The Dread Wolf's Blessings

By KSCrusaders (Sable Rhapsody on BSN)

Part One: Compassion

The girl lay in a cell in the basement of Haven's chantry, where cultists had once imprisoned Andraste's faithful. He could almost see the old bloodstains on the stone. Small wonder she was dying; this was a place where death had infused the very bricks and mortar. The Seeker reached for a set of rusted iron keys and opened the cell. It smelled of herbs and astringent. A human man knelt next to the girl, brow covered with sweat.

"I'm not a bloody miracle worker, Seeker. I don't know what you expect me to-" The man cut off his tirade upon seeing Solas standing there. "Who's this?"

"Adan, this is Solas. An apostate who claims he can help us." Even Seeker Cassandra's word choice oozed suspicion. She still held his staff in her left hand, her right on the hilt of her sword. "He wants to examine our prisoner."

Adan looked Solas up and down, his eyes performing the familiar motion of lingering on the pointed ears. "About time you got a mage down here." He stepped aside and handed over his lantern, giving Solas some space next to the hard wooden cot where the girl lay.

She was young, not much over twenty by his guess, with tanned skin and long brown hair bound up in a braid. The faint burgundy vallaslin of June covered her cheeks and forehead. That alone was unusual. What was one of the Dalish doing at a human conclave? He knelt and picked up her hand, the unmarked one, feeling the subtle archer's callouses. Her skin was cold to the touch, her pulse slightly erratic, breathing shallow.

Solas looked at Adan. "Has she woken up at all since the conclave?"

"No. It's all I can do to keep her swallowing elfroot infusion and breathing." He was about to say more when the girl cried out weakly; her left hand pulsed with green light, and her whole body convulsed briefly but violently. Adan, clearly used to the sight of this, pinned her shoulders to the cot so she wouldn't hurt herself; she was so weak that all he really had to do was rest his weight on her. When the glow subsided, the human left the cell, leaving Solas and Cassandra alone with the girl. She stirred slightly, whispering something, but he couldn't make out the words.

"Has she said anything?" he asked Cassandra.

"Nothing we can understand. But every time the Breach grows, that mark on her hand pulses." Solas turned his attention to the Anchor, an ugly and jagged line across the palm of her left hand. For now, it was barely visible. If it hadn't been for the gloom in the cell, he might not have seen it at all. He turned down the lantern, examining every line of the mark minutely.

"Well?" demanded Cassandra. "Can you help or not?"

"I don't know," he said through clenched teeth, fighting down the wave of guilt that welled up in him. The conclave, the explosion, this poor girl dying in a Chantry jail cell...his fault. It made the lie come easier. "I have never seen magic like this before."

"Hardly enlightening."

Solas drew a deep, steadying breath. "If I could have some time, Seeker? Your alchemist has had time to tend to his patient. I do not wish to jump to any conclusions." He ran his fingertips over the mark; the achingly familiar magic of the orb practically sang to him, but it was altered somehow. Perverted from its purpose, embedded in the hand of this child.

"Time is a luxury we don't have, apostate. My presence is needed elsewhere." With his back turned to her, he couldn't see it, but he heard the subtle shift in posture as she moved to block him from the cell door.

"You have templars here in Haven. Send them to guard us."

He could tell from the silence that he'd surprised her. She eventually murmured something to the guards, who drew their blades and stood on either side of the door. Solas sighed to himself. As if the wretched girl lying on the bed could do anything to any of them, even if she did miraculously awaken. As if he was any real threat without his staff...and bereft of the orb.

Seeker Cassandra returned a few minutes later with four templars, who replaced the jail guards outside the cell. "Let me know if he causes any trouble," she said, plenty loud enough for Solas to hear. "And if she wakes up."

His world narrowed to that dark cell and the girl within it - her barely audible breaths, her fluttering pulse, her soft cries of pain. The Anchor was quickly killing her, like a parasite siphoning her life force each time it flared. Perhaps it was using her life to feed the Breach? It seemed unlikely that any one person's life would be enough to open a deliberate tear of such magnitude. She wasn't even a mage, and painfully mortal. She would be dead in hours.

Solas waited until the templars had grown bored of staring at him. It didn't take long; he wasn't doing anything visibly threatening to the girl or them, and templars were still but men. The two templars just outside the cell started up a conversation, and Solas turned his body ever so slightly, blocking the girl's hand from their view. He pressed her palm to his forehead, gently feeling out the Anchor.

A great deal of power from his orb was still bound up in the strange mark. He paused, listened again for any sign of hyper-vigilance, then grasped her hand in both of his, trying to draw out his stolen magic.

The effect was instantaneous and electric - the familiar touch of ancient magic answered his call, but her hand flared blindingly and the girl shrieked, writhing in pain. Swords scraped against sheaths, and the cell door flew open violently; Solas let go of her immediately in the face of four templars pointing blades at him.

"I'm sorry. I tried to test the mark, see what sort of magic caused it," he said in an even, calm voice, holding up his hands to show he was no threat. The girl's screams quickly subsided, but her whole body shook like a leaf in a thunderstorm. Four pairs of steely eyes watched him, waiting for a reason to run him through. "Please. I have inadvertently caused her pain. Let me attend to her."

The templars glanced at one another, then the one closest to the cell door nodded to the others to sheathe their swords. His armor was slightly different, and he wore a lieutenant's tabard. "Don't try that again," he said, not unkindly.

"I won't." Solas sat down on the girl's cot, cradling her against him until the tremors stopped. He allowed himself a shuddering breath, a moment of weakness looking down at her face. Somehow, inexplicably, the Anchor was now bound to her. His attempt to reclaim it had nearly killed her. If he tried again, he surely would.

Solas looked from the dying girl to the templars. There was power in the Anchor; he could feel a tiny piece he'd managed to reclaim spreading through him like a single warm sunbeam. Could he recover enough of it to take four templars and hunt down the darkspawn magister? There was no way to tell, not unless he tried, but if his plan failed he had no backup. The Seeker would surely capture and execute him as her scapegoat, and who would blame her?

The Dalish girl stirred weakly in his arms, curling her body toward him and seeking his warmth. Her hands found his clothes in a futile effort to bring him closer. Solas's breath caught in his throat. He had come to examine and possibly reclaim the Anchor. But to do that, he would have to kill the girl. The unlucky innocent who had no business being here, and no recourse against him. The child who clung to him like a lifeline. If he slew her, he deserved nothing less than templar blades through the back.

He had to start somewhere, making up for his mistake, so he may as well start with her. He gathered her up in his arms, pressing his forehead against hers. She felt cold, fragile, like she'd been lying there for a week instead of a day.

"Ir abelas, da'len," he whispered softly.

Nothing. It was wishful thinking that she'd respond. He forced himself to look at her in detail: her light brown curls plastered to her skin with cold sweat, brow furrowed in lingering pain, archer's fingers grasping his robes. This was something he could hold onto, something he could atone for.

He pulled the short fur cloak from his shoulders and laid it over her to help keep her warm. Then he tried everything he could think of that was reasonably safe, every form of healing magic he could still perform. But while he could drive life into her body, it didn't linger. She didn't have the strength left. He needed to stop the mark from bleeding her dry first.

Temple guards in the days of Arlathan used a particular sort of warding; when everyone knew magic, being able to defend against it was that much more important. The spell was meant to be used on oneself, warping one's ambient magic into a shield that would absorb harmful magical effects. The girl was no mage, but he was pretty sure he could extend the shielding from himself to include her, with the templars none the wiser to his actual technique.

It was exhausting work, forcing him to weaken the shield so he could maintain it over both of them. The slow, consistent drain on his mana felt like a headache pressing in at his temples; it had been a very long time since he'd attempted this sort of defensive spell for another. He waited with bated breath, and the next time he heard demons explode from the Breach, the girl shifted a bit in his arms but did not cry out. Nor did the mark flare. Solas slumped against the stone wall in relief; he would have to stay with her and maintain the ward, but she at least wouldn't die on his account.

One Dalish girl. One life saved among hundreds lost.

The door to the prison opened again, but the footsteps weren't the Seeker's heavy tread or the alchemist's shuffle. Solas caught a whiff of food. A dwarf wearing well-made if slightly dusty clothes sat down on the steps outside the cell, just out of reach of the templars' swords. He placed a tray laden with food next to him, soaking up some of the stew with bread.

"Well, I see you've made yourself at home in this lovely prison. How's she doing?"

"You know her?" asked Solas. The dwarf tossed him a bread roll through the bars. It was still warm. His stomach rumbled loudly - when had he last eaten?

"She's a prisoner, like me," said the dwarf around a mouthful of stew. "That's about all we have in common."

Solas looked him over critically. "Your circumstances are considerably better than hers."

"I'm not suspected of killing the Divine and most of the Chantry hierarchy. Yet," said the dwarf. "Varric Tethras, at your service."

"I am Solas. A pleasure to meet you, child of the Stone."

Varric scoffed. "I'm a Marcher. None of the Stone for me." He picked up the tray and casually shoved his way past the templars, joining Solas in the girl's cell. "So? Any progress?"

Solas picked up a cup of steaming broth, blowing on it to cool it off. "I've managed to keep the mark from killing her. Hopefully she wakes before the magic involved exhausts me."

"Really? Better than we've been doing." Varric looked down at the girl in his lap; she was breathing easier now, her face still if not exactly relaxed. "I wonder how she got caught up in all this? You really think she could be responsible?"

"No."

"That sure, huh?"

Solas quickly checked himself. "It is highly unlikely. She is not a mage, and even if she was, the Dalish do not possess magic with this sort of destructive power." He pulled a wooden spoon from his belt and began slowly feeding broth to the girl. He'd have to ask Adan for some elfroot infusion later, and perhaps his staff back from Cassandra. He tuned back the power of the ward briefly to give himself some respite, watching blue energy shimmer over both of them.

"Are you a healer?" asked Varric.

If only he knew. "No. I am more of a...scholar and explorer. But I have seen many things in my travels through the Fade. I thought I should offer my help."

To his surprise, Varric smiled at him sadly. "Good. Last healer I knew got possessed, went crazy, and blew up a Chantry."

"I have no intention of doing any of those things." The dwarf meant well, he could tell that much. He didn't have to share his dinner with an apostate and an unconscious prisoner. The Breach's energy once again pressed on his wards, and the girl stirred in his arms.

"...grey," she murmured fretfully. "...too many eyes..."

Solas and Varric looked at each other. The dwarf shrugged. "Maybe she's having a nightmare about spiders."

"Spiders?"

"I hate spiders. The giant, nasty, hairy ones in the Deep Roads - ah, never mind." Varric put the half-empty tray down next to Solas and turned to go. "Take care of that girl, Chuckles." Solas raised an eyebrow at the nickname, and the dwarf shrugged. "You seem like the cheerful, optimistic sort."

Solas sighed. "If you see Seeker Cassandra, could you please ask her to return my staff? I will have a much easier time maintaining the protective ward with it."

Varric looked like he wanted to say no. Then he shrugged helplessly and nodded. "Fine. But if she punches me, I'm passing it forward to you." The dwarf left the jail, and Solas was alone in the darkness with the girl and four templars.

The other three armored men were no longer paying any attention to him, but the lieutenant continued to watch Solas steadily, even as he devoured the remaining food and finished feeding the girl. "For what it's worth," the templar eventually said, "I'm glad you're here, mage. She looked a lot worse when we found her."

Solas's head snapped up. "You found her?" he asked.

The human shook his head. "Well, not me specifically. Chantry forces." Solas nodded, hiding the sinking feeling in his stomach. He needed more information about what had happened, and this well-meaning fool knew nothing.

Oblivious to Solas's thoughts, the templar continued. "There was a woman in the rift behind her, you know. She just fell out of the Fade, and there was this glowing woman lingering in the Fade."

"I've heard," said Solas in a careful, neutral tone. "Perhaps she can tell us more if she wakes."

The templar's face fell a little. "You don't think she'll wake up?"

"I cannot say." This tiny slip of a mortal had been physically hurled through the Fade. The chances of her eyes ever opening again was very slim indeed. Then again, many things that should not have happened were in motion at this very moment. Perhaps one of them would not be a mistake.

Solas did not believe in sentimental gestures, but if there was even the smallest chance that the girl's spirit could still hear him, he had to try. He waited until the Breach exploded again; the flares of energy were coming ever so slightly faster now. He needed her to hear him.

It was easy to slip into the Fade; there had been plenty of death within these walls. Solas ignored the phantom wails of the cultists' prisoners and the echoes of long-dead sermons. He closed his eyes and opened his senses, questing for the girl. He could feel her spirit in the Fade with him, but muted somehow, bound, like a whisper through deep and icy water.

Something was keeping her from him, from the waking world. The Anchor? Was it tethering her here to the Fade? He called out to his friends and heard nothing in return. It should not have been a surprise; he could see the Breach from this side of the Veil, a violent maelstrom that tore the very fabric of the Fade itself and consumed it. No spirit would voluntarily linger here. But the bitter tang of disappointment hit him nonetheless.

There was nothing he could do for her from this side of the Veil, the only place he was still powerful. She was in the hands of providence now, and providence had never been kind to him.

But he had to try. He always had to try. "Wake up," he whispered, and he was gone.

When he opened his eyes in the waking world, she did not follow suit. But one of her hands had found his, her cold fingers laced with his in an unconscious reflex for comfort. His immediate instinct was to pull away. But he forced himself to stay, absently stroking her marked palm with his thumb, feeling the thrum of his stolen magic.

Open your eyes, da'len, he silently begged her. You must wake up.