stealing back the Anchor ‑ yes, two broken ribs and a massive bruise. He cast a healing spell and she twitched, groaning, as the breaks slowly mended.

“She gonna be alright?”

“Yes. The spell will only mend the breaks, however, not restrengthen the weakened bones. Only time is capable of such.”

The dwarf grunted.

Once her bones were knit, Solas lifted the elf, her unbruised side against his torso.

She seems a capable mage, though inexperienced in battle, he thought, rejoining the soldiers. However, if as many rifts have torn open elsewhere as here, that will be remedied by default. And it must be remedied. She must remain alive to serve as a distraction for Corypheus. If she dies too soon and I am forced to reveal myself in order to collect the Anchor….

He looked down at her — marked hand curled into a fist where it lay in her lap. For all intents and purposes, she is the Anchor now. She must live.