You will always go into that tent. You will always fall in love,
and it will always be like having your throat cut, just that fast.
You will always run away with her. You will always lose her.
You will always be a fool.
―Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless

My heart's on its hind legs,
ready to run, ready to lunge at you.
―Karese Burrows, Litany

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The Herald's return had caused more than enough distraction for Solas to slip back in amongst the Inquisition without being seen.

They'd moved into the southern pass, and he had to commend the advisers for having the wherewithal and presence of mind to do so. Not simply just for the shelter it afforded, but also the sense of surety and command, which was sorely needed after such a devastating blow from the Elder One. The loss of a leader ― even simply a figurehead ― was enough to seed uncertainty and chaos, and expose the Inquisition to infighting.

The smallest doubt could unravel them.

He'd seen countless other such organizations and alliances break over less.

Despite his concerns, it was at once obvious that her return had reinvigorated the survivors as they bustled between the tents, busying themselves with work. The medics and the healers worked in tandem to treat the injured, forgetting their animosities in the face of the abject need of their people. Soldier and mage worked alike to save who they could, and Compassion flitted unseen between them giving mercy to the ones they couldn't.

For the time being, though, he could focus on little else than the Herald.

He would not soon forget how it felt to find her out there in the foothills.

Blood in the snow around her, and all the color gone from her face. Supine, with her arms flexed outward, as though she'd simply fallen back as one would into their bed after a long day's work. As though she were simply sleeping, and not dying.

He had almost lost grip of his form from the shock of seeing her like that, having thought he'd been too late. There had been a brief, mad moment where he'd wanted to shift back to gather her up in his arms and carry her back himself, before his senses returned to him.

The only indication that she had not yet died had been in the weak glimmer of his Anchor, sparking in fits and bursts in the palm of her glove. It calmed him enough so that he could compose himself, and gather what remained of his strength. When he reached through the connection between himself and the Anchor, he could feel that there had been precious little life left in her. And further still, he'd sensed her spirit at the cusp of the Void.

Empires had risen and fallen since the last time he felt such panic and despair.

It wasn't a gentle thing, pulling one from near-death.

And if not for the connection between them afforded by the Anchor, he wouldn't have been able to do it at all, not in his weakened state.

Time had stretched endless and agonizing while he'd waited for her to wake, and it was only when she did that he was able to breathe again.

He had not known what to expect once he found her, let alone anticipate how she would react to the form he disguised himself in.

He was a practical man, and had braced himself to the reality of her reacting much the same as others of her kind had over the millennia when he approached them in the dreaming. However different he'd found her to be in relation to the Dalish, to other mortal modern elves of her time, she was still a child born and raised of a world broken by Fen'Harel. If not outright scorn, should she recognize the form before her for what it was, at the very least she would fear the unknown ― a towering creature neither demon nor spirit, nor wholly of this world. And were he met with scorn, how could he expect any less of her, being that he was the Great Betrayer of her people? Centuries of myth and propaganda drilled into each Dalish child ensured their estrangement, their fear of him.

Yet, of all that he could have anticipated, he had not expected her to touch him.

The gesture had taken him back ― what seemed years but couldn't have been more than a handful of months ― to that night on the Storm Coast, on their way back to Haven. How she'd climbed up to put her hand in the mouth of the stone statue of the Dread Wolf. An amusing act of heresy for a Dalish elf, which had sent a thrill through him all the same.

And faced with the form he wore, she had dared to do it again.

There hadn't been a trace of fear in her that he could discern, only awe, and defiance in the way she addressed him.

How had he expected any less of her?

Still, it had taken all his self control to leave her cries for truth unanswered. He could only lead her back to safety, and leave before the strength to hold his form fled him. He'd skirted the scouts and the south-facing edge of the encampment, no matter how he wished to be with those who would find her first. He'd waited until word began to move through the camp, until it was reasonably acceptable for him to have heard word of the Herald's return.

It had been agony to wait, to delay himself, but the situation was far too precarious to evoke suspicion now.

Even now, he kept his steps swift but steady ― he kept his desperation leashed, and projected only the grim severity suited to his position amongst the Inquisition.

It was not hard to find where they'd taken the Herald, as there was a near calamitous crowd outside the tent she had been placed in. It was comprised of the Herald's companions and all her advisers, chantry sisters and medics, and seemingly every hedge mage who'd fancied themselves a healer. All locked in a heated discussion on who was needed, and who was not.

This was not good.

It was Cassandra who sighted him first, and called out to him. "Solas!" A rough jerk of her head indicated that she had need of him.

There was relief in her tired face as she beckoned him over, as though she found delegating and dealing with her own people more tiring than fighting all of the Elder One's army.

Solas took a steadying breath, and approached her.

"We were looking for you," she informed, letting her voice cut over the clamor and following it with a stern look for good measure. The others ceased their arguing and conceded to her authority, at least for the time being.

He did not let the statement rattle his already vexed nerves. "Forgive me, Seeker. It has been a taxing night."

"As it has been for us all," she agreed, and it was then that he saw how worn the Seeker had become in the hours he last saw her.

"I heard word that our Herald has returned to us," he remarked, steering the conversation's focus from himself. His concern was genuine, though it took some effort to appear only as much as the others had, and not as unraveled as he truly felt.

Even now, in that moment, it took a great deal of effort to not simply push his way past and into the tent to see her. To take her into his arms, and will her back to good health.

"By the Maker's will, she has," the Seeker confirmed. Though he could not say whether the near-loss had shaken Cassandra's faith in the Maker, she was reinvigorated with it now despite their dire predicament.

"Dorian and Madame de Fer are assisting the medics to warm her," the Commander informed. "I've been told that it is a delicate procedure. Though she is gravely wounded, stabilizing her body temperature is the most pressing concern at the moment."

"It is fortunate to have mages among us who know the process," Josephine observed, graciously.

It was kind of her to state the value of their mages, especially when taking them from Redcliffe had brought this terrible price to their doorstep. And her praise seemed less simple platitudes and more strategic, as it was no doubt to him that a great deal of the commotion had been more about who would treat the Herald's injuries and precisely how.

"It is true that we have lost fewer of our people to the unforgiving climate here since the mages have joined our ranks," the Commander conceded, albeit stiffly.

"And certainly they preform better as equals in the Inquisition than they would have conscripted," Leliana observed, in a sharp tone. "I daresay their gratitude has meant much this night, given how greater the Inquisition's losses might have been had they fled as slaves when the Elder One marched on us."

"Forgive me, Spymaster, but I would put trust in the work of my men over spellwork any day," one of the medics said, heatedly.

A few of the mages responded in kind, and the noise swelled around him as Cassandra sought to rein them in once more.

Solas's hands twitched irritably at his sides, before he moved to clasp them behind his back.

There was no time for this childish dissension.

When the clamor died once more, the crowds parted to make way for the former Grand Enchanter.

Fiona was a notable figure amongst the Inquisition. A practical woman, whose years and path had carved and shaped her purpose. Not unlike Cassandra, he supposed, though their purposes were at odds in most ways.

"Time is short, and discord amongst us serves none but the Elder One," Fiona informed, giving voice to what Solas left unspoken. Turning her attention from the crowd and toward Cassandra, Fiona inclined her head, "I humbly offer my services, Seeker. I have been many things in my long life, but at my best I have been a spirit healer. I can stave off the death which means to claim our dear Herald."

Flowery words for such a prudent woman, but the precarious nature of her position necessitated it.

There was a tense look exchanged between the advisers, and a heavy silence followed.

"It's the best option available to us, Cassandra," Leliana advised.

"If it will put your Commander at ease, you may summon the former templars among your ranks to stand vigil outside the tent," Fiona offered, graciously.

Commander Rutherford bristled, "I may? It's mad enough that we're allowing rebel mages to tend the Herald, but now demons? Cassandra―"

The Seeker silenced his outrage with a singular, stony glance.

The man's jaw worked wordlessly, grinding his unspoken outrage as one would a particularly tough bit of jerky, before he conceded, "Given the complicated nature of the situation, I will keep my peace on the matter and gather my men. Should this endeavor fail, we will stand ready to do what we must."

The Seeker nodded stiffly, before turning to Solas. "I assume that with your knowledge of the Fade, your assistance would be invaluable to Fiona."

He was not a healer.

Not in this shuttered world, where spirit healers were few and far between. Where the gentle spirits of healing risked their integrity every time they dared to cross the Veil to tend to mortals, whose lives were little more than brief flickers in the dark.

In his time, amongst the immortals, spirits flocked and lingered where needed most, and came as swift as a thought. Healing was an act of exchange, of symbiosis, an amalgamation of spirit to spirit. Here, in this world separated from the Fade, it was little more than butchery. Lambs to slaughter. A finger for a limb. Previously, he'd felt the price too high, the spirits too rare and too precious to risk losing simply to prolong mortal life which was nothing more than the span between the strike of a matchstick and the guttering of its flame.

But for her?

In that moment, in the madness of grief, no sum loss seemed greater than that of hers.

But he was not a healer, not truly, and it took an inordinate amount of will and power to summon the spirit itself, which he currently did not possess. He'd tapped much of his power simply surviving the night. At best, he could lend what remained of his reserves to aiding Fiona, and strengthening the summoning circle.

"It has been a taxing night, Seeker, but I will assist in whatever capacity I may," Solas replied.

He did not wait to hear the Seeker dismiss the rabble. However well-intentioned, they were simply unneeded, and he was too frayed to continue politely waiting to save the one he―

Tread carefully, you old fool, he chided himself, as though he could unthrow himself from this cliff.

As though he weren't already doomed.

Inside, the tent was spacious enough for the work that needed to be done, and well-lit from numerous lanterns strung up along the frame supports.

A single cot was centered in the middle, atop which lay the Herald.

It was a gruesome sight.

Stripped of armor and boots, stripped down to her smallclothes. Glyphs glimmered across her pallid skin, as Dorian and Vivienne continued their work in warming her.

It was impossible for him to look anywhere but where the shard of wood protruded from beneath her rib cage. The area around it had been recently cleaned, and hardly bled at all.

She had lost too much, and precious little remained.

Though the tent was sizable and afforded plenty of space to work, it felt stifled to him. He could not even approach the cot, as the others who'd followed him inside had cluttered around it, boxing the Herald in and nearly blocking her from his view.

How could a matter of steps feel like an impassable gulf?

Was it guilt that froze him there?

"Her ear," lady Montilyet gasped, and brought a hand to her face.

The ambassador's quiet horror was enough to pull Solas from his stupor, and his attention shifted to find what had shocked the woman so thoroughly.

Tephra's shaggy hair had been swept back from her face, and but for the unnatural pallor and the dark bruising around her throat, one could think her simply resting.

His sight swept from her right ear to the left, and lingered over the loss.

Unbidden, Solas recalled the way she'd wiggled them at him with her forefingers, once, playfully teasing him for being obtuse on the matter of shared race. How after she'd cut her hair, he couldn't keep his eyes off their enticing length and delicate arch.

He did not doubt that she would mourn this, in her own way.

However small, it was a piece of herself. Of her identity ― of her history.

It was another part of her lost to a war she had not started and it would not be the last, and the foreknowledge of that sat heavy in his gut. There would be a day when he was strong enough to reclaim his Anchor, and if fate were kind, it would only cost the hand which bore it. The cost would not be paid in his taking of it, but in that she had carried it at all. From the very moment she'd claimed the weight of the Anchor, the price had been set. Only time measured the sum total of the cost, which was highly dependent on how long she carried it.

A hand, a limb ― or her life.

In the end, he could only hope for the least terrible of the possible outcomes set before her.

She deserved better than this.

"Frostbite, my dear," Madame de Fer intoned, as she continued to direct currents of mana through the network of glyphs across Tephra's body. She sighed, and clicked her tongue in dismay. "If only she could have warded herself from the cold."

Solas looked to her bare feet ― swollen and flushed a deep shade of plum, bordering on black, with vicious blisters distorting her toes.

Oh, how he wished she'd taken him up on his offer to ward them, though neither of them could have foreseen the unfortunate necessity of it in the end.

Leliana moved to kneel beside the cot and look over the Herald, "How is she?"

Red-eyed and somber, Dorian sniffed, "She's certainly seen better days."

It struck Solas to see the man on his knees as he was ― knelt by her, with her unmarked hand clasped between his. It resolved any question he might have had as to the nature of Dorian's previous outburst. However it may have perplexed him, it was clear that Dorian considered her a friend. He grieved not for the figurehead, but for the woman beneath it.

He grieved for her ― a Tevinter nobleman grieved for a Dalish foundling.

No greater opposite could Solas fathom, and yet bridged together in companionship. As unexpected to him in this strange world as she herself was, an impossibility made possible.

What other wonders would she weave, simply to astonish him? To shake the very foundations beneath his feet?

Madame de Fer's gaze shifted and narrowed on Fiona, as the former Grand Enchanter approached the cot to appraise the Herald's wounds. "Were the situation not so dire, Cassandra, I would question your judgment in allowing the life of our dear Herald to depend on the skill of a warmonger and heretic."

"There was a vote," Fiona noted, in a clipped tone. "I simply necessitated that it should be taken."

"Yet it only took three conclaves to get the outcome you sought, and the murder of―"

"Enough." Cassandra did not need to raise her voice to silence their bickering. "We have few options, and less time to consider them. For better or worse, I have made my decision. It is in the Maker's hands now."

"Not his alone," Fiona murmured, and took a slow, deep breath.

A shiver passed through Solas, as he felt the sudden shift of ambient energies in the air around him.

Fiona had begun to prepare herself for the task at hand. Her skill was at once evident in the sheer pull of her will, and if there was at all a thread of nervousness in the woman, she did not show it. "Those who fear spirits would do well to vacate the tent. Otherwise, you might as well slip a dagger in her throat and be done with it, for all the good this will do."

Dorian gave a short laugh, and said, "How cheery you are."

"She is right," Solas agreed. "There is no room for doubt in this matter."

"I'd sooner fear tacky Ferelden draperies," Dorian replied, dismissively. "In Tevinter, we keep them as servants. I have long-since grown accustom to their company."

Despite the matter at hand, Solas could not keep his silence on the matter. "Unwilling as it is," he observed, in a clipped tone.

Dorian looked at him as though he'd proposed that nugs were of equal sentience. "How much will can amorphous constructs of the Fade have?"

The man's abject lack of perspective differed no less than most other mortals in this shuttered world, and it should not have provoked him so to extend the effort to correct him. Yet, he persisted, "They are intelligent, living creatures. Your misunderstanding their nature does not unmake it, and binding them against their will is reprehensible."

"What a reckless notion, my dear," Vivienne scoffed. "Only fools treat demons lightly, and pay heavily for it."

Solas looked once more at the Herald's hand between those of Dorian's. How small they seemed, still stained with the blood from holding her wounded abdomen.

"Shall we stand here all night discussing what accounts for personhood, or shall we save her life?" He was angry that he let himself be drawn into an argument, now of all times. "Time was short before she came back to us. Now, it's nearly gone."

"On that we agree, my dear," Madame de Fer said, as she stood and smoothed the ornate finery of her robes. She turned to Cassandra, "Do protect her, Seeker. We have already lost too much tonight. I shan't stray far, and inform me at once how our dear Herald fares the endeavor."

Solas moved aside to permit the Enchanter to exit the tent.

Moving seemed to shake him from the stasis grief had locked him, and he found himself crossing the tent to occupy the space which Vivienne had vacated.

But for the stuttered rise and fall of her chest, the Herald's stillness was worrying. He wanted her to wake, to tease him for being so worried, to curse or shout ― anything but this terrible silence.

"As this matter is beyond my abilities, I will see to ensuring the rest of our people are cared for," Lady Montilyet announced, before taking her leave.

From the haste in which she departed, he doubted that the ambassador cared to linger in the presence of spirits. Though to her credit, she left with far more dignity than the medics who scrambled out after her.

Fiona eyed the spymaster, who simply gave a low chuckle, "I'm not afraid, and I'm not leaving her side to face this alone. Not again."

Not again.

A strange choice words ― perhaps, referencing something he was not privy to. Still, he did not doubt the woman's resolve.

Satisfied that none remained to distract or hinder her work, Fiona moved to stand at the head of the cot. She swept back her sleeves, and cupped either side of the Herald's face in a gentle clasp.

Solas felt the woman draw on the Fade like an unseen tide sweeping through the tent. He emptied himself of resistance, and allowed Fiona to draw on what remained of his strength. Across from him, Dorian shivered and followed suit.

The Spymaster laid a hand over the Herald's heart, and began to pray in hushed whispers. "In the long hours of the night when hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know Your Light remains."

Fiona could not have known how the spirits flocked to watch the Herald ― especially now, with her fate hanging by the barest of threads. When she reached through the Veil with her mind to summon aid, those suited to the task clamored to cross.

Wisps bloomed like fireflies amongst them in the tent, and it was Faith who heeded the call. Incorporeal in the waking world, and little more than a shimmer of light shaped into a person.

"We have come," the spirit intoned, looming over the cot. Its luminous form brightened and flickered as it surveyed the wounded elf.

To her credit, Cassandra did not reach for the hilt of her sword. Her face remained smooth and calm, as she entreated, "The Herald is dying. Can you help her?"

"We must," the spirit responded, and the wisps flared and flocked to the Herald's torso. There, they pressed to the wound, their many lights burning into one ― an amalgam of their intent to heal.

"I have heard the sound, a song in the stillness," the spymaster continued her prayer steadily, unfazed by the arrival of the spirit. "The echo of your voice, calling creation to wake from its slumber."

Faith took hold of the jagged length of wood protruding from the Herald's body, and pulled.

The shock woke her.

Lavellan gave a slow, ragged inhale as she began to roll, to move away from the source of pain. The spirit released its hold on the penetrating object to avoid accidental injury. Its hand did not stray far, and waited for the others to assist.

"Hold her still," Fiona instructed, sharply. Her chestnut complexion had gone pallid, beaded with sweat. It had been a long night for all of them, and that the woman had the strength for this at all was nothing short of a marvel.

Leliana seized the Herald by her shoulders and pulled her back to lay flat, as she clung to her to continued prayers, "When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me and the taste of blood fills my mouth, then in the pounding of my heart I hear the glory of creation."

"Fasta vass ― do forgive me, love," Dorian entreated, as he moved and shifted his torso over the Herald's legs to hold her still.

Solas grasped the Anchor with his free hand. Superficially, it would be seen as an attempt to calm her. However, he reached for the power there ― his power ― for the connection that bound them. He did not need much, only enough to cease her agony.

Her dark eyes drifted, unfixed, and she did not seem to see any of them as she groaned in pain.

Cassandra moved to where the medics had left their supplies, and rummaged through the bags. When she found what she was looking for, she returned to the cot. With a gentle touch, she slipped a biting stick between the Herald's teeth.

"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder."

Once more, the spirit resumed its bloody work.

The wisps acted as a buffer ― sealing arteries and blood vessels, knitting muscle and flesh even as the spirit pulled the bloody length of wood from the Herald's torso.

Her muffled cries tore through him, and Solas redoubled his efforts. He slipped his fingers between hers, holding tight. He fortified the spell with the strength of the Anchor, and used the connection to filter the spell through her body until her cries quieted and her body went slack once more.

Faith pressed its free hand to the wound, as it let the shard of wood clatter to the ground below. Wisps flickered and died as the wound began to seal, having spent themselves in the effort. Burning with light, the spirit's touch left a jagged scar in its wake. Not red nor even pink, but silvered ― Fade-touched.

The spirit glimmered and dimmed, weakened but not spent as the wisps were.

"Ma serannas," Solas bid, as the spirit withdrew back to the safety of the Fade.

Dorian released his hold on the Herald and sank to the floor, fatigued. "Well, that was exciting," he remarked, with a stilted laugh. He reached up to pat the the Herald's leg, "Though I would appreciate your not repeating this whole dying thing."

The Herald could not hear the man's playful reproach. A flimsy jab of humor hiding the sentiment beneath.

Cassandra gathered blankets and drew them over the Herald's body, "When will she wake again?"

"I cannot say," Fiona admitted, wiping at her brow. "The spirit has kept her from death, but she still needs to rest and heal of her own accord."

The Spymaster smoothed sweat-slick hair from the Herald's pallid face, "Maker keep you, Herald."

"Well, let's hope not," Dorian declared, finding his feet once more. "I'd say she's earned a bit more time here with us in this muck. The Maker's bosom can wait."

Cassandra gave a disgusted snort. Though if she meant to reprimand the Tevinter, it was forgotten as sudden shouts and the sound of a scuffle outside the tent drew their attention.

"What is it now?" the Seeker huffed, before striding out of the tent to confront whatever conflict awaited her out there.

As loathe as he was to leave her side, Solas knew all too well the sound of dissent. He released his hold on Tephra's hand, and rose to follow.

Crowded outside, not far from the tent, was a group of chantry sisters and soldiers. One woman was being restrained by a soldier, while the Commander pried away a dagger from the woman's grip.

"We have been led astray, my friends! That creature in there is nothing more than a charlatan! Haven burns for our idolatry!"

Her shouts were drawing the attention of civilians, who stopped their work to watch the confrontation. The mad woman twisted and writhed in the soldier's grip, ranting near-intelligibly of heresy, but it was enough to provoke concern ― to provoke doubt.

The dissemination of doubt in the wake of such tragedy was no different than tossing a lit match into a barrel of pitch.

It was clear that he was not the only one who felt as such.

Cassandra moved to put herself between the woman and the tent, as she admonished the woman, "Sister, calm yourself!"

The sister's eyes were wild with fear, as she insisted, "No, I will be heard! Andraste has sent us her true Herald, and he will burn our sins from this world!"

"Maker's breath, she's gone mad," the Commander said. He slipped the dagger taken from her into his belt, as he turned to Cassandra. "The Herald?"

"Stable now," the Seeker assured, amidst the woman's fevered shouts.

"He will bring the heretics to heel, and remake this world in the Maker's light!"

Another sister clutched at Cullen's arm, "It's her trauma speaking, Commander. You must forgive her, it has been a terrible night for us all."

He considered the sister's words before turning his attention back to the soldier keeping the raving woman from advancing on the tent, "Take her to Mother Giselle, and see that she does not find herself another dagger. I'm not above putting her in irons, if need be."

The soldier gave a nod, and bodily escorted the raving woman away.

"Harmless as she may be, I would suggest keeping soldiers posted until the Herald is awake," Dorian suggested.

"Doubt is far from harmless," Leliana said, her tone sharp as she was no doubt calculating the risk of letting the woman live to foster dissent. "If left to rot, it could doom us all. We would be fools to ignore this."

"Yes, I imagine killing her will go over well with the rabble," the Tevinter replied, with some amusement. "It's been some time since I saw a Ferelden beheading. If only we had a wine cask to uncork in the Herald's name."

The Seeker pinched the bridge of her nose, and gave a frustrated sigh. "We'll discuss how to handle the woman later. For now, let's see that there are no others stirring up our people. Quietly."

Solas left them to return to the tent.

The others were well suited to handling this matter, and if by chance the sister made another attempt on the Herald's life she would have to get through him to see it done. It took little effort to ward the tent, and less to go and sit vigil at her side.

Yet when he finally sat, the full weight of his exhaustion settled over him. He felt perilously mortal, drawn thin and frayed.

Bloodied bandages and cloth littered the floor of the tent, likely from when the medics initially treated her. He recalled the sight of it in the snow, all around her.

How much had she lost to this fight? How much more would she in the battles to come?

With none to see him, Solas allowed himself a moment of weakness as his body sagged and he put his face in his hands.

Ir abelas, vhenan.

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Six nights passed as they camped in the ravine, yet the Herald did not wake.

Frigid winds howled overhead, but the walls of the pass offered sanctuary from most of it. Wards helped to stabilize the ambient temperature to something more tolerable, despite the snow. It was a useful spell when camping in harsh elements, and one he readily taught to the mages who didn't know it. Given how large the Inquisition's camp was, despite their losses, it was better to delegate the task to many hands than to simply one.

Hope was waning, but faith was stubborn.

He saw that most clearly in Cassandra, despite whatever doubts she might have harbored. The woman kept watch just as diligently as he had, and they fell into a comfortable routine of dismissing one another to rest when the other's watch had run too long.

He slipped into the dreaming as often as he sat vigil, yet any trace of her eluded him. His hope waned, frayed into silence. He did not eat, and slept only when his body finally succumbed to exhaustion.

At first, he suspected the repeated applications of poppy milk by the chantry sisters had dulled her dreaming and discouraged it as it only hindered her waking. It was a small kindness, their attempt to spare her further pain. But now, he was not so certain as the only thing she was given was honeyed water to keep her hydrated, yet still she slept. When they turned her body and shifted her position, to prevent pressure sores, she was nothing more than dead weight. Not even a whimper, despite what remained of her wounds.

Mortal, he reminded himself.

For all her light, she was mortal, and she'd nearly died.

It had taken her three days to wake after the Conclave. And then again, after her first attempt at the Breach. That her body had withstood any of that, while carrying a power she had never been meant to carry ― let alone utilize it with any level of proficiency ― was nothing short of a miracle.

Yet, neither time had been so dire as this, and peace would elude him until she woke once more.

Until then, there was another matter at hand.

The dissenting chantry sister had vanished from the camp some days prior, somehow having eluded the custody of the soldiers. He wasn't surprised that the heretic had left the camp, nor did he find it altogether surprising that she'd persuaded others to follow her. A handful of chantry sisters and civilians, and with them a portion of what remained of the supplies.

The Inquisition had suffered a major blow, which had left its people hobbled and doubting. Stymied here in the mountain pass, with no clear path or plan of action, it would be far to easy for people to begin to defect. Far too easy to believe the fevered whispers of an addled mind leading them astray.

No glimmer of hope, not even with the return of the Herald.

She was of no use to them like this, and her poor state offered no hope of immediate revival — if at all.

A leader had to be a source of strength for those who followed, and their leader lay helpless and clinging to life in a shamble of a tent.

There had been a spark upon her return, but it was buried now in the whispers between the doubtful. Little more than an ember remained, and the Herald's advisers were becoming increasingly agitated for it, bickering uselessly between themselves each night when once more she did not wake.

Each day that passed without her waking left the Inquisition defenseless to doubt, and aimless without direction.

Doubt was winning, where the Elder Ones attack had left off.

The Spymaster had warned of this, and Solas had seen the consequences such led to among his own people in the days of Arlathan — even before it fell. And countless times more in uthenera, watched the kindling of hope of this people or that people snuffed out time and time again.

It was a perilously fragile thing — hope.

"They could have taken everything. We should have dealt with her when we had the chance."

From where he sat, Solas watched the Herald's advisers resume their bickering. The tent was open-ended, and afforded him both an advantage of their argument as well as clear line of sight of the Herald's tent.

"I've had them take stock of what remains, and we still have a majority of the supplies. We still have—"

The Commander cut Lady Montilyet off, as he barreled on, "What matters is that they could have, and now they are gone with knowledge of our location and the state of our people. Much of the Elder One's army persists, and we cannot remain here. If our enemy doesn't claim us, the mountain surely will."

"The Herald is still too frail to be transported, if we move her now we risk losing her completely," Cassandra reasoned.

"There is no cover here — one blizzard could take us out entirely!"

Leliana regarded the man with measured look, and asked, "Where is it that you propose we go?"

Leaning over the table, no doubt considering the options laid out on the map there, Cullen suggested, "We could appeal to King Alistair, can we not? Surely, for the good we did in Redcliffe—"

Dorian gave a short bark of laughter. "Ah, yes, considering you've taken in the mages who'd occupied the town and run out poor arl what's-his-name. I'm sure Alistair will greet us with a parade and, well, whatever it is that passes for festivities in Ferelden."

The Commander regarded him with a sharp frown. "Then perhaps Orlais."

Josephine sighed, as though the matter had been addressed many times before, "We have yet to secure a formal alliance with the Orlesian monarchy, and the Chantry still regards us as heretical at best."

"We closed the Breach!" Cullen was incredulous. "Does that count for nothing?"

"If they're singing her praises now, all that's left at Haven to receive those missives are the dead we left behind," Leliana noted. "We have no means of knowing what our current standing is with the Chantry, or Orlais. We have no ravens to dispatch word, nor no means to receive it."

The Commander shifted in place, anxiety evident in the tension of his body. He slammed an armored fist atop the make-shift table, before sighing heavily, "If only she would wake."

The Seeker ignored the man's outburst, and simply said, "Until then, we wait."

Though they were rudderless now, he'd already devised a plan.

Tarasyl'an Te'las.

It was the obvious choice to him, should she wake. A stonghold beholden to none but itself, where the Inquisition could flourish. Where it could grow and become a stabilizing force in the world, one strong enough to stand against the Elder One.

Still, he held his tongue.

It was too early to show that particular hand, and useless if she never woke. What would the Inquisition be without her?

No, he did not intend to gift it to them, only to her.

But she would wake, and it would be into a new world — a new purpose.

It had been enough before, simply to be their Herald. An instrument, at best. But the Inquisition could not remain without a leader, and it could only be her.

The prudent part of him knew that many could fulfill that role if needed, but it was her that he needed. She heeded his counsel, and respected what he offered even when she dissented. With careful nudging, he could direct their path through her, one that inevitably led to the Elder One. To reclaiming his orb.

Still, it was a tragedy unfolding before him.

Once, he would not have considered it so. But then, once he had believed them all nothing more than shadows. But she had opened his eyes to them, and now he could no longer deny that they were more, that they deserved peace and stability.

He'd been a fool then, just as he was a fool now.

But now, it daggered his heart to know that she never had a choice in this path, nor where it inevitably led. How she led them, yes, but not the end. The end belonged to him, and the means—

Irremissable.

Had he not already done the unthinkable?

Regardless of necessity, the Veil alone had caused more damage than any catastrophe he could recall even in his long memory. And removing it would cause immeasurably more.

The return of his people ensured that the power structures which had risen and ruled in Thedas would certainly end. This world, as it was, would end.

What immortal would submit to the rule of one whose life was little more than a flicker? His people would not stand for it, and pity to whoever tried to leash them again.

But her — caught in this fate from which he could not free her, thrown against necessity, and abandoned to what she could not know.

He needed her.

He needed her to wake, and free him from the torment of himself.

He needed her, even though it was her who'd knocked him perilously off-path.

It had been simpler when they were nothing but shadows. Who would mourn the loss of shadows, when his people were real and deserved to return to a world that was whole? But now, he could see nothing but the reality of her, and by extension them. Not shadows, but not whole.

Didn't they deserve to thrive, as well?

His guilt was raw, and direct. Like a joint bent without cartilage — bone grinding on bone.

Solas was not certain how much time had passed between his watching the advisers arguing amongst themselves to losing himself in his own thoughts, but the next thing he knew, a bowl was presented to him and occupied his his immediate view.

It steamed in the cold, and he looked up to find the Spymaster standing over him.

The tent had cleared, and he'd been left to his own thoughts some time ago.

"It's a bit thin for stew, but it'll warm you just as well," Leliana said, as she held the bowl in offering.

He took it, not because he was hungry, but simply because she thought to offer it to him. "That is kind of you, Spymaster."

"You've not given up your watch, yet," she observed. "Perhaps this will help you keep it a bit longer."

"Perhaps it will," Solas replied, and made a show of drinking a bit of the broth. She had not lied. The stew was thin and salty, bereft of substantial ingredients, but it warmed him nonetheless. "And what of your watch?"

"Little more than snow, I'm afraid," the Spymaster admitted. "Whatever remains of the Elder One's armies, they have not stayed to flush us out."

"It seems they are as much in need of healing and regrouping as the Inquisition is," Solas observed, content to let the bowl warm his hands. "That is fortunate for us."

"Indeed."

Silence settled between them a moment, before Solas spoke again. "'Not again,' you said before. A curious statement."

The Spymaster regarded him a moment, turning his words over in her mind, before giving a low, musical laugh. "Contrition," she clarified. "For something that never came to pass."

"Ah," Solas replied. "Redcliffe."

He'd avoided the matter with the Herald precisely for this reason. Beyond what she learned of the Elder One's plans, little else that transpired there truly mattered. It was time unwritten, and the onus was on them to avoid it happening.

"I left her to come back with the burden of what she left behind there," the Spymaster mused.

"The Leliana that she met there is not the one speaking with me here," Solas advised. "It's unnecessary to carry guilt for something you will never do."

The woman gave him a curious look, "Should she carry it alone?"

The memory of her grief — despairing of the world she'd killed for this one — twisted in his gut. "I would have her not carry it all," he admitted, keeping his tone neutral.

"And yet she'll remember, regardless of how either of us feel of the matter."

"This is true," Solas replied. "Still, you should unburden yourself. There is enough grief in this world without carrying the weight of another."

She afforded him a rare smile, though he could not gauge its authenticity. "Thank you, Solas."

"Think nothing of it, Spymaster."

Using her title was a reminder of what she was, and the care he needed to exercise in speaking with her.

"You should eat," the woman reminded, before taking her leave.

And so he did.

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The following night, one of the Spymaster's patrols did not return.

Had the heretic not ran off with a handful of dissenters, there would be no cause to suspect more than a delay. A storm had kicked up, which could easily have waylaid the scouts and forced them to hunker down somewhere safe. But given that the heretic had left, and with knowledge of their position in the mountains, Commander Rutherford commanded his soldiers to rein in the camp.

Sprawled as it was, it was far too open for an attack.

The Herald could not yet be moved, as her condition remained tenuous at best, and they feared too much jostling could undo the spirit's work in sealing her wounded torso. So instead, the camp was moved closer — tightened upon itself like a coil, with their Herald at the center. And with her there, the weakest of their people — the children, the injured, and the elderly.

The Seeker had chosen not to alert the civilians of the situation, seeing it prudent to keep them from panicking. All soldiers fit for fighting were posted at the perimeter of the camp, alongside mages who'd warded much of the outlying area of the mountain pass to warn of an approach.

Solas himself had aided them in that, and did not dare sleep a wink though fatigued hounded his every step. He simply waited amongst the soldiers, listening to his wards. The Herald's companions were filtered among them, at times keeping watch and retiring when the night grew long.

Dawn had only just begun to creep over the mountains when the scouts returned, and not alone.

Hands-bound and tethered to one another, they were marched towards the camp from the southern entrance under the seizure of Venatori. There were six of them, accompanied by a single red templar. The scouts were bloodied and wane, but alive at the very least.

Somewhere, a soldier signaled warning with a horn.

By the time the enemy group was within shouting distance, the entirety of the camp was awake.

Solas moved among the soldiers as weapons were unsheathed, and made his way to where the advisers and his companions had grouped. He unlatched his own staff, and readied himself for combat.

Curiously, the Venatori did not attack outright.

Instead, one of them simply prodded their captives forward with his staff, until they were mere meters from the soldiers. His dark hair and beard was more grey than black, and the years had not been kind to the lines of his face. "Who here speaks for you lot?"

Cassandra stepped forward, "I do."

The Venatori eyed the Seeker sharply, before declaring, "We have not come for a bloodbath. Surrender your Herald, and we'll leave your people untouched."

His words incited the crowd.

"Untouched?!"

"—son of a rutting—"

"Tell that to the dead buried beneath Haven!"

"Enough!"

Cassandra's shout cut through the clamor, and sobered the crowd.

The Venatori was unswayed by the outburst, if annoyed. "Control your people, Seeker. My patience grows thin."

"You are outnumbered," she observed, coolly.

"Haven't your people lost enough?" he asked, though his tone was not kind. "We ask for one, when we could take more. You'll certainly end us before we can take many, but are you willing to lose the few we'll kill before you kill us?"

With a cursory sensing spell, Solas could tell that the Venatori were not at their fittest. Wounds had been tended to some degree, but they were still haggard and spent from the siege of Haven.

Still, they were no less a threat.

"You're mad if you think we'd ever give her to you," Commander Rutherford called back, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

In a glittering blur of movement, the Venatori brought a jeweled dagger up to the throat of the scout nearest to him. To his credit, the youth did not flinch. Not even when the mage seized him by the hair and yanked his head back, to press the dagger's tip to the apple of his throat. The Venatori sneered, "Not even for them? This one is so young, so—"

"Stand down."

Solas felt his stomach clench at the sound of her voice.

He did not see her at first among them. As silence settled over the crowd, people began to part and a path was cleaved between the Venatori and the one they sought.

Relief washed over him at the sight of her awake, and at once was replaced by fear.

The Herald was in no condition for this confrontation.

She'd clearly just awoken, and was not prepared for a fight. Haste had brought her here, and she remained stripped of her armor and most of her clothing, but for her leggings and bandeau. A rough-spun shawl kept her modesty, and he despaired at the sight of her bandaged feet in the snow.

"Good morning, Herald," the Venatori called, as casually as one might greet a neighbor. "You look well."

Her expression betrayed nothing but a calm disinterest. "You came all this way to check on my well-being? I'm flattered. I would say the same, if I meant it."

The man gave a low laugh, and said, "I do apologize for disturbing your rest, but your people have been most unwelcoming."

"How terrible of them," she remarked, blandly. "How might I rectify that?"

"Oh, it's quite simple," the Venatori assured. "Come with us, and your people will not be harmed. They've suffered enough, haven't they?"

As though to emphasize the man's point, a trickle of blood ran from where the dagger bit into scout's throat.

"A fair trade," she admitted, and began to walk towards the Venatori.

The soldiers and mages shifted anxiously around her, unwilling to let their Herald walk freely into captivity. Hands reached as though to stop her, but did not.

"Herald," the Commander pleaded, reaching for the Herald's arm as she passed him.

She halted him with a look, and continued on. Her gait was slow as she limped on bandaged feet, yet she did not show her pain.

Though he was uncertain how this situation would resolve, Solas could not help but watch her people watching her. Though frightened and anxious, they kept their silence and trusted in her.

There was power growing here, in this moment, tempering into faith — in her.

And truly, the lack of concern she showed was a thrilling display of confidence.

What precisely had she planned to do?

The Herald stopped just before the Venatori, and regarded them impassively. One hand clutched below her throat, holding the meager shawl about her shoulders. None moved to seize her, and the Venatori's confidence seemed to waver, if only briefly, in the staggered silence.

It was clear that the man had expected many likely outcomes, but not quite this one.

"You have me, then," the Herald observed. "So release my people."

The man watched her warily as he untethered the scouts, and pushed them towards the camp. They stumbled past her, casting worried glances over their shoulders as they rejoined their people.

Still, the man did not move to take her. His hands trembled at his side, as he demanded, "Give me your hands."

Tephra's mouth twitched, betraying her amusement. "If you insist."

The shawl slipped free of her shoulders as she held out her hands. It fluttered and piled in the snow around her feet.

When the mage reached for her, the Herald turned the palm of her marked hand skyward and the Anchor flared to life.

Solas felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as he felt her summon its strength in greater measure and control than she ever had before. He held his breath as he watched the rift tear open above the Venatori, swallowing the sounds of his own surprise.

Snow drifted up around her as the Venatori and the red templar were pulled from their feet and into the air. The strangled cries of their terror was brief, as they were pulled from the waking world and into the Fade.

With a twist of her hand, the rift snapped shut and silenced their screaming.

All around him, the crowd whispered and murmured in awe.

When she turned back to the crowd, the mask of confidence slipped away. It was the Seeker who caught hold of her as her strength waned.

"I'm alright," the Herald assured, though she trembled from the cold. Still, she leaned heavily on Cassandra as the woman helped her back to the tent.

Solas remained rooted where he was, as he watched them go.

Prayers and exaltations began to rise through the crowd, and he knew then that though Haven had been a pyre, the Herald had not submitted to sacrifice.

"Remember the fire," someone said near him, quoting the Chant. "You must pass through it alone to be forged anew."

And so she had.

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Tephra winced as Cassandra help her ease back into the cot.

She did not lie down, though. There was much she needed to know, and more that she needed say. The most pressing question worked itself free, as she asked, "The Elder One?"

"Survived, unfortunately," the Seeker replied. "And fled."

The Seeker was not one to soften a hard truth, and Tephra appreciated her for that. The others might have postponed the truth, waited until she was stronger to hear it, but not Cassandra. The woman respected her enough to not handle her as though she were made of glass.

"I suppose it was too foolish to think the mountain would kill him," Tephra conceded. Remembering the creature's deranged speech, she said, "His name is Corypheus."

"He told you this?"

"He told me a lot of things," she replied, wincing as she shifted where she sat. Though it no longer felt as if her insides would spill out of her, it was still incredibly painful. "Most of it was nonsense, but some of it might help us."

The Seeker moved to retrieve a blanket and drape it around her shoulders, "There is time for you to tell us, but for now you should rest. It is enough that you've wakened."

Earnest, Tephra asked, "Did we lose anyone else? After the evacuation?"

"Only those beyond saving," Cassandra admitted.

"Then how—" Tephra laid a hand over her stomach, worrying at the scar where the wood had been. She marveled at the knotwork of scars with curious fingers, at the work that had been done to preserve her life.

"Fiona saw to it herself," Cassandra informed. "She did not have the strength to heal indiscriminately. I suspect she conserved her strength on the hope that you would be found."

How many died while they waited for her?

She refused to believe that their lives were of any less worth than her own.

Still, it was the Anchor that put her above them. They would not let her go easily, and there was still work to be done. Her people were not yet safe, and neither was the world.

There would be time for grief later.

Feeling at her ear, no longer numb but brimming with pain and blisters, she said, "I was only kidding before, you know. You didn't have to dock my ear."

The Seeker looked at once outraged, before giving a ragged sound between a grunt of disgust and sob, "She jokes. Our enemies nearly succeed in killing her, and she jokes. What am I to do with such a terrible Herald?"

"The best you can," Tephra said, with some grim amusement.

"Rest," Cassandra ordered. "I will have them bring you something to eat. Then we might gather everyone and discuss what we're to do now."

"Wait," Tephra called after her. "Before that, I need to speak with Solas."

Idling at the entrance of the tent, Cassandra frowned, "Is it your mark? Is it hurting you?"

"Another matter," she replied, keeping her tone neutral. "If you would."

"Of course," the Seeker conceded. Though she seemed curious enough to press the matter, she blessedly did not.

Alone, Tephra shifted to let her legs hang over the side of the cot, as it was too painful to sit cross-legged. She could hardly bear the weight of the bandages atop her feet, let alone the weight of her own legs. Walking out to meet the Venatori had taken all of her stubborn will to not cry out, nor show pain.

With a free hand, she brushed at the tangle of her hair, trying to give it some semblance of order, before giving up entirely. She wiped at her face, and hoped that she didn't look half as terrible as she felt.

She did not know what she meant to say to him, not entirely, but nearly having died had set her mind on doing so. Perhaps she would know when she saw him, or perhaps she'd simply make a fool of herself.

Either way, she did not care to wait any longer in doing so.

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Solas stood outside the tent for an indiscernible amount of time.

Intrinsically, he knew that the moment he entered it, nothing in this world — nor his life — would ever be the same again. It was a strange sort of dread that wasn't dread at all, but rather the dark thrill before a headlong leap into self-destruction.

There would be no turning back from the pull of her tide. He would lose his footing, and sink, and be lost in the depths of the certainty of her.

She carried his Anchor, but he would the one who to drown for it.

Her brush with death had brought everything left unsaid in him to the surface, brimming to be told. Certain truths could not be given, not yet — not here. There was too far yet to go, and too much to be done to risk full transparency. There were too many things he needed to say to her, and not enough words to begin to do them justice.

But his foolish heart?

That he could give her, for whatever it was worth.

Whether she cared to keep it or not was beside the point, regardless of his feelings on the matter. She could silence him, forbid he ever make note of it again, and he would still love her. He would still follow her into battle, and to the edges of the world wherever her journey may take her. He'd burn in silence for her, and be grateful for whatever shred of affection or acknowledgement she gave him. She'd torn the cauls from his eyes and forced him to see a world he had dismissed long ago during his long years of dreaming, forced him to accept the reality of herself and those around her, forced him to consider the full weight of what removing the Veil would entail. She'd commanded his respect, alongside his heart, and that was something he could never cast aside simply because she did not reciprocate his feelings.

And should she return them, he knew it would be the ruin of him.

Solas smoothed his jerkin with anxious, trembling hands. He took a breath, and ducked inside the tent.

More braziers had been moved inside to warm the enclosure, and the heat was almost stifling. He was certain it was more nerves than the actual temperature, as the tents — however sturdy and finely crafted — did not keep the draft out entirely.

Uncertainty lumped in his throat at the sight of her.

Something had changed in her.

The person who sat in front of him now was not the same he'd left behind in Haven. Delicate shoulders squared, face calm with purpose. As though some part of her knew already what was beginning to form in this staggered place between what was and what would be.

What she would need to be, for them. For him.

Perhaps later, there would be doubt. There would be rebellion. He was almost certain of it, but in this moment, he had never seen her look so sure of herself.

The blanket about her shoulders hung loosely, and parted at her throat. The narrow opening bared the bony expanse of her sternum. His gaze traced the delicate hollow of her throat, and the valley between her collarbones.

His throat had gone perilously dry at the sight of her. Solas worried idly at the frayed hem of his jerkin, as he tried and failed to ignore tremble in his limbs.

Without a word, he came to her as a supplicant would, a penitent — without motive, or expectation. He simply lowered himself to sit on his knees before her, so that she was looking down upon him. A useless display to her, holding no meaning she could truly discern, but to him it was a surrender of his foolish pride. A surrender of his rank and power, of which she had no knowledge.

Would it matter to her to know that he'd knelt to none before her, but Mythal? Would it thrill or disgust her, or simply perplex her further?

It mattered none, but to him, how he humbled himself before her.

His gaze dropped to her feet. Heavily bandaged, but for the tips of her blistered toes peeking out. When he cupped the heel of her foot with a gentle touch, she made a quiet sound of discomfort. Solas eased healing magic into her, hoping to hasten their recovery.

"Alas, if only I could have magicked my feet," she remarked, dryly. "It's a shame no one offered. I doubt I would have been stupid enough to dismiss it."

Solas laughed.

It was a raw, ragged thing, and he resisted the urged to press his forehead to her knee and plead for forgiveness for the things he could not tell her.

As she watched him work, she said, "His name is Corypheus."

A name would bring information, eventually. Bring into focus this elusive figure who'd broken the sky reaching for godhood.

But he was not thinking of false gods and worlds ending, not in this moment.

Solas smoothed his thumb over her bare ankle, and felt the shiver run through her. It added nothing to the healing process, but it pleased him nonetheless to feel her respond his touch.

"I suppose he was a magister, once, but now he fancies himself a god," she continued. "He called me pretender, as though I took the mark from him on purpose. As though I could ever want what he reaches for."

The magic faded from his hands. He'd done what he could, for now. He would do more later to speed her recovery, once his strength returned. "No real god need prove himself. Anyone who tries is mad or lying," he remarked, as he released hold of her, fingertips burning from the loss of contact.

"He tried to take it back, you know." Tephra gave a huff of amusement. "Some god, right? He couldn't even do that."

His pulse quickened, and thundered in his ears.

Prudently, he knew that it was not possible. The Anchor was no one's to command, but his. That it heeded Tephra's will at all had been a miracle, but even so, it did not permit her use of its full power.

Still, much of what he'd known to be true before waking had proven itself otherwise in this strange, shattered world. He could only expect that this world would continue to surprise him.

"How?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

She watched him a moment with those impossibly curious eyes, before replying, "With a strange sphere. It looked old, and burned red with magic."

Blight magic.

Naturally, as the foci would reflect the nature of its wielder.

Tephra stared down at her hands, knotted with anxiety in her lap. "He claimed it was permanent." He braced himself, as she turned her gaze back to him and asked, "Do you think that's true? Did you ever try?"

Solas chose his words carefully. "It would take a great deal of power, I suspect, regardless of if I desired such." Not a lie, but a careful sidestep. He silently begged her not to ask if he desired it. "Power which I do not currently possess, or possibly ever will." Another careful evasion, as there was no certainty that he would ever regain the strength to reclaim the Anchor from her, with or without his orb. "And I would not attempt to take the mark from you unless I was certain that it would not kill you."

That, at least, he could say in full honesty.

There was no part of him that remained that was capable of prying it from her, should it result in her death.

"Anchor," she rolled the word in her mouth, speculatively. "That's what he called it. Do you think it would kill me? Removing it?"

This particular matter was a pitfall he could not skirt.

Grief aroused his futile anger — directed, as always, at himself — as he returned, sharply, "A foreign magic embedded in someone it wasn't meant for? Even the most optimistic assumptions would involve amputation."

As though reflex, she touched at her maimed ear with trembling fingers.

He was at once contrite.

A lie would have been kinder, but it was not in his nature to lie. A point of pride, really, and not to her — not if he could avoid it.

"Of course," she huffed, with grim amusement. "I never expected it would be that easy, in the end."

Her hands nested in her lap, where they fretted with restless worry. His own ached to take hold of them, to assure her that she would not see that end alone. That it wasn't an end, not truly.

How he hoped that to be true, and not a lie he told himself.

"Do you think the gods are real? Or ever were?"

The shift in subject drew his gaze back to meet hers.

Further questions idled in the way she held his gaze, yet Tephra hesitated.

She wavered at the edge of a truth too vast to consider, as though confronting it at all would speak it into existence.

Hadn't she rejected the gods of her people?

How small and foolish she must have felt now, that the Dread Wolf himself had come to her and pulled her from the edge of death. That he'd led her back to safety, and not astray as her people had undoubtedly taught her he would. For all she knew now, the Dread Wolf was a living breathing god, not simply a cautionary tale of her youth. It was doubtless that the encounter had shaken the foundations of her worldview, and a part of him longed to give her the truth — that it wasn't a god who'd pulled her back into this world, but simply a man. Simply himself.

He'd needed the form to find her quickly, to save her, and now she would have to struggle to make sense of it without context or clarification. It did not sit well with him, but that was a truth he could not give her, not now.

Tephra's dark eyes were awash with uncertainty and self-doubt, as though she expected him to deride her for asking such questions. "Even just one?"

Her question came barely above a whisper, as though even asking could conjure the apparition she'd seen in the snowy wastes of the foothills. Though, to him it seemed less that she feared the so-called Dread Wolf than provoking his contempt for believing it to be more than a story passed down by the Dalish.

His dismissal of her people nor her reproach of his viewpoint had made it an uneasy subject to broach for either of them.

Still, he ached to tell her, to dispel the myth of grandeur. To tell her that he had not betrayed them — he'd tried to free them, to save them. He wanted to tell her that it was his fault that they were lesser, that they were not whole. That he wanted to restore them. That he had no knowing if they would have a place in the world to come, or that they would survive the process at all.

To tell her that it was only magic; it was only power. And in his world, those who held the most were hoisted aloft as god-kings and figureheads, even by those smart enough to know better.

"I believe they existed, yes, regardless of what they truly were." It would have been too easy to delve into the truth of it with her, as he knew that her quick wit would steer her in the right direction soon enough with the littlest of nudges. Diverting from the subject was a means of self-preservation, a means to keep himself from saying too much. He affected an air of disinterest, as he skirted the subject and asked, "Your enemy has finally made himself known to you. What do you make of him — this Corypheus?"

Tephra sighed, though whether it was because he was disinterested in discussing the elven gods with her or because of the subject of the Elder One, he could not discern. "Whatever he is, he isn't human anymore. He looked like the people I saw in the future. Covered in that red lyrium, but it didn't hurt him the way it hurt them. It's blighted, isn't it? The lyrium? Does that make him a darkspawn?"

Calmed by the conversational sanctuary of a safer subject, he mused, "He does not behave as one, but I suppose it is not outside the realm of possibility."

Tephra frowned. "What else could he be?"

"Little more than a blight-corrupted madman," Solas replied, simply.

"Truly?" she scoffed. She was the very picture of skepticism. "Everything else succumbs to the Blight, even the land."

It excited him to challenge her to connect the dots, to unravel the mysteries of her world. He kept his silence — however amused — and waited.

She did not disappoint.

"Yet he persists. His power seems rooted in it. Then he must be—" she started, and then fell into a brooding silence. "No, perhaps not. But that must mean he's—" Silence again, as her mind seemed to work through the possibilities known to her, grasping for some explanation. A sudden fear took her, as she asked, "Are we facing another Blight?"

"I don't suspect so," he assured. "Whatever he or the dragon he commands is, it is not that simple."

"So it isn't an archdemon? And neither is he?"

Solas laughed. "For all he accused you of being a pretender, it seems little more than projection. No, the source of his power appears more mundane. It is the red lyrium which seems to tap into the power of the Blight, not him. He's simply adorned himself in it, as one might with armor. Whatever he was before, that is what makes him dangerous now." His toned sobered, as he admonished her, "You should not have faced him alone."

"Ah, yes, I conjured that blighted dragon precisely to send you all away so that he and I could have a merry little chat about gods and the like," Tephra huffed, with grim amusement.

"I should have—"

"Stayed?" The notion provoked her anger. "Should you have killed yourself trying to get through dragonfire? Or let yourself be cut down by that creature, or his templars?"

His own anger roused, alongside the grief for having nearly lost her, still fresh and raw like a wound in him. Solas struggled to keep his emotions reined in. "You would have me leave you to face him alone?"

"I would have you live," she bit back, her voice frayed with her own grief. "He only wanted me. If I'd simply gone to him sooner, he would have—"

"What, precisely?" Solas demanded, cutting her off mid-thought. He did not let her catch her bearings, as he pressed on, "Do you imagine he would have called back his troops? Instructed them to put out the fires and cease the killing of the innocents?"

Tephra blanched, and promptly flushed.

"You are not so naive to think this simply ends with you." Ideally, he would have stopped there. Yet, he persisted to add, "Only a fool would sacrifice oneself so blindly to that notion."

The sharpness of her frown slackened, and her gaze drifted past him.

He knew the look well enough to know she'd slipped away from the present moment, and into some memory that he wasn't privy to.

He could not say if it was of something pleasant or terrible, but he continued on heedlessly. His own turmoil spurred him to chide her further, "Did you think that mark on your hand is the only means of breaching the Fade? Have not magisters slaughtered scores of their own slaves simply to speak with their Old Gods? Are there not places in this world where the Veil has drawn thin enough one could simply slip between with but a thought? There are any number of ways one can find themselves in the Fade, with enough determination. No doubt the Elder One is exhausting all resources available to him to find a way to achieve his goal, especially now as the Anchor is lost to him."

Her gaze had returned to him now, as silence settled between them.

His ire left him as quickly as it had come, and he felt foolish for letting it get the better of him. Still — did she not understand what was at risk? That her life meant more than the simple loss of his Anchor?

She regarded him thoughtfully, and Solas felt an odd tug of warmth in the pit of his stomach as her gaze flitted over his face. It felt as though the world was slipping beneath him, to be pinned in place by the softness of her gaze.

"You were right, you know," she mused, her tone softening to something warm and gentle and utterly concerning. "You are a fool."

His brows knit together, as he frowned, "Clarity would perhaps—"

The touch of her hand silenced him, and the press of her palm burned at his throat. Any resolve he might have had buckled beneath the slightest weight of her touch, which beckoned him forward to rise on trembling knees.

Any reasonable thought or argument against the peril of letting this continue — whatever this was — fled him outright, as the moment subsumed him. He was entirely at her mercy, for whatever she meant to do.

As her hand shifted and her fingertips brushed his jaw, he caught her wrist in a loose, trembling clasp. Not to stop her, but simply for ballast as the room seemed to dip and spin headily around him.

When her thumb brushed a slow path across his mouth, he found himself in agreement with her — he was a fool. Though he could not recall when he'd announced himself as such, nor cared to linger on the thought, not with her thumb lingering at the crease which cleaved through his lower lip.

And then she pulled away, slipping her hand from his grasp, leaving nothing but a sense of burning where she'd touched him.

A riot had begun to clamor in his throat, a desperate plea for her to never stop, but it died just as it began when her mouth brushed his. He could not help the moan that escaped him, which only seemed to amuse her. He felt her smile as her mouth worked softly against his, drawing out pleasure from him in devastating measure.

He could not think, could not focus, could only feel.

But it was brief — far too brief.

She pulled back mere inches, letting the gesture steep in the weight of the moment like a question left unspoken.

His mind reeled as he considered fleeing, considered dissuading her, considered anything but complete surrender — as this could only end terribly — panic swelled and crested, as he scrambled to form a coherent appeal to reason, to his sense of reason, to—

Solas fractured.

He surged forward and crushed her against himself, unable to bear not holding her a moment longer, before his body locked into tense stillness. With sudden clarity, he remembered that she was injured.

But if there was pain, she did not show it. Instead, she cupped his face with her free hand and drew his mouth back to hers. With the barest touch, the tip of her tongue unlocked centuries of desire unspent. Rudderless desire, with no focus or target, left to simmer and rot alongside his desperate loneliness.

Had he known that all those solitary years spent wandering the dreaming world alone would have led to this — to her — he would gladly do it all again if it brought him here, to this moment.

Solas's hand trembled as he reached to gently knot his fingers in her hair. His heart hammered erratically in his chest, and every nerve in his body ignited, pleading for urgency, to take pleasure from her — but he would not.

He would only take what she offered, and nothing more. He was in no position to assume he deserved even that, but his loneliness made him greedy for whatever she would offer him.

The blanket slipped away, and her bare arms wrapped around his neck as she held him closer still, and he lost himself in the unhurried strokes of her tongue against his.

Not here, some distant part of his mind advised, but the thought of stopping was impossible to consider when she was still touching him, or with her mouth on his.

She was calm, and her kiss adept and measured — whereas he fumbled in his fervor, frayed by centuries of isolation. Each movement of his mouth was a plea, which she readily answered in kind.

Solas dared not close his eyes.

For the first time in his long life, he feared he might be dreaming. A foolish fear, as the dreaming world could never catch him unaware, and yet it lingered — the fear that this was not real.

But what was real anymore?

The ones waiting to wake, while his useless self stumbled through the waking world, seeking to fix what he'd broken?

Or was it the one kissing him now in this terribly soft moment?

This moment which felt nothing short of redemption.

The truth was that she'd always been real, and he was the fool for ever having thought otherwise.

He was perilously off-path. He'd broken his own cardinal rule — do not mistake them for something real — one he had punished his own friend for breaking.

He was certain that Felassan would laugh at the bitter irony of it all.

She denied him the right to languish in self-reprehension, as she kissed him more urgently, stirring him to reciprocate. His heart clutched and seized painfully in his chest, and for the first time in centuries he felt brutally and startlingly alive.

A clatter of noise outside the tent shook him free of the spell of her, though he did not pull himself away entirely. He pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes, in a futile attempt to steady himself.

Breathless, he started, "I should have—"

"I know," Tephra assured. She sighed. "I should have, too. I don't know what held my tongue on the matter for so long."

"Some measure of fear, I presume," he noted, smoothing his tone to mask the tremble that remained.

It would not soon leave him.

She regarded him with an almost incredulous curiosity, "Has it been that long for you?"

"Longer than you'd believe."

A smile pulled at her mouth, small and impish. "How cruel of me, not remedying that for you sooner."

He wanted to match her playfulness, to return it freely, but doubt sobered his tone as he said, "I am not certain that this is the best idea. It could lead to trouble."

"And what in my life hasn't so far?"

It was a fair point.

Her eyes scoured his face, as she traced the lines of his features with her fingertips, "What about you could possibly be trouble?"

He trembled, and said nothing.

"I'm not afraid of trouble, Solas," she continued, undeterred by his silence. "Or of you. Whatever trouble you bring, would be worth even just that kiss."

"Said with such certainty," he managed, not trusting himself to elaborate his point let alone clarify it. And the sentiment of her statement left him broken, and shattered.

She gave a soft laugh, and whatever tension she held from his sudden concern slipped away. "I have magic in my hand that can tear the world open. I'm enemies with an undead darkspawn magister who thinks he's a god. And I've fallen through time — twice. However might you top any of that?"

A nervous laugh left him, but he said nothing further on the matter. His silence was the only thing he could give her.

"Whatever you need, you have it," she assured. "Time to think, or space to breathe — it's yours. How I feel about you isn't — it doesn't—" she huffed, before clarifying, "I'm not trying to pressure you into anything, Solas. I just want you to know that all that matters to me is that you're here with me. I would have you in any capacity you offered."

His shoulders sagged in defeat.

How could he ever hope to untangle himself from such patient, selfless affection?

Tephra brushed his brow, looking him over with sudden concern as she read the slump of his shoulders as a sign of exhaustion — which was not far from the truth, in any case. "Have you not slept at all?"

"Only when needed."

"Which is to say very little," she admonished. "The only thing I've seen you do less than sleep these days, is eat. You need to rest."

Amused, he asked, "Is that an official demand?"

"If need be," she insisted. "We will speak later."

Not a question, but a certainty.

It dizzied him, this sense of something certain laid between them.

"It's for the best," he conceded, and rose to his feet. Unwillingly, he released his hold of her. "If I took any more of your time, I'm certain our Seeker would put me in irons."

"Not ever," she replied, a bit hastily. Briefly, she'd tensed, but then relaxed as she seemed to remember that the Seeker had become something of a friend to her, and no longer a jailer. Clarifying, Tephra said, "Well, she would, of course. But I wouldn't let her."

He'd asked her once, how she'd meant to protect him after her foolish declaration that she wouldn't let the Inquisition mistreat him. It had been a jest, a ridiculous notion, as she'd been little more than a prisoner herself.

Her promise echoed back to him — However I had to.

He felt warm, and full, and perilously close to stealing another kiss from her for it.

"Ma serennas. I will speak with you later," he bid, hastily, and exited the tent before he foolishly swept her up into another kiss.

Leaving was the safest option, lest he leapt into that abyss again and lose himself entirely.

The clear morning light dazzled him, and though he kept a calm demeanor, he all but fled the camp.

Not far, but far enough for some measure of solitude and peace. He stopped at a solitary birch tree, silvered-grey and barren of leaves.

He set wards to warm him, and to clear the snow around the base of the tree. When he finally settled to sit, he sank against it heavily.

He'd lost the path.

He was lost with no sense of focus, no indication of cardinal directions, no way opened to him but her.

It should have frightened him.

Centuries of carefully laid plans — torn asunder.

Perhaps there was a better path, which he had not yet found.

Or, perhaps he had found it.

In her.

The end was not yet here.

Perhaps, if only for a time, he could content himself to follow wherever she might lead him.

When he finally succumbed to fitful sleep, he was met with dreams of her mouth on his.

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Author's Note: That I churned this out little more than a week after the last update surprises me more than it does you.

Also, I took some liberty with the minor war table mission, Locate Heretic Sister, and expanded on it. I found it too interesting to leave as such a minor one-far table mission, and it fit nicely into the slightly-diverging narrative that I'm building.