MY BABY FINALLY CAME!!! The elf boyo is my primary canon Inquisitor, Camlen Lavellan, as made by the wonderful @tokutenshi-crafts! She's a phenomenal artist and I highly recommend commissioning her if you get the chance! Dorian is, of course, the official plushie- and it just goes to show how FANTASTIC @tokutenshi is at recreating the style for your own character or characters not offered by the official store! Now Camlen and Dorian can be super duper extra gay together. Bonus: my cats are having gr8 fun playing in the box he came in Also thanks @tempestemily for helping hold them in the pics
@mossandrock invited this hurt into the world and I have only faithfully given it shape. AU ficlet ft. Inquisition Companion Egeire Mahariel as he lives through the long year of the quest In Hushed Whispers that (moss’) Herald Camlen Lavellan misses out on due to time magic. It happened. It was real.
Warnings for the sort of thing you’d expect to have gone wrong there: body horror, sanity loss, emotional trauma, mentions of/suicidal ideation, etc.
Egeire had fought with every ounce of strength in his body, the Iron Bull at his side and cleaving through more of Alexius' men with the same ferocity. But they kept coming, and Alexius followed on the momentum of his first deadly spell, creating time warps and assaulting the Veil. Demons broke through into the castle hall. They moved like lightning on water, and Alexius berated the Inquisition's insignificance as Inquisition scouts were engulfed in barriers of slowing magic. They too were quickly overwhelmed. The last thing Egeire saw as he fell, almost immediately covered by Venatori, was the Bull in a swarm of demons and the faces of the Inquisition scouts almost frozen in pain and horror. Fiona screamed and distantly Felix was shouting for his father to stop.
And then everything went black.
Egeire was surprised to wake up; he was considerably less surprised that he woke up inside of a cell. His body ached from battle and from being discarded on a hard, stone floor. The cell had a bucket with the handle pried off, and nothing else. His wounds had been unkindly wrapped, and he was left with his armor, but everything else had been taken from his person. Egeire groaned as he sat up, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. Two Venatori stood outside his cell; keeping guard, clearly. Their heads turned only slightly as he stirred. One nodded to the other, who then left.
Egeire scowled. The remaining guard was smartly just out of arm's reach now. "And where is he going?" No answer. It was what he expected, but frustrating all the same. He committed himself to pacing instead, intermittently stopping to try and stretch some of the aches from his body.
The guard returned soon after. Following just behind him was a man in a sharp black and white coat whom Egeire would peg as more Venatori just for the way he seemed to be willingly escorted... but he wasn't Tevinter. Not like Alexius, Felix, Dorian (the man who had disappeared, died, gone in a flash with...). And it only became more sickeningly evident as the man came to stand right in front of the bars of his cell. His impeccably formal posture was contrasted by warm eyes and a friendly smile.
"Hola, Egeire Mahariel; buenas tardes." His voice was soft, a lilting Antivan accent tying knots in Egeire's stomach. "It is a pity, truly, that we must meet in these circumstances. My associates and I had hoped we could find a way to convince you to... meet with us, shall we say, to discuss a mutually beneficial business proposition. Fools like the Inquisition acquiring your reputable skills first was not a part of the plan."
There weren't enough words in any one language to describe the tumultuous knot of emotions in Egeire's battered chest. Anger. Pain. Frustration, desperation, a deep and vicious longing for numbness. This man was not a coincidence. Nothing about him was. "The plan." His voice shook even as he scowled once more, nostrils flaring and hands trembling. From anger, he told himself, only anger. "What plan?"
The Antivan's smile turned apologetic. "Ah, of course. Forgive me. I have such the advantage of you that simply beginning in the middle is rather rude of me. My name is Kharon Valisti, and I am here on behalf of the Venatori to negotiate."
"Negotiate what?" Egeire cut in, suspicious, shoulders hunched and arms crossed tightly.
"To put it simply: a collaboration. You see, Egeire, you are... simply an impossible, astounding individual. A man of unmatched skill, physical and political, who has shown time and time again capable of overcoming any odd. Or... almost any. The Blight has taken a toll on you. Even now, it ails you." Kharon held up a hand to politely ward off Egeire's impending interruption. "We are a resourceful group, Warden-Commander Mahariel, with contacts in many places. We know many things that most people would claim perfectly protected secrets.
"And of course, you have thrown in your lot with a motley group of fools. Just like the Chantry to use people as needed and then leave them to rot, isn't it? The Inquisition is little more than an obstacle to a better world, just like the organization it spawned from. You see, Egeire, I come to you on behalf of the Elder One. He is the being who can change this world and give it the divinity it lacks. If you joined us, he is the being who could find the cure for the early death that looms over you like the chill of a coming storm. Without the false Herald, Egeire, all this is over; it is only a matter of time. If you opted to join the winning side, however, your innumerable assets could make the coming months that much smoother."
Egeire refused to let his guarded stance budge. "If I refuse?"
A slight sadness in his smile, before Kharon's face fell utterly neutral. "A tragedy. After all, it would be such a waste to leave you to rot here in this cell for the rest of your life... but that is all it would be, I'm afraid. A once-great hero, left to wither away in darkness and obscurity, a sacrifice of nothing but stubbornness, ultimately changing nothing."
To betray the world to save himself. And for what? What an offer. Egeire remained silent, turning his gaze from Kharon to the stone wall in answer. Kharon sighed. "I see. Your reluctance is understandable, but I highly encourage you to think on our offer, Egeire. It is extremely generous, under the circumstances. I will be here another month before other work calls me away. I quite hope you will change your mind before then."
With that, Kharon left. Egeire did not dare glance after him, or even tear his gaze from the wall until his footsteps had completely faded. The two guards settled back at their posts.
It would be a horrifically long month.
For the next week, Kharon was there every evening like clockwork. He would bring dinner that was considerably nicer than the bare necessities Egeire was allowed for breakfast and lunch, and he would sit on the other side of the bars and eat his own there. Egeire picked at his own food, and talked as little as he could. It was hard, sometimes, to not let his voice be coaxed from him.
Kharon spoke more than enough to fill the silence anyway. Egeire learned far more about him than he had ever wanted to. He was born and raised in Antiva. His favorite kind of tea was chamomile. He had almost been an accomplished court dancer, once. He knew little bits of Elvhen. Years ago he had been in love with a Rivaini man, now deceased. There was a duel in Antiva between two nobles to settle a dispute over land deeds and a brothel woman; he had been involved in rigging it so that both would die. The land, amusingly enough, had then gone to the woman. What a world.
Egeire refused to speak when Kharon brought up the Venatori's offer. He could feel the eyes of Kharon and his guards whenever the silence hung in the air. Kharon would sigh, ask him to reconsider, and then take both their plates away. Egeire only hid his face in his knees after he left, and tried not to think about it.
Zevran was gone. Camlen was gone. Egeire didn’t know what happened to anybody else after what had happened in the castle hall; perhaps he was the only one they had even let live. And now... these were his choices? Join the Venatori, or be left to die in the Redcliffe dungeons. He had hated the dungeons enough when it was filled with demonically-possessed corpses, let alone when it was filled with cultists. It was unlikely anybody would be coming for him; for all he knew, the rest of the Inquisition thought them all dead. Even if there was any hope there, without Camlen, there was no closing any rifts the Venatori opened. No stopping the demons from passing freely and destructively into the world.
For the next two weeks, Kharon did not come. Egeire did not ask after him. Egeire's meals were reduced down to breakfast and dinner, still the basic, wanting fare that left him hollow and hungry. He refused to ask for more. He had a feeling as to how it might come, if he were given it at all. The various guards did not speak to him, and only sparingly, quietly, to each other. In Tevene, no less. There was no chance to try to escape; he was unarmed, and never left alone to have any time to even try to fashion a makeshift lockpick.
Instead, he waited in the silence. He would pace, inspect every inch of the walls, pray to Mythal in silence. He loathed sleep. It brought only nightmares, the Blight and the Breach slipping together in fluid, horrific detail. The Archdemon. The "Elder One." Darkspawn, demons. Zevran's death, Kharon watching Egeire coyly from his fallen shadow. Camlen, dead, left to rot on display for the Venatori just as Cailan had been left aloft at Ostagar for the darkspawn. He only woke up tired. Tired and hungry. Tired and hungry and in pain.
Egeire had almost jumped out of his skin when Kharon's laugh finally echoed down the hallway again. He'd brought lunch. He even dismissed the guards. Egeire did not pick at his food; he was starving, too much so to even look at the patient smile on Kharon's face as he let Egeire eat in silence, not rushing him for words. And then, soft again, as Egeire finished: "Have you reconsidered my offer, bello?"
If he had still been eating, he would have choked. As it was, Egeire's chest still seized with pain at the tender endearment. He looked away immediately. "The answer is still no, Kharon. I will not let the world burn to save my own hide." Egeire tried to sneer at the far wall, but could only summon a grimace. "Your mistake is assuming I even have a reason to live in the first place."
Kharon hummed, then sighed. He leaned against the bars, but still Egeire refused to look. "You could, if you would only choose to." His hand rested itself briefly on Egeire's shoulder, causing him to stiffen. He twisted to look away from Kharon completely "I will be leaving at the end of the week, Egeire. Please. Make the right choice." Then, Kharon took Egeire's plate, and left. The footsteps of the guards replaced his.
Egeire breathed out a ragged sigh, and gripped at his hair, desperate for the silence again.
For another week, Kharon returned for dinner, and Egeire's plain lunch returned. Kharon spoke philosophically and at length on many topics. Purpose. Loneliness. Sacrifice and suffering, and morality in the face of the coming end of the current ways of the world. Egeire even fell asleep to the warm ramble of his lilting voice one night, curled against the wall beside the bars. It was humiliating, and he seethed at himself for the show of weakness. No wonder Kharon was trying at this for so long. Egeire must have seemed so pathetic, so close to the knife's edge of breaking. Zevran would be ashamed of him. It had only been a month.
The final night of the week came. Kharon brought the largest dinner Egeire had been granted yet. He knew it would be the last. He made no show of reserve for this, resigned to at least eating the last full meal he would likely ever get. When Kharon passed him the other half of his own plate, Egeire wanted to recoil, shout at him, refuse. Keep some shred of pride. Instead, he ate. It would be the last time his stomach would ever be full.
"I leave in the morning," Kharon whispered, leaned against the bars, hand resting on the stone floor inside Egeire's cell. Egeire did not look up from his food. He couldn't bear to. "Egeire, please. You don't have to do this. Tell me you'll leave with me tomorrow. Just tell me you will join me, and this nightmarish chapter of your life can just be over. You could even spend tonight in my quarters instead of this awful, barren cell. Will you come with me, Egeire?"
Egeire was silent. Then, he slid the stacked plates toward Kharon, and moved away from the bars of the cell. "I believe I will be staying here," he replied, tired. He only had to get through tonight, then Kharon would be gone, and he would be left to rot to death in peace. "I will not join the Venatori."
Kharon sighed, almost sounding genuinely sad, before chuckling bitterly. "I suppose it is true what they say about Fereldens, then."
Egeire still didn't look. But he couldn't help replying. "Oh?"
"Stubborn as dogs." He took the plates and stood, brushing himself off. His voice was sad again. "And horrifically cruel. Goodbye, then, Egeire. We will not meet again."
With that, Kharon left, the guards replacing him almost immediately. Egeire's breathing was ragged, eyes burning before he even realized it. He dragged himself into the furthest corner of his cell from the direction Kharon had departed in, curling up tightly with his hands pulling his hair harshly over his face. He could at least hide the tears rolling down his cheeks. Pathetic, pathetic. Weak. All he wanted in that moment, more than anything else, was to see Zevran again. To hold him and bury his face in his hair and sob and let Zevran rub his back, to breath in the scent of leather and Antivan brandy and wildflowers, alone in their other home in Antiva.
But all he was was alone, alone, alone and pathetic and weak and crying. If he threw himself against the bars, begged the guards to send for Kharon, and knelt there sobbing that he had changed his mind, he was sure he would be released from his cell and held, rocked, reassured in sweet, soft Antivan. It would all just be over.
So instead Egeire curled in on himself tighter and murmured fragments of an Antivan lullaby under his breath, and despairingly tried to hold himself together until the next morning had come and passed.
Egeire didn't move from the corner until something soft hit him in the head. Then he jolted, looking up to see a meager bread roll tumbling onto the floor. The rest of his lacking dinner was dropped unceremoniously onto the floor just inside his cell, right next to his untouched and unnoticed breakfast. A miserable relief washed over him. His shoulders slumped. At least that agonizing temptation was over with. At least he still had the will to choose an austere damnation to oblivion rather than give up everything to show how spineless and weak he really was when he was alone.
He numbly took the roll from the floor and pressed it to his lips, curling back up and taking small bites when he could will himself to move at all.
With the Venatori giving up on turning him came the passing of days and weeks in a blur. Guards came and went. Sometimes he got meals. They stopped coming with any kind of regularity. Sometimes they were only scraps. Egeire vaguely stretched, but pacing had entirely lost its appeal. The injuries he had sustained in the losing battle with Alexius had not healed well. The scars ached and his body was painfully stiff. Having nothing to fitfully sleep on but the cobbles of his cell did not help either. When meals had become irregular, they started leaving him a second bucket, of water, to drink from. He wasn't sure why they bothered.
The first thing that changed over the slog of his captivity was the day another Venatori member came up to his guards. It was only one, so it wasn't a relief shift. "The two of you are dismissed," she told them, not even glancing down at Egeire. "You are being relieved by a patrol."
"A patrol?" the guard on the left asked. "You mean--?"
"Yes." She looked from him to the guard on the right, and then back. Egeire could not see her face under her helmet. "Empress Celene has been assassinated."
Right-Guard snapped to attention. "Really? Finally! Are we being transferred? Even without any mutts here, this place stinks of mongrel. Not to mention how intolerable--"
Head-Guard somehow managed to convey a withering sneer even through the metal covering her face. "Asking stupid, inane questions out of line is a good way to indicate that you're too unfocused on what is important to be good for anything but babysitting that fool Alexius and our lingering work here."
Left-Guard stiffened at that, and immediately hissed for his companion to shut up. Head-Guard left, and Left turned to strike Right on the shoulder in disgusted exasperation. "Are you trying to get us stuck in this hole while the Elder One transforms the world? As if we want to be in Orlais when the Veil is torn entirely open there."
Right flinched, drawing away. "I just can't stand Ferelden," he muttered, turning with his companion to leave. "At least watching demons tear Orlais apart would be entertaining...."
Egeire blinked dully at the opposite wall as they left. Empress Celene of Orlais, assassinated? By the Venatori? Why? No. For the chaos, surely. They already declawed the Inquisition, so turning up the rest of Thedas in a state of unrest was likely to ensure nobody else would have the chance to mobilize against them. Or... perhaps this Elder One enjoyed the chaos? Or it enabled him to rip open the Veil? Was it another Breach to be created, pouring demons down from the skies? Or something else?
Distantly, he wondered if assassinating the Empress was something they had wanted him for. Not that it mattered, clearly. Just as Kharon had said... it had gotten done eventually.
He stood up, paced around his cell a few times now that he was alone, stretched, and then settled into the other back corner of his cell. It wasn't like anything had changed, anyway. He was still here, still locked in a cell, still going to die here alone.
He wondered if he would ever hear anybody say his name again.
He was half-conscious in the corner of his cell, listening to Blightsongscream of the Calling, of the Taint in his blood, when the clanging of metal on stone startled him into awareness. He looked over at the door to his cell to see his dagger and sword, after so long of being apart, tossed through the bars onto the cell floor. Two Venatori guards were staring at him, one leaning on the bars with one hand and making sure to look down on him. "Noticed you weren't eating," one of them said.
He had somewhat stopped bothering. Perhaps they had taken it for a hunger strike. Not that he had ever demanded anything. He didn't reply either way.
"So if you don't want your food, you may as well save us a stop on our patrol," the other said mockingly. "We'll just call it a mutual favor, knife-ear."
The first guard just snorted as they both walked on. Alone again, he looked over at his weapons. There was no point in giving the Venatori the satisfaction of his quick death. He shifted slowly and went to take them nonetheless. It was... almost comforting to sheathe them on his back again. He didn't really have a use for them, but at least he had them. Even if he broke out of his cell, what was he going to do? Storm the castle alone, maybe make it far enough to kill the man who had already beaten him once, who seemed to not even be an important pawn for the Elder One anymore? There would be no point.
At least it felt like he had a little piece of himself back, even if it was meaningless.
Dreams, dreams... dreams? Dreams. Yes, best to call them what they were. So what if they were his only company? What were they going to do, leave him too? The solitude had left him numb to caring. Even the constant ache of his body had become background noise. Well, just about everything had become background noise. The pain he was in, the leak in the lower dungeons that was starting to flood his floor, the stiffness he had started simply working around rather than try to work out of his body. Didn't matter none of it did. (None of it?) None of it. None. All drowned out by the humming anyway.
Not humming like voice humming. Humming like his bones, humming like clawing like the Calling digging claws into the back of his neck like trying to get up into his brain where it already was when it wasn't in his blood which was in his brain anyway so it was still there too. Except for when it wasn't. He was mad. No he wasn't. Well, yes he was, but it didn't matter. He had practically embraced it when he saw it coming. Mad was better than miserable, or at least consciously, solely miserable. Better to strain his throat humming and trying to harmonize than scream it raw.
Sometimes he ate but usually he didn't. Some part of him liked the idea of making them waste their damn efforts. He was usuallyalwaysnever hungry anyway-- the Taint was warping him-- so one more or less meal or twenty didn't matter. He had long tuned out their footsteps. He only liked the footsteps of the children that came to listen to his stories or the silent drifters who liked to listen to him hum. He liked to listen to him hum too. No he didn't. Well, he did it anyway, so it didn't matter. Nothing else to do.
Heavier footsteps passed. Not children, not drifters, so he only hummed and swayed to drown it out. They passed too. Background noise, background noise, like everything and one else dying in this hole. Whole hole, wholly dying. Stiff body splashing along the floor to retrace the steps of a field dance he didn't have the room for. Oh well. No room for anything really.
He was remembering the path through burning, Tainted woods when he heard a voice. Another voice. He always heard voices but they weren't always gruff and echoing and wrong and they didn't call, "HEY, KNIFE-EAR!"
Well, yes, they did, but not in that voice, and not from way down the hall.
He stuck his face out of the bars and looked down the hall and squinted, because he was pretty sure he was the only knife-ear here (or at least the only one worth yelling at if he said so himself). He would almost chalk it up to another waking dream except no except no, there was a grey hand and a big big grey shoulder pressed against the bars of a distant cell and a big big big horn poking out into the hall. It was angled awkwardly. He probably couldn't really get his head out proper. Big dumb sod. "WHAT?"
"So it is you!" Big Dumb Sod yelled back, because they were rather far apart for casual conversation volumes. "I guess they weren't lying when they said you didn't fucking talk. I've been trying to get your damn attention for days; I was starting to figure you were just dead."
He laughed at that, cold and gravelly and hoarse, almost doubling over. "As if our luck would hold out for that!" Luck. Luck! A joke in itself, a concept too high up the shelf. His face itched at the thought. And his shoulders. Fuck. They always itched, he was just noticing it again.
A gruff grunt. "Yeah." Pause. "You been here the whole time?"
"What time?" he asked vaguely back, slumping against his bars. "The all time, I suppose. Yes? And you. Not dead, ox? Thought everyone was."
"Nope. They locked me up a floor up. Guess they're just moving everyone downstairs since everything's a shit fire anyway."
He hummed. "Orlais too."
"I heard." Another pause, longer. "Everywhere by now, probably."
"Indeed." He drifted out, trying to picture the scope of Thedas. He could barely imagine the size of Ferelden anymore, cooped up under Redcliffe for... for months? Many. He turned back to the hallway. "How long, ox-man?"
"How fucking long what, knife-ear?" got shouted back, irritated. "Too fucking long, probably. Whatever it is."
"How long since... since...." What was in a name? "How long since we lost? Since they threw us in cells?"
The silence that followed pulled the heat out of the air, out of the other's voice. It was tired when he called the answer back. "Eight months, I think, give or take some weeks. Not much to do if you wanted to celebrate the anniversary of us and the world getting our asses kicked, though. They probably wouldn't even bring us any ale if we asked."
He let himself devolve into little mad, hopeless giggles, falling to sit on his heels and lean back against the walls by the bars of his cell. Eight months. Of course he couldn't even tell, down here. How old would that make him again? Didn't matter. That much he could agree upon. Well... no, no, it really didn't matter. If it did he wouldn't have a scar on his throat that itched too. So really, nothing mattered.
"KNIFE! EAR!" came the exasperated yell.
He perked up, looking back down the hall. "What?"
"Look, just... one more question. One more question, and then you can go back to talking to yourself or cackling like a loon or whatever the fuck it is you do over there for fun." He hummed and waited, leaning against the bars. Listening. "Does... your cell have red lyrium in it, too?"
He smiled wryly, looking down at the red glow cast across the surface of the inch or two of water over the floor. He tried to keep himself from actively itching even as a gloved hand came up to poke at his hard, crystalline scabs. "Of course it does," he called back, and laughed. "Where doesn't, anymore?"
Within weeks he was hewaseas-- he was fairly consumed. Felt no pain. Better than months prior. He itched so much, though. Had to braid his hair back to keep it out of his face or it would drive him... he was already there but more. Eyes closed didn't matter. Cell hummed skin hummed blood hummed he hummed. Red lyrium soothed the Blightsong, crystallized the claws at his neck. Made it damn hard to stretch his neck. It jutted out of his shoulders in solid stalagmites now. Rough peaks of ore poked him in the face if he let his head drop to either side. Learned it the hard way. A small piece broke off in his temple once, grew up to the tip of his ear. Whispered. He tuned it out.
Voices voices unimportant humming loud singing almost started humming too. "Hey, knife-ear!" He listened, this time. The ox. Coming... closer? "You listening?"
He cackled. When was he ever? Why would he? "Bite me, ox-man."
Splashing footsteps (floor long flooded), horrific curiosity bubbling up like drowning men's breaths. Ox-man. So tall. He'd practically forgotten. Ox crackled with red lyrium too, seeped into his eyes and radiating but not growing from his skin. But that was not the red that suddenly captivated him. He missed the gasp but not its owner.
The very picture of a year ago. Two wide open mouths, a white-knuckled grip on a staff. Green coat red hair warm skin, scaredshocked eyes. He met those eyes they said nothing. Impossible-- impossible? Ox-man free and dead men walking? He pulled himself from the wet floor, standing with a faint hum. They didn't speak hum. Pity. Good? Well, unimportant. Little one, important one, dead one, gaping, breathingwhimpering, "Egeire."
He cocked his head. What? What was that? It prickled like lyrium growing into his lungs but it wasn't there yet, not interested yet in his useless breath. Important. Yes important. The First said more but he didn't listen. Ox's voice, deep and rough and lyrium, "That's you, knife-ear."
... Him! Right! A small sound of understanding left his throat, as the other mage came to open his cell door. Egeire stayed standing in his cell, turning over the sound of his name in his mind again. Egeire? Yes, yes, right. Maybe Ox had used it. He'd never listened. He listened to the elf, little First and not-Herald. It seemed rude to ignore a specter (not-specter?). The Ox kept talking regardless. "Herald's not dead, we're going to kill Alexius, it'll be a good time."
Now that sounded fun. Fun wasn't something he-- Egeire-- had thought about in... months-that-felt-like-years. He finally came up to the open door of his cell. Cautious, careful. Just in case it wasn't really open and he was about to walk into it. He didn't hit anything so he leaned against the doorframe, unable to help a small laugh as a painfully wide smile strained his face. Egeire looked up to see the First looking so confused. He hummed. "Well then. You've missed quite a bit...." Name. The First remembered him, but Egeire didn't remember the First. Who was he? Who? It wouldn't come. He'd let too much go.
Egeire shook his head to focus. "You've missed a lot," he purred (maybe?), "a lot, a lot..." It was so entertaining to speak again, voice threatening to drift into the rhythm of the corruption consuming him. He stopped again, clearing his throat, "Ahem. Has the ox-man told you?"
"Bull hasn't told us much yet, no." Oh! Bull, not Ox. Close. He'd hardly been corrected. Until now? "If we can just get to Alexius, we should be able to get ba... well." Well. Unimportant, probably. Egeire never did get the actual plans of Keepers. Why should First be any different? "But how did... mythal'enaste, what happened?" Then he turned away, to Bull, and Egeire simply blinked. Well, Keepers never consulted him either. All fitting really. Egeire pondered on Mythal instead. How long since he had prayed to her...?
"Red lyrium set into him faster," was what Bull was saying when Egeire paid attention again. "Couldn't tell you why, boss. Knife-ear went completely insane months ago. At least he isn't singing about his glory days again."
Oh, insane! Bull thought he knew insane! Egeire smiled but held back a laugh, instead dreamily humming, "The Blight, the Blight...." Bull sighed. The Blight... mischief faded to thoughtfulness. "The Calling sang and the lyrium found it and harmonized," Egeire mused, voice rough and thin. "I could not answer the song but I have started to learn it, however faintly. I cannot tell the Calling from the lyrium anymore; maybe they're the same, now."
It felt like it. Had red lyrium grown into Blight or Blight into red lyrium? Impossible to say. Insecurity at ignorance in front of a First suddenly lashed at him, and Egeire quickly added, "Oh, but I can tell you of the year you've missed!" A smile, finally some use. Song in his blood and song in his memories called to him, but he tried to stay on topic. "You and the shem were turned to ash, the Inquisition couldn't last; the Elder One killed the ruler of Orlais at her ball, and soon after would the whole empire fall." A laugh! "Demons, little First! The Elder One commanded so many demons. An army, armies, stormed Thedas alongside his Venatori, and we all fell, fell, fell as he rose. And so here we stand, forgotten in the ashes of a dead world."
Egeire smiled, glancing back towards the First. "Astounding what happens in but a year."
"Like I told you, boss," Bull groaned, "crazy. Right about the last parts anyway, but damn far off the deep end enough to be halfway to Par Vollen."
The FirstHerald looked oddly thoughtful, glancing between Bull and him. He said no thoughts. All he said was, "Come on. Let's get to Alexius and end this. I've seen more than enough of this world."
Egeire gave a rough laugh in response, feeling something drain from him. "You're telling me," he quipped, suddenly realizing how tired he was. It grounded him a little from his madness, at least. He stepped out of his cell, joining the assembled group. The First and the shem had blood on them; the guards were definitely still around then. There was yet more fighting to be done.
He reached up and back over the lyrium growing from his shoulders to draw his blades, though at first they didn't want to budge from their sheathes. Egeire yanked harder, breaking them free with loud cracks as his sword and dagger, now encrusted with red lyrium, yielded to his hands. He had missed having them. He missed holding them. The difference in weight didn't even register. "Lead the way." Time to follow.
The First's jaw twitched, grip on his staff tightening. "This way," he replied evenly. He turned away and walked off into the corridors. Egeire, with the other two, followed behind.
They allowed themselves a slight detour from going straight to Alexius. The remnants of Fiona had managed to croak out a reason: "Leliana." That was all Egeire had needed to hear, laser-focused, only hearing "Find her," before he was already about to walk off without the others. They were not far behind him.
The hissed voice, an open door, the movement of armor. "I will die first." The First was ahead but Egeire was right on his heels. She saw them, they saw her, hanging from the ceiling, a Venatori torturer turning to face them. "Or you will." Her legs swung up and locked around his throat, the First stilling in shock at the sight. The Venatori choked and clawed at her shins but she was still armored and vicious and given new reason to fight. He started to fall and she wrenched against his struggles and just like that, he dropped with a broken neck. Egeire could only stare in silent awe through a fog of addled madness.
The First rushed over, fumbling at the dead man's belt for his keys, and Leliana watched with shocked but calculating eyes. She was gaunt and pale with sunken cheeks and bruised eyes, face warped by innumerable withered creases and wrinkles. Stringy, dry orange hair poked out from her dark hood. The First rose to free her from her bonds, and her voice held all the weight of the world: "You're alive."
She watched him he watched her, and he managed, "We have a plan, we-- we're going to try to fix this."
"Forget 'try.'" Her voice was nearly as sharp as her stare, softness worn away by... a year? of torture. "If you're back from the dead, you will need to do more than 'try.' You need to end this." The First swallowed thickly. "Do you have weapons?" A nod. "Good. The Magister is probably in his chambers."
Everyone watched her as she crossed the room purposefully to retrieve her bow and quiver from a chest by the door. Egeire almost didn't know what to make of her. None of this felt real but she felt like a reflection in a broken mirror. It felt wrong, she looked wrong, even though he knew he looked worse. "You... aren't curious as to how we got here?" the shem asked, awkward.
"No." Leliana stood with her reclaimed possessions, and Egeire could not help a snort. So lost. He felt so lost. Her focus was almost comforting. Why would anyone care about the story? There could be change. Change after so long a year of waiting and suffering. The Elder One couldn't possibly be stopped now, but if there could be a change before the now...
"Alexius sent us into the future," the mage said anyway. Egeire rolled his eyes. "This. His victory, his Elder One-- it was never meant to be!"
"If we can get back to that confrontation in the castle hall, we can stop this from ever having happened," the First agreed, determined. "We can fix this. We have to."
Leliana sighed. "And mages wonder why people fear them.... Nobody should have this power." The shem mage started talking again, and Egeire sighed in the doorway and shut his eyes. He was so tired. There was no time, no time, never and always and fixed and malleable and he was so so tired. Leliana snapped, "Enough!" A relief. "This is all pretend to you, some future you hope will never exist. I suffered. The whole world suffered. It was-- this is-- real."
She turned away-- and looked right at Egeire. "... We suffered," she said, rough and angry voice falling quiet. Up close he could see the blood under her pale skin, the mottled bruises and the way her pale eyes practically glowed in comparison to the shadows engulfing them. A long pause followed. He held her gaze. "My friend." He couldn't read her expression. "After all you did for me... I could not find you. I am sorry, Egeire."
There were no words left in the ravaged pieces of his minds to describe how comforting it was to hear his name wrapped in her voice, her accent; through the fog he could remember the Blight, a decade ago when her cheerful voice and the lilt of her accent had even then been soothing against that backdrop of chaos. Meeting her eyes, he had a feeling she knew how far gone he was. "I... knew... there was no saving me," he rasped, stumbling on trying to word grounded thoughts. "I never blamed you, Leliana."
Leliana smiled bitterly, the moment fading, but she rested a hand on his arm briefly to remind him, "We must once more go save the world, Egeire."
Egeire found a smile to return to her. "I suppose I could manage that one more time."
He tuned out most everything after that, the strain of thought taking its toll. Leliana and the Bull and the First kept him focused enough to help kill their way to the Magister. Egeire took an especial, vicious pleasure in seeing him cut down. But after that... the adrenaline began to subside. The mages knelt by the body and looted in, the shem taking an amulet and turning it over in his hands. They talked. More noise. Egeire leaned against a pillar and closed his eyes.
So close to the end. And yet... even if they left, went to "fix" things, what then? Would everything just cease to exist, gone in an instant, waking from a nightmare? What if it didn't? Where could they go? Nowhere. This "future" was still ruined. They were still dead walking, purposeful yet damned to the void.
"An hour?!" Leliana snapped, turning and approaching the mages. "That's impossible! You must go now!" She spoke reason enough even before the castle shook around them. Rubble toppled from the crumbling ceiling as the distant howl of demons tore through the halls behind them. Leliana looked up as the ground settled. "The Elder One."
Well, Egeire supposed that settled the question of what was going to happen to the rest of them.
"There's a reason they won," the Bull said, unsettled, as a silence fell. The First looked confused, afraid. Leliana, grim as ever. Egeire glanced over at the Bull, who was looking at him. They shared a look, and though Egeire knew Bull did not hear the humming, he knew they had the same idea.
Egeire stepped forward, Leliana turning back to him instinctively. "They'll be coming to kill the mages. Bull and I will go out to meet them, hold them off for as long as we can. Buy the time that was worthless a year ago. You remain here, kill anything that gets past. I know you can, for long enough."
The First's eyes were wide with shock. "Th-That's suicide. Egeire--"
"Look at us," Leliana hissed. "We are already dead, Camlen! The only way we live is if this day never comes." Camlen. Camlen, gods, that was it... and here Egeire was, only just learning it again before his death. He nodded to Bull, who nodded back and started moving to the door. "Cast your spell. You have as much time as I have arrows."
Leliana turned and drew her bow, stalking toward the door with purpose as Egeire began to follow Bull. He smiled wryly for her, one last time, but she did not return it. Despite himself, Egeire said, softly, "And here I thought I wasn't going to go on my Calling." Her determined expression shifted slightly-- pain. He dropped his gaze sadly, before it all began to fray again, and he joined Bull at the door. It was already open. Bull did not relish this moment either, but he was ready.
The crossed the threshold together and pulled it shut behind them. At least it was sturdy. The howls of demons grew louder. In the haze, Bull was just about the picture of a fellow Grey Warden, following Egeire out into the endless legion. They would fight as hard as they could, until they were overwhelmed and fell. He was no Warden, these were no darkspawn, this was not the Deep Roads... but this really was a Calling, wasn't it? Egeire saved them a bit of bloodletting, swiping quick slices across his arms as they approached the invading horde, and let the twice-tainted blood drip down his blades like a poison.
Egeire Mahariel did not fear the sleep of death any longer. He had become the bestial epitome of nightmares already. All, for one last time, to save the world.
Much more so than I could have expected a couple of years ago, really. Stretched a bit thin, I’ll grant, and I don’t suppose I’ll ever be entirely contented again. But I have nearly everything I ever wished for, after all. And it’s mostly good, really. I’ll be fine, I think.
16. Who hurt you?
I know I’m a long way from being the first fool that rancid old shitstain played like a flute. I know it’s always easy, and seldom useful, to look back and see over and again the myriad little follies lined up across your past. Certainly, I can see what a perfect target I was for such an adversary and grudgingly respect the skill that snared me. But for him to continue to speak of friendship, to threaten my little sister’s future children in gentle companionly tones… I truly thought I was bringing down a great monster, while all the time I was simply raising up a worse one. I was raised to be a Keeper, and I trusted the Wolf like a brother.
How about for Camlen and Tamaris? That’s a fun little alliance.
👍- something that my muse approves about your muse or thought they have done very well
His accomplishments at the late Empress’ ball were certainly impressive. A clever machination, more so if it stands the test of time. Certainly there can be no shortage of weak and easily manipulated fools in Orlais to warm the throne.
🍿- what my muse thinks is entertaining about yours
He’s so excitable. Throw a decent piece of elvhen trivia at Camlen and he’d be at it all night. Or any historical tidbit, really. It is a good thing the Inquisitor is too busy to visit the Vigil - if he found the lower basements, he’d never leave.
⚰ ️- what my muse will say at your muse’s funeral
That they never expected to be there, and in truth thought it would be the other way around, and he was a good man and visionary and Thedas is that much poorer for his loss, etc etc. Insert your platitudes of choice, very gracious and never touching on the strange sort of survivor’s guilt that strikes when one’s been dying for nearly two decades and still gets to see much healthier and in this case, younger, people keel over first.
👗- whether mine thinks your muse looks good in their usual clothing/their chosen clothing style
Tamaris has never seen anyone quite so subtly wishing to crawl out of their own skin as the new Inquisitor Lavellan in his formal clothes, though that may admittedly only be because they never did get Morrigan within ten feet of Landsmeet-appropriate dresses back then. Camlen always looks better when he’s not strangling himself with that political tightrope he insists on walking in every last aspect of his life.
📣 - something my muse will say in defense of your muse being unfairly accused
In general, Tamaris would say as much as they can without severely endangering their own status and power, which is likely as much as if not more than Camlen would ever expect from them.
An alliance with the Inquisition is not a bridge to burn lightly. Only done, perhaps, when it begins to overstep and threatens to swell and fester like the Chantry of old, or overreach and anger too many to remain politically viable. Otherwise, they will defend Camlen from accusations false and true alike, because they know firsthand precisely how much human condemnation and censure can cost.
1. What’s the maximum amount of time your character can sit still with nothing to do?
That very much depends on what you mean by “still.” Assuming some sort of fidgeting is possible, several hours, usually with little trouble and quite possibly without noticing. Actual motionlessness is doable in extremely urgent situations but I’m not sure whether that qualifies as “nothing to do.”
10. What lie do they most frequently remember telling? Does it haunt them?
Yeesh. There are so many, by the time the Inquisition is ended–or rather, so many things that aren’t *lies* but distort the truth past recognition. Most of the harder ones to live with are silences or omissions or deflections rather than actual falsehoods. I can easily think of things unsaid that keep him up nights. But I can’t really pull a particular lie out of the patchwork, and I’m not sure if he can either. That in itself might haunt him, but it has a long wait in line.
28. Would they prefer a lie over an unpleasant truth?
Fuck no.
41. How do they feel about children?
He’s quite fond of children. Being a father someday is something he always looked forward to.
H. What trait do you admire most?
He keeps fucking going. Not just keeps getting out of bed and living, but keeps acting and planning and marching from decision to decision and staying ahead of the despair and paralysis and I mean like. Damn.
Summary: A trip to Emprise du Lion brings with it a surprise visit from a member of the Inquisitor’s clan, and the search for something dear to the Inquisitor.
Rated M for language.
Also on AO3 and Fanfiction.net
-1-; -2-; -3-; -4-; -5-; -6-; -7-; -8-
Note: Many, many thanks to @thievinghippo for all the wonderful beta work! :D
-9-
The last thing Ellana remembered was collapsing into a soft pile of snow, the wind whistling around her, the cold seeping through her clothing despite her best efforts to keep warm. Now as she slowly woke, feeling more rested than she had for quite some time, she no longer felt frozen and it was quiet, save for the snatches of words she caught from voices nearby.
"Right piss-pot that one is."
"What gave it away?"
"The way he looks at us. All judgy. And elfy. Good thing Quizzy's not like that."
By the time Ellana turned on her side, eyes cracking open, ready to ask how Sera had gotten there when she could barely prop herself up last Ellana saw her, Sera had disappeared. This left only Dorian standing by the tent opening. At Ellana’s soft call, he turned to face her, relief on his face.
"Good to see you up. How are you feeling?"
She propped herself up, untangling herself from the numerous blankets that had been piled up around her. "Where are we?"
"Back at camp. Blackwall, Camlen, and I came back with you. We found you out in the snow after...well, after."
The memories slowly came back to her. The argument with Camlen; Blackwall and Dorian bickering and losing her temper at them; going out to Valeska's Watch in a blizzard, without telling anyone. Creators, what had she been thinking?
Except she knew she hadn't been thinking. She had been overcome with a desperate urge to find her sister’s halla token, consuming her entire being with a fervor she hadn’t felt since that terrible night searching for her sister.
For his part, Dorian looked quite contrite about his role in what happened. "I'm sorry, Ellana. We didn't intend to cause you more distress. I hope you know that."
She nodded. "I do. And I shouldn't have lost it like that. It just wasn't what I needed. I'm sorry you had go out and find me."
His face softened. "I wasn't about to leave my dearest friend out in the snow." The familiar teasing expression then appeared back on his face. "Not to mention that certainly would've made for an awkward homecoming back to Skyhold. I'm not entirely sure who’d want to kill us first. Leliana, Josephine, or Cullen?"
She laughed, appreciating him trying to lighten the mood. "Probably more likely Cassandra. She really wanted to come on this one."
"Maker knows why, nothing but snow and cold and red lyrium and more snow out here. Next time we go out on assignment, Ellie, might I suggest a middle ground between melting into a puddle and freezing our ass cheeks off?"
"I'll see what I can do." She then bit her lip, resolving to ask the question even though she suspected the answer, knowing it would likely dampen what better mood there was. "Is it too much to hope you found it?"
"I wish I could say we did, but..."
She sighed, feeling beaten down with an almost sad acceptance (instead of frantic as when she first discovered it missing) over what was looking to be its permanent loss, an echo of the range of emotion she’d gone through from the moment she saw Bri’s body lying on that ground. "I was afraid you'd say that."
Dorian seemed a bit surprised. Understandable after how she had acted yesterday. "Some of our soldiers volunteered to be on the lookout for it, but the recent snowstorm..."
"I understand." Even though she wished she didn’t. But she couldn’t stay out there, searching the snowy paths of Emprise du Lion forever. She would have to settle for her soldiers just keeping an eye out while on duty. She was Inquisitor; that still had to come first, no matter how much yet another personal loss would hurt.
Once again, she must endure.
Dorian patted her on the shoulder. "Blackwall said to let him know when you were awake. Suppose I should go and tell him."
It occurred to her as Dorian left that she had no idea how long she had been out. The storm must have been over if they felt it safe enough to travel down to the main camp. She wondered if Camlen was still there, had bothered to stick around once they got back.
Dorian must not have had to go far, as it seemed Blackwall came in shortly after, a bowl of what she assumed was steaming soup or stew in his hands.
"Ana."
He stopped just short of her, his eyes not quite meeting hers, as if not knowing where he stood. She held her arms out, letting him know that things were well between them now. Setting the bowl down, he knelt in front of her, his arms coming around her at the same time as hers.
She buried her head into the crook of his neck. "Ir abelas, vhenan."
"You don't have to apologize. I shouldn't have started something with Dorian. You didn't need that."
"I didn't. But it was still no excuse for me to lose control like that." She laid her hand over his shoulder. "Did you carry me back, the entire way?"
He nodded. "It had to be me."
She kneaded his shoulder through the padding of his gambeson, brushing her lips against it when he winced ever so slightly at her touch. "Thank you. I'm just sorry you had to."
Blackwall planted a kiss on her brow. "Don't be."
He handed her the bowl, which her rumbling stomach appreciated. "How long was I out?"
"Found you passed out as it was getting dark. We had to wait out the storm til early morning at that Warden outpost we cleared out. Probably around noon now."
No wonder she woke up feeling so rested. She hadn't had such a deep sleep in ages. Just not how she would have preferred to get it.
The wisps of memories came back to her, the wind and cold no longer striking her, light above her and Blackwall's arms around her and his voice whispering to her. She remembered telling him something, but that was still fuzzy, not clear enough for her to remember.
"Did I say anything?" she asked, after tipping back a mouthful of soup. A bit bitter, for her tastes, but at least it was something warm. "While I was out of it?"
Blackwall looked reluctant to mention it, as if the knowledge would upset her, but he admitted at her additional insistence, "You said something about failing your sister. That you pushed us away like you did to her."
She cast her eyes down, suddenly finding the content of her meal more interesting. "Oh."
He reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "You don't have to explain if you don't want to. If it hurts too much to talk about."
Ellana nodded, unable to do much else, thankful he understood. She knew it was still a struggle, to make herself believe that Bri's death had just been a terrible accident, bad luck of Bri being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But Ellana always came back to it, the thought that if she hadn't lost her temper, chased Bri away when she had actually shown a willingness to talk to Ellana, she wouldn't have been out in that storm. She wouldn't have crossed that makeshift bridge at the time it finally gave way from the force of the wind and rain. She wouldn't have been so upset to realize that crossing it would be a risk.
Ellana then returned his squeeze with one of her own, turning her attention to working on her meal. "Did Camlen leave yet?"
He shook his head. "He's still here. Said he'd stick around until you woke up."
Part of her was surprised that he had bothered. But the other was reassured at the gesture. He hadn't completely disregarded her.
"I need to talk to him."
Blackwall frowned. "Certain that's a good idea, my lady?"
"The sooner I do this, the sooner he can head back to Wycome." She sent him a reassuring look. "I'll be fine, Blackwall."
Creators help her, she wasn't going to let this parting devolve into another yelling match.
He got up from the ground with a grunt. "Long as you're sure. I'll go get him, then." He kissed her again, faint against her lips, before leaving her alone in the tent.
She sipped thoughtfully on the broth as she waited, wondering what to say to Camlen, how to take back any things she'd said in the heat of the moment, if he held any remorse for the words on his end.
Whether she was ready or not mattered little when he came through the tent, bow already strapped to his back, knives sheathed at his belt, and satchel strung across his hip. He had clearly been ready to go for awhile.
But the first thing that struck her was how strangely subdued he seemed. He should have been chomping at the bit to get the first word in. They both stared at each other, as if seeing who would be the one to make the first move.
"I'm not sure what to say," Ellana finally admitted.
"That's a first." Camlen sighed, kicking at a patch of dried-out grass. "Look, about yesterday. I didn't mean it. Not entirely."
"You said multiple things about me," she said, though without any type of accusatory tone. "About me being a fraud, for one. Do you really think that?" It was one of the things that stuck out the most about their fight, the thing that’d really struck a nerve.
"I've had to work hard to get to where I am. You've had a lot given to you," he said, avoiding answering the question directly.
"I didn't ask for any of it." Certainly not for her mam to die and Ellana deemed her successor, not for this Mark to be bestowed on her hand and become Herald and Inquisitor.
"You enjoy the power of it, though. The authority."
"What I enjoy is the ability to help people, not whatever authority being Inquisitor may give me. It honestly scares me how much my decisions can affect so many, that I have to make calls on things I’m barely qualified on.” Such as the fate of the Wardens, the ruling of Orlais. Decisions made on orders and empires that she’d barely known anything about before the Conclave, that had been around for centuries.
“What about as First?”
“Maybe I did once,” she admitted.
"Maybe?" he asked with a scoff.
"Fine," she said with an irritated frown. "I did once. I don't anymore." She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "But I didn't ask you here to get into another argument. I meant it when I said I'm tired of fighting with you, Camlen."
"It's what comes naturally to us, isn't it? Do you really think that'll change?"
"Only if we don't make that effort, since Bri's no longer..." She trailed off, knowing that even if Bri were there, it still might've not made a difference.
Camlen's face dropped, looking somber at the mention of Bri. "About her...what I was trying to say. It-It wasn't all your fault."
How generous of him not to lay all of the blame on her, she thought to say, but she held her tongue, letting him finish.
"It was that shem Cassius. She wouldn't have thought about leaving if he hadn't shown up."
She wondered how he could be so confident of that. Him, whose own father left the clan to go back to the city alienage where he came from, his mother following him and choosing to leave their son behind, to never be heard from again.
"You're certain of that?" she asked, probing, the question out of her mouth before she could stop it.
He eyed her suspiciously. "Why would I not be?"
Her gaze never faltered from him, firmly stating, "Because you wouldn't have distanced yourself from her as you did if you were. Because you knew her well enough to know she wouldn't have been so easily swayed unless she already had the idea to leave floating around in her head."
He crossed his arms, taking on a defensive posture. "And how do you figure that?"
"Because that's part of why I was upset with her, too." Creators, it was still difficult to think about, let alone say outloud.
"You think you know me so well?"
"Well, you did say I was overconfident. You're right; I am where it counts."
She half-expected him to lash out at her again; it's what he had done before. And she admittedly would have deserved it for being unable to help herself from needling him.
Then she noticed the way his shoulders began to subtly deflate, the harsh expression on his face diminishing ever slightly, his eyes slowly filling with melancholy and regret.
"She'd begun to talk about wanting something more," he finally admitted. "Wanting freedom from daily life of the clan, to live for herself. I told her she was being ridiculous. And after I accused her of being selfish, she stopped saying anything. I thought that was the end of it."
He paused. "I was angry. I wanted to hate her, for putting the clan in danger, for what happened to Master Sorvel. I didn't see what she did as any different from what my parents did. I tried so hard to…but then…”
“Then?” Ellana asked, guiding him when he seemed to trail off, as if unable to continue.
It took a moment before he responded again, a brief flash of pain appearing in his eyes. “Then I pulled her body out of that water. It made me realize I still loved her. That I’d always love her, no matter what. So yes, I blame the shem. I even blame you. But I also blame myself for not being what she needed when she needed it. As she'd been for me."
Ellana sat in shocked silence, such raw honesty and self-reflection from him a rarity in all the time they had known each other.
"I shouldn't have acted like you didn't care. I know how much you did. Still do." She thought back to his words at the house ruins. "You were hurting, just as much as I was. And I didn't even see it."
"Would you have wanted to?"
She avoided responding to that by taking another sip of soup, knowing what the answer would be. Camlen looked unsurprised by the lack of response.
He turned, facing away from her, towards the opening of the tent. She was about to ask if he saw something, when he said, "It didn't seem to matter as much, that I'd lost my best friend. But you...everyone wanted to make it up to you, take care of you. I understood why; you're her sister, you were torn up about it. But it didn't make it easier to accept. And if anything happens to the clan, you'll have that support again. I'll have no one."
She stared thoughtfully up at him, at learning these things she should have seen but chose to ignore. "My soldiers know what's at stake. I trust them to ensure nothing like that happens."
Camlen shifted his feet around, tapping at his belt, almost as if he was uncomfortable at having opened himself up to Ellana as much as he had. "So...what happens now?"
"You can go back to Wycome. I won't try to convince you to stay and keep looking for the token. I realize your place is back with the clan. As it should be."
He studied her carefully. "And you? What is your place?"
She tapped the edge of the bowl before finally setting it aside. That certainly was the question, wasn’t it? Had been since she’d accepted the role of Inquisitor and begun a relationship with Blackwall. Prior to the Conclave, if anyone had asked her, she would replied without hesitation that it was with the clan. Life with them was all she'd known, all she ever thought she needed. Even up to the closing of the Breach and the destruction of Haven, she had imagined herself returning to the clan once things had settled down and a means was discovered for removing the Mark from her hand, despite her growing feelings for Blackwall, despite knowing that this experience had forever changed her.
Being Inquisitor now meant she was entirely committed to the organization she led. She couldn’t abandon it while it was still active. And Blackwall…she couldn’t leave him either. Keeper Deshanna would expect her to commit entirely to the clan if she returned. And that just wasn’t possible anymore. Whatever feelings of missing home had been awoken inside her at seeing Camlen again, whatever fondness and familial feelings she still carried for members of the clan, things had changed too much to go back to the way they were.
"For the moment, it's with the Inquisition," she finally answered.
"And your shem?"
"You can call him by his name,” she stated firmly at his disapproving tone. “And, yes, it is with Blackwall."
She thought he might start up another argument about it, accuse her of abandoning the clan, which would then lead them into an argument about why he could’ve loved Bri despite her seeing herself outside of the clan, yet not accepting Ellana doing the same. But all he said, with matter-of-factness, was, "The Keeper might not approve of this. She wasn't happy when she found out. A lot of us weren't."
Just as she feared. She knew members of the clan who had begrudged Bri before may do so when they heard about her relationship with Blackwall, think her selfish for it. But the Keeper...even though Ellana predicted what she might say, Ellana still foolishly hoped she'd be more approving. She hated the thought of the Keeper being displeased with her, the woman who had become like a mam to her. Ellana did not think her so unreasonable she would present her with an ultimatum of choosing a relationship with the clan or Blackwall once her time as Inquisitor had run its course. The worst she feared would happen is the Keeper would be unhappy that she’d no longer have a First (with no Second to call on), and not approve of it. Didn’t mean that wouldn’t hurt, though.
But she would just have to make clear to the Keeper, to everyone, that her feelings for Blackwall ran too deep now. To the point she was determined to aid and work in finding a cure for the Calling. And if that day should still come, she would only then accept his loss, and decide whether she would be able to resume her place with the clan.
But until then, she would not let him go. For anything.
"And what will you say, Camlen?"
He didn't quite look her in the eye as he ground out, reluctantly, "I'll figure something out."
It was honestly the best she could hope from him. She was under no illusions that one conversation would be enough to sway his opinion of her. But if he didn't speak negatively about their relationship to the Keeper, she would take this small victory. "Ma serannas."
Slight resentment appeared in his eyes, as if blaming her for placing him in this position. "Just so we’re clear. I'm not doing it for you, Ellana. Any of this."
"I know." The only reason why he would. There was nothing more she could ask of him. "Give my love to Marelwyn. And Neras and the children. To everyone." She then remembered her promise of a note. "Can you wait another few moments while I write to Athros and Noranni?"
"Not too long. I need to be on my way." He turned, half-way out the tent, when he spun back around to face her. "I regret we couldn't find it."
She picked up the slightest bit of remorse in his voice, and it heartened her to know that he did actually feel the token’s loss as she did. "Me too."
Once he left, she scrambled around for some parchment and quill. In her search, she came upon the rolled up parchment containing the confession Dorian had given her, reminding her she’d have to take care of that later, too.
Using the back of Blackwall's shield as a firm surface to write on, it didn't take long to write the note, the words coming more easily than she thought. She asked the twins how they were doing, whether they were looking forward to their new brother or sister, a bit of the exciting things she had been up. Let them know she hadn't forgotten about them, apologizing for not writing more, and reassuring them she'd continue to do her best to protect them. As she stuffed the parchment into the envelope, a thought came to her. Grabbing for another piece, she quickly jotted down another note.
Two envelopes in hand now, she put her cloak back on and stepped out of the tent. Cold, but not nearly as frigid as the day before, noting the piles of snow and newly paved paths from the fresh snowfall. She spotted Camlen grabbing for the reins of the Inquisition horse he was being lended.
"I have the note," she said, handing the envelopes to him.
"What's this?" he asked, thumbing the second.
"In case you can't think of anything to say to the Keeper." Nothing long, just explaining the rumors were true about her and Blackwall. That she was sorry she didn’t tell her sooner, that she would tell her more after the situation in Wycome died down, answer her questions, even welcome a visit to Skyhold if the Keeper so wished.
He placed the envelopes in his satchel. Then they stared at each other, back in that uncertain silence as when he had entered the tent.
"I suppose this is it."
"Suppose so," he said.
She wondered how hard he'd push himself to get back, what he'd find when he did. For all their sakes, she hoped the Free Marcher armies hadn't advanced on Wycome yet.
"If anything should happen," she said with an air of tentativeness, "there's a place for you. At Skyhold."
If there was one thing she had learned, it was that no one should have to face such hardship alone. And regardless of their tumultuous relationship over the years, she would not subject him to that if she had a way to stop it. Bri wouldn’t have wanted that.
He looked at her with surprise, then gave her a nod of acknowledgment, which was more than she thought he’d give at the idea. “Try not to get yourself killed.”
“I’ll do my best.” Not wanting to take up any more of his time, she patted the horse and said, "Dareth shiral, Camlen."
He replied with a parting nod. "Dareth shiral."
She watched as Camlen lead the horse up the stone steps, then hoisted himself onto the saddle. She continued to stare in that direction even when he disappeared from view, until Sera appeared beside her, head wrap no longer around her.
"That piss-pot leave?"
"If you mean Camlen, then yes. He just did."
"Good riddance, I say. Heard he caused more problems than solved them. So, had no luck out there, finding your sister's token-thingy?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"I could still look for it for you. Need a break from being stuffed up in a tent, anyhow."
Ellana couldn’t help the flare of hope rising within her at Sera’s offer, even though she knew she shouldn’t. Nor did she want to be responsible for causing a set-back in Sera’s recovery. "You're sure you'd be up for it? How's your head feeling?"
"Ah, I'm fine," she said, waving it off. "Nothing's spinning anymore."
"Just make sure to still take it easy. And maybe bring someone along with you, just in case."
"You worry too much, you know that, right, Ellana?"
Something Bri would have said. Did say. On multiple occasions. And the thought pushed against the calm stoicism that had come over her, threatening to bring it and her emotions down with her again, that Bri and now most likely her token were lost to her forever.
It wasn't working. Shoving it all down, refusing to tell anyone else or talk about it. She couldn't lose control like that again. But she wasn't ready to tell everyone, for everyone in her inner circle to know and ask questions about it, want to help her through it as she did with their problems.
Her gaze wandered until it landed on Blackwall, sitting by the fire and mindlessly whittling away on a block of wood. The man rarely seemed idle or content with being still, always having to do something.
If she was to tell anyone, she knew he had to be first. He was the one she trusted the most, given her heart to. And she had wanted to tell him. She had wanted him to know why she avoided talking about Bri's death. To know why she still carried the guilt around with her like a weight permanently chained to her body. To know that a part of her would always believe she was responsible for what happened, regardless of what anyone said. She just could never bring herself to do it before.
Perhaps it was finally time.
There had always been that barrier between them, not knowing about the other's past. She had always been accepting of it, even if she was entirely baffled by what could have happened that was so terrible he refused to talk about it, even if she sometimes wondered why he couldn’t open up to her when he clearly trusted her with his heart. But she had avoided pushing because of what she had been holding back.
She didn't expect him to reveal all right away. But through her taking the first step, showing that she trusted him to know everything about her past, including the worst of what it had to offer, it could lead him to doing the same. And they could help each other finally heal those old wounds. Together.
Decision made, Ellana strode purposefully over to him. She took a steadying breath, coming up to him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, asking her what she needed, if something was the matter, likely noticing the resolved look on her face.
"There's something I need to tell you."
She had shut herself away from the clan for three days now. Except for the Keeper, who had only been successful in barely getting her to eat, barely getting her to drink, barely getting her to sleep. All Ellana could do was replay that whole conversation with Bri in her head. The look on Bri's face when Ellana told her to go. She couldn't get the words out of her head. She had made her sister feel unwanted. She had made her sister feel unloved, when all she had needed was a shoulder to cry on. Her older sister's shoulder, who should have been there to comfort and support her.
Why did she have to get so angry? Why had she let her temper get the better of her, especially with Bri, especially after what had happened? Why hadn't she just listened to what Bri had wanted to say instead of jumping all over her like that?
Now Bri was dead. She had failed Bri. She had failed Mam and Father.
The Keeper had ruled what happened to Bri an accident. It made her ill, the thought of Bri's final moments. How afraid she must have been as she fell, how she had been all alone.
And it was all her fault.
"Ellana. Da'len, you need to eat something."
She did not turn at the Keeper's voice to face her. She couldn't.
Crunching footsteps approached her, hearing the rustle of fabric against the ground. "Shutting yourself away will not bring her back, da'len."
Maybe. But the Keeper hadn’t given Ellana a better reason not to. How could she face those who had shunned Bri and move on like nothing had happened, as the Keeper expected her to? But how could anyone of her clan fathom looking up to her as their First now, knowing that she caused Bri's death?
She caught rustling beside her, as the Keeper moved to crouch on the ground. "You cannot blame yourself for what befell Brianya."
"She wouldn't have been there if it wasn't for me," she said, voice small and hoarse after three days of little use, of crying.
"You cannot know that for sure."
"I told her to leave. That if she was so desperate to get out that she could just go. And she did."
And she would never forgive herself for it.
"I know it's hard, da'len. But you have to find a way to continue on."
That finally had her looking at the Keeper through narrowed eyes, that she would dare to act like it was so simple. How could she just simply move forward from something like this, live the rest of her life knowing that her sister didn't have to die?
"What would you know about it? You never had a sister; you don't know what it's like!"
She was almost glad for it, the anger, the raging fire suddenly flaring inside her. That meant feeling something other than absolute hollowness. But hearing herself lash out the Keeper only made her think about yelling at Bri. It brought angry tears to her eyes, the dam starting to crack.
"Ir abelas, Keeper...ir abelas," she said, her voice choking on the apology.
She might have been successful, at keeping the tears from falling. If the Keeper hadn't put a gentle arm around her shoulders, clasped her close in a way so similar to how her mam had done as a child. Ellana buried her face into the Keeper's shoulder, the comforting earth and herbal smells hitting her, the sobs building in her throat.
"It's my fault...it's my fault..."
"No. It was an accident, da'len. Nothing more." She rocked her. "A tragic accident."
Ellana gave into it, the Keeper's presence and hold on her the release she needed. And the Keeper let her get it all out, didn't say anything in an attempt to make things better. Just rubbing her arm up and down, rocking her. Eventually, the sobs died down to sniffling and whimpers until she was finally able to calm herself and lifted her face off the Keeper's shoulder, her eyes sore and red from the effort of crying again.
"Better?" the Keeper asked, wiping away a stray tear from her cheek.
Ellana nodded. She wasn't, really. But the release was better than feeling so hollow.
The Keeper then wrapped her other arm around Ellana, lifting her up with her as the Keeper stood. "Come. Let's get you supper."
Ellana vigorously shook her head. "I'm not ready to face them. I can't."
The Keeper sighed, her hands journeying to her shoulders. "Da'len, there's never going to be an easy time." She tipped Ellana's head back towards her when she tried to look away. "I won't make you take up your duties just yet. Nor will I make you eat with everyone. Marelwyn has already agreed that you could eat with her until you're ready. I would never stop you from grieving. But you have to try and get back to a more normal routine."
"I...I don't know that I can."
"No one ever said coping with loss such as this would be easy. But all you can do is try. Can you try for me, da'len?"
She knew the Keeper was just looking out for her, doing her best towards her to make her feel better. She should feel grateful; she was. But she still didn't know how to stop herself from feeling like her entire world had been upended, that she now struggled to comprehend a world without Bri in it. She honestly didn't know how she would ever recover from this.
Ellana’s gaze fell away from the Keeper’s, unable to give her answer. Finally the Keeper took pity on her, letting her head go with a sigh. “Come, then. Marelwyn is waiting for you."
Ellana let herself be lead out of the tent by the Keeper. She felt a tad unsteady on her feet after three days of little use, but trusted the Keeper to hold onto her if she buckled. The light was starting to dim with the sun plateauing over the forest ridge, gentle on her eyes which had grown accustomed to the muted light of the tent. As the Keeper said, Marelwyn was sitting beside the tent she shared with Neras, a plate of what appeared to be deer and carrots in her lap.
She hopped up upon seeing Ellana, immediately encasing her in a hug. "Ellana...how are you doing today?"
"A bit better," the Keeper thankfully answered for her. "I have to check and make sure things are progressing for the service tomorrow." The Keeper squeezed her shoulder. "Make sure you eat slowly, da'len. You've hardly eaten the past, few days."
Ellana was about to ask what service the Keeper was talking about, but it hit her as she walked away and Marelwyn offered up her place to sit that it had to be Bri's service. The Keeper had mentioned it to her when she had come to check on her earlier in the day.
The tremors rippled through her face, making great effort to prevent the lump from growing in her throat, a heavy feeling settling in the pit of her stomach, eyes stinging with a seemingly endless flow of tears. A few fell before she could recover herself, shielding her face from Marelwyn's view.
"Abelas..." She roughly ran a hand across her face. "I'm sure this is the last thing you want to be doing right now, looking after me."
Marelwyn laid her hand over Ellana's. "You and Bri helped me so much when my mam died. I want to do the same for you." She then held out the plate, with some hesitation. "Do you think you can...or do you need more time?"
More time. Wasn't everything about more time? More time to take before she ate. More time to take and grieve Bri's loss. More time she wished she had with her sister. More time she wished she had spent not lecturing her or making her feel taken for granted, but showing her how much Ellana loved her.
But that time was gone, she thought. As the Keeper said, there was never going to be an easy one. She had to start somewhere, right?
Ellana took the plate from Marelwyn's outstretched hand.
