Stepping from her tent into the snow, Eirlana inhaled deeply. The cold stung her nostrils and chased away a little of her lingering fatigue. Her ribs still ached, as they would until the bones strengthened again, and her extremities were still tender from the healed frostbite, but otherwise, her injuries from Corypheus’ attack were mended.
Breath fogging, she strode forward.
Blue shadows draped the grove, laying long against red banners of sunlight. She’d slept a few hours. She found her way to a fire, where a recruit handed her a steaming mug of tea and a slice of bread topped with roasted meat.
Eating, she stood off to the side and watched as more people appeared, drawn by the warm smells of fire and hot food. Grief remained on many faces, yet mingled with hope, even in the awkward smiles and hesitant hellos. Mother Giselle’s efforts had come through. And my own, she thought, swallowing the last of her over-steeped tea with a grimace.
She returned her mug and followed the pull of magic to a corner of camp humming with it. Several mild, sustained inferno spells kept the medical tents warm, while inside the few mages with skill in healing magic worked alongside the medics.
Once convinced of her own knowledge, the chief medic set her to work. Those survivors with severe wounds had been treated in the hours she was missing, after the avalanche; dozens of less grievous injuries still needed tending. With her mana still dry, she was limited to stitching wounds and setting breaks by hand. All of the heavy anesthetics were used up, so she tucked pieces of leather between teeth and worked as quickly as possible, muffled cries jabbing at her concentration. She murmured comforts and kept her eyes down, afraid of seeing fear in someone else’s. Soon, her fingers and knuckles were cracked from sanitizing, the reek of blood and salves clinging like cobwebs even so.
Eventually, she became aware of a familiar magic, river-cool against her awareness. Knotting a bandage, she looked up at Solas.
He knelt alongside an unconscious soldier, palms aglow and hovering over their darkly bruised stomach.
She swallowed, nauseous with knowing how severe the internal damage must be, but unable to look away. He worked with his eyes closed, brows pinched in focus. His skin shone pale in the turquoise light, as the soldier’s bruise faded to a muted purple. When he drew back, his gaze fell on hers.
Despite the dark circles marring the skin beneath, his eyes were clear, sharp. His forehead smoothed, expression settling back in neutrality.
She stood and felt the world tip.
Stumbling back a step, she caught herself but not before someone noticed.
The chief medic, a silver-haired dwarf, strode over with a frown. “Herald, out. You’re still recovering. And you,” they said to Solas as he approached, “were here for hours last night. Out, both of you,” they added when neither immediately moved.
With a nod, she ducked outside, Solas’ footsteps following.
The day had brightened to mid-morning, and the sky to a delicate blue.
“Eat with me?” she asked.
“If I may have a word.”
She led him to a fire, where they both ate game-on-bread and Solas turned down a mug of tea.
“Tea not to your liking?”
“I detest the stuff,” he said, walking toward the edge of camp. “Caffeine hinders one’s ability to enter the Fade. Not to mention it is particularly bitter.”
She hummed, sipping from her own mug, and followed him out of the copse.
They moved across a stretch of unbroken snow to a knoll overlooking the valley — snowy woods and meadows, dark rivers twisting downslope. To the west, clouds rolled in to obscure the mountaintops.
He folded his hands behind his back, eyeing her without turning fully to face her. “I am beginning to believe that you are bent on courting death at every turn,” he said, voice cool.
“Of course you’d bring that up,” she replied, crossing her arms, half-full mug dangling from her fingers.
“Do you value your own life so cheaply?”
“I am painfully aware that it was reckless,” she said, mirroring his tone, “but there wasn’t time.”
“You should have at least consulted with someone.”
“So I’ve been told.” She glared toward the mountains, instead of at Solas. In her peripheral, he watched, waiting. “I just…didn’t want anyone else to die because of me.”
“Because of you?”
“Corypheus came for the Anchor. Whatever I did at the Conclave tied it to me; I’m at least partly responsible for all this ruin.”
“You are not.” He turned toward her, a shade of resolution in his voice. “Whatever mad plan Corypheus is following, it is his own. You are not to blame for attempting to stop him, then or now.”
“Yeah,” she sighed, not in agreement but suddenly too tired to argue. “Okay.”
“Your recklessness, however, is not what I most wanted to speak to you about.”
Shifting her weight to one hip, she lightened her tone, aiming for levity. “Oh? What else have I done?”
His lips quirked. “Nothing that calls for reproval. Its opposite, in truth. The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting.”
She blinked, hoping her surprise didn’t show. “Our people?” That’s new.
“Their faith is hard-won, lethallan,” he continued, “worthy of pride, save one detail. The threat Corypheus wields? The orb he carried? It is ours.”
Her breath caught, surprise skittering into something sharper.
“Corypheus used the orb to the open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave. We must find out how he survived. And we must prepare for the humans’ reaction, when they learn the orb is of our people.”
“It’s elven? How…what is it?”
“Such things were foci in the days of Elvhenan, said to channel power from our gods. Some were dedicated to specific members of our pantheon. All that remains are references in ruins and faint versions of memory in the Fade. Echoes of a dead empire.
“But however Corypheus came to it, the orb is elven, and with it, he threatens the heart of human faith.”
Her jaw clenched. Such a powerful artifact, lost to a darkspawn. She glanced back at the camp, pulsing with magic and voices. “I wonder if the blame would fall on elves eventually.”
His eyes narrowed. “I suspect that it would. It is unfortunate, but we must be above suspicion to be seen as valued allies. Faith in you is shaping this moment, but it needs room to grow.”
“It won’t be growing out here,” she snorted.
His mouth twitched again, perhaps on the verge of a smile. “Considering last night, I beg to differ. But I may have a solution. I dreamed last night, looking for a place the Inquisition could go.”
She took an unconscious half-step toward him and then back, trying to contain a rising jittery feeling. “You found something.”
“Yes. There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. A place where the Inquisition can build, grow, beholden to no one else. However, the journey there will not be easy — it is far to the north, far deeper into the mountains.”
“Shit. With our wounded….”
“Some may not survive. But I cannot advise delaying our departure overlong, with our lack of supplies.”
She felt cold, knowing he was right. It’s miracle that the scouts and soldiers had time to grab as much as they did. And with this weather, we’ll burn through what’s left too quickly. We’re going to lose people. She drew herself up. “I’ll speak to my council, get a tally on what we have, and we can start planning a route. You’ll guide us?”
Solas dipped his head. “I will guide you, though I believe that you should lead. You saved them from Haven’s destruction; now you must lead them to safety.”
“Playing on my Herald status?”
He raised a brow. “It will be far more inspiring for you to be seen leading than I. Scout to the north, be their guide. I will not lead you astray in this.”
(using dragon age day as an excuse to post a piece of this wip)
Solas folded his hands behind his back, eyeing her without turning fully to face her. “I am beginning to believe that you are bent on courting death at every turn,” he said, voice cool.
“Of course you’d bring that up,” Eirlana replied, crossing her arms.
“Do you value your own life so cheaply?”
“I am painfully aware that it was dangerous,” she said, mirroring his tone, “but there wasn’t time.”
“You should have at least consulted with someone.”
“So I’ve been told.” She glared into the sun, barely a silver between distant mountains, instead of at him. In her peripheral, he watched, waiting. “I just…didn’t want anyone else to die because of me.”
“Because of you?”
“Corypheus came for the Anchor. Whatever I did at the Conclave tied it to me; I’m at least partly responsible for all this ruin.
“You are not.” He turned toward her, a shade of resolution in his voice. “Whatever mad plan Corypheus is following, it is his own. You are not to blame for attempting to stop him, then or now.”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “Okay.”
“Your recklessness, however, is not what I most wanted to speak to you about.”
Shifting her weight to one hip, she lightened her tone, aiming for levity. “Oh? What else have I done?”
His lips quirked. “Nothing that calls for reproval. Its opposite, in truth. The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting.”
She blinked, hoping her surprise didn’t show. “Our people?” That’s new.
“Their faith is hard-won, lethallan,” he continued, “worthy of pride, save one detail. The threat Corypheus wields? The orb he carried? It is ours.”
Her breath caught, surprise skittering into something sharper.
After Ostagar, Raan and Alistair try to process all that’s happened. ao3
After Ostagar, after leaving Flemeth’s hut behind, barely half a hundred words passed between the three of them for a few days. They set up camp, ate, arranged watches, tore down camp, trekked, and set up camp again in near silence. Morrigan kept to herself, pitching her tent within sight but nearly out of earshot, and leading them through the wilderness a dozen paces ahead. Alistair was usually near, though that seemed to be more coincidence than choice; his shoulders were perpetually slumped, gaze distant. Whatever thoughts occupied them they didn’t share. For her own part, Raan tried to avoid thinking of anything beyond guessing at how far off Lothering was. Morrigan had lead them well away from the Imperial Highway to avoid any darkspawn. Raan couldn’t complain. Even if their going was slow, it’d still be faster than the horde’s. Safer, too.
Of course trying not to think about it led to thinking about it. We’re all that’s left.
She and Alistair’d watched the battle from the tower. They’d been too high up to pick out individuals, but just high enough to see the lines dissolve into chaos. Loghain’s forces didn’t appear. She remembered nausea, a horrible lump that rolled up her throat, as she stared down. Minutes later, she fumbled an arrow from her quiver, nocked it to her bow, and watched the barricaded door shake.
The darkspawn broke the door down in moments. Her arrows caught the first one in the throat and the second in its howling mouth, before quarrels punched through her and she fell.
She woke up on narrow cot and learned from Morrigan what had happened.
We’re all that’s left.
Trying to ignore how her stomach dropped, she kept walking.
Her thoughts also wandered, inevitably, to her clan. I left them a month ago, she realized, counting back that night. With luck, by now Marethari would’ve led Sabrae to the coast and secured passage across the sea. Had Rhea and Isa’s baby been born safely? Was Pol’s archery improving? Had Merrill found any ruins along their path? Did Marethari intend to lead them into the Planasene Forest or up to the Minanter basin? Lana was there, on the Amaranthine coast with her new clan.
Sitting with her back to their dying campfire, she slid an arrowhead along the whetstone. Even if I survive the Blight, it’ll years before I get any news. She paused, halfway through the motion. If I survive. Alistair and I are the only Wardens this side of the Frostbacks, and if the Orlesian ones don’t come…. She kept sharpening. Whatever. We have those treaties. That’ll be en—
Her grip faltered, and the arrowhead sliced along her thumb. She hissed, dropping the tiny blade and squeezing her thumb in her fist. Stupid, stupid. Tamlen will —
She froze, snared in the thought, staring at the blood seeping around her fingers. Tamlen would tease me for days.
Heavy steps thumped and Nulen appeared, bumping her shoulder with a soft whine.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then scratched the mabari’s ears. Where’d you go?
“You okay?”
She stiffened and looked at her shoulder at Alistair, blinking dully at her. “Fine. Just cut my thumb.” She peered at it, then rooted in her bag for a roll of gauze. Not too deep. “Your watch isn’t for another couple hours, ya know.”
Nulen huffed at Alistair as the shem approached, then curled up against her thigh.
“I know. I couldn’t sleep, figured I could take over for you.”
She glanced at him as he sat down next to her, with Nulen between them. Dark half-moons marked the skin under his vacant gaze. If not for the taint, I don’t think he’d notice a darkspawn if it smacked him, she thought, wrapping her thumb. “I’ve gotta finish prepping these.”
Staring into the darkness, he grunted.
She shrugged, tucked the gauze away, and picked up her arrowhead.
Their corner of the wilderness dropped into quiet, pricked only by the scrape of steel on stone and Nulen’s rumbling snores. Moonlight slipped into the grove, shifting from golden to silvery to snowy. Raan sharpened every spent arrowhead, some forty total, until its edges shone.
Wood snapped.
Not pausing in her work, she tilted one ear toward the sound to hear a four-footed gait. She turned her head enough to glimpse a pair of gleaming eyes, low to the ground, before the creature slipped away.
She glanced at Alistair. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even noticed.
He hadn’t seemed to notice much of anything for days, or made any efforts beyond walking and eating, and his jokes had vanished like ripe berries from a bush. Of course they did, she thought with a wince. The Wardens are gone, and his mentor with them.
She sharpened the last few arrowheads, then wrapped them all in a fold of leather and stuffed everything into her bag. “Alistair?” she said, peering around his shoulder.
“What?” His voice was flat.
“Do you wanna talk?”
“About what?”
“Um, about Duncan.”
His shoulders slumped even further. “You…you don’t have to do that. I know you barely knew him.”
“No, but he was kind to me. Even when I wasn’t…kind in return.” She’d cursed him vehemently when he insisted that Tamlen was beyond help, then barely spoke to him for days. And we can’t have you this distracted.
He dragged a hand over his face, muffling his voice. “I should have handled it better. Duncan warned me right from the beginning that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle. I shouldn’t have lost it,” he said, words quickening, “not when so much is riding on us, not with the Blight and —” He stopped, fists clenching, and twisted to face her. “And everything. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize.”
He relaxed a little. “I’d like to have a proper funeral for him. Maybe once all this is done, if we’re still alive. I don’t think he had any family to speak of.”
“You?”
Something crossed his face, some emotion she didn’t catch. “I suppose he did. It probably sounds stupid, but part of me wishes I was with him,” he said, looking both guilty and embarrassed. “In the battle. I feel like I abandoned him.”
She slid her gaze away, remembering that ruin empty but for rotting corpses and a shattered mirror. “I…no, it’s not stupid.”
“Of course I’d be dead then, wouldn’t I? It’s not like that would make him happier,” he mumbled.
She nodded, somehow mortified and relieved all at once.
He blew out a breath. “He said he came from Highever. Maybe I’ll go up there sometime, see about putting something up in his honour. I don’t know,” he said, shrugging.
“Maybe I could go with you, when you go.” she said, as much out of a genuine desire as wanting to shift the conversation.
“I’d like that. So would he, I think. We won’t be able to scatter his ashes but…. The Dalish don’t practice cremation, do you? How do you honour your dead?”
Her thoughts stuttered. “We…we bury them and plant trees over the graves.”
He smiled and the genuine warmth stung. “That sounds quite beautiful, life springing from death.”
She couldn’t keep her expression from crumpling.
Alistair blinked, his own shifting to alarm. “What’s wrong? Did I — oh. Have you…had someone close to you die? Not that I’m trying to pry, I just….”
She drew her knees to her chest, provoking a sigh from Nulen. “No. Well, yes, my parents, but I was newborn. I don’t remember them.” She frowned at her feet. She’d never intended to even mention Tamlen, but maybe, maybe the pain would ease a little. Ashalle always claimed it would. But he’s alive.
The words slipped out anyway. “But, just before Duncan arrived at our camp, a friend disappeared. We were exploring a ruin and found a weird artifact, a mirror. Tamlen touched it and released something. It’s how I got tainted. I fainted and, when I woke up, I was outside and Tamlen…wasn’t.
She inhaled shakily. “We searched for him but no one found any trace, in the ruins or anywhere within miles of camp. Duncan didn’t believe he could’ve survived, without treatment. But if Tamlen was as ill as I was, how could he’ve been conscious at all, much less disappear? But everyone else, except maybe our friends, thought him dead, too, and our Keeper insisted on a funeral. Even without a — they’ll have planted a tree for him.”
She rubbed her eyes. No fucking tears. He’s alive. He is. I’ll find him. “Sorry for unloading,” she muttered and twisted away, under the pretence of reorganizing her bag.
“Hey, no, wait. I did ask. And you listened to me, so, uh, the least I can do is listen to you. Do you want to look for him? For Tamlen?”
She forced a scoff. “Of course, but gathering an army is gonna take precedence.”
“This army-gathering is going to take us all over Fereldan. We can keep a lookout, at least. Right?”
“Right.” She shifted a few more things, then turned back and folded her legs beneath her. Nulen, perhaps taking her shifting for encouragement, rolled onto his back.
“Too sweet for a wardog,” she said, rubbing his belly.
“That’s just what mabari are like.” Alistair presented a hand to Nulen, who sniffed then licked it. “Did you decide on a name for him, yet?”
“Yeah. Nulen.”
“Nulen? Is that Elven?”
“Yeah.”
“And? Does it mean something?”
She huffed. “Essentially ‘fated friend.’ He survived Ostagar, somehow, and found me. Seemed appropriate.”
“Hm, I would’ve gone with ‘Barkspawn,’ but it’s sweet.”
She couldn’t keep the incredulity from her voice. “Barkspawn?”
“Well, it’s true! He spawns very terrifying barks, doesn’t he? Don’t you?” he cooed at Nulen, who barked in a particularly un-terrifying way.
Better a weak joke than none. She tugged gently on one of the mabari’s paws. “Don’t encourage him, Nu.”
“Oh, tired of Blight puns?” He grinned and a little light seemed to return to his eyes. “Taint your fancy?
She stood, groaning. “Think of better ones. Taint nothing to joke about.”
“I thought that was — hey!”
She snorted his expression, caught somewhere between mock-offended and truly amused, and clucked her tongue at Nulen. “G’night, Alistair. Don’t let the darkspawn bite.”
In the blinding storm, the Inquisition crossed a valley west of Haven, then climbed into another before finally stumbling to a halt. With tents scavenged before evacuating, they set up camp amidst a cluster of pines. Wind tore through the sheltering glade, bending the trees at unnerving angles.
Vin stood at the edge, staring into the dark.
Eirlana woke to bitter cold and darkness brightened a shade from absolute by the Anchor’s glow. Vaguely, she remembered falling.
Hesitantly, she moved her fingers and arms a little, then her toes and legs. Her limbs hurt, right shoulder and left arm particularly, but nothing felt broken. The gash on her arm had clotted. She prodded gently at her head — no blood, no pain. Relieved, she sat up.
Or tried to. She gasped, right ribs burning, and collapsed to the cold stone. Right.
A kernel of potion-given mana remained. Enough to heal her ribs, maybe.
With a thread of magic, she counted four cracks and, hand pressed to her side, started mending.
It was slow process. She had to heal them one at time, portioning her mana to avoid using a sliver more than necessary. Even so, her thoughts ran like a current.
Corypheus said I interrupted some ritual, stole the Anchor from him. If he’s not lying…is the Breach truly my doing, whatever I intended? Did I kill all those people? And everyone who died today? The hole in her memory yawned wide — a darkness eclipsing everything from eavesdropping in the temple to waking to snarled accusations. What would’ve happened if he’d completed his ritual?
The final crack in her ribs sealed and her magic vanished.
Guilt pushed aside, she sat up, a small ache telling her excessive stress would reopen the cracks.
By gods-blessed miracle, her staff lay beside her. She stared at the ironbark for a moment before grabbing it.
Creeping by the Anchor’s light, she moved in an ever-widening spiral until she found a low tunnel, its height and width too consistent to be natural.
It must lead somewhere.
It lead into a snowstorm.
Somewhere behind the storm shone Thedas’ moons, providing enough light to see that whatever landscape lay out there was swallowed entirely by snow. Wind-whipped snow stung her cheeks as she stood at the edge of the tunnel.
I’ll die out there. At her feet snow drifted inside, already a bank as high as her calves. I’ll die if I stay here.
She glanced back and forth again and again between her options, hands twisting and untwisting her cloak, taking a few steps in either direction before retreating. Finally, she sank to a crouch, head in her hands, and moaned.
I have to go. I have to try. I have to. Get up. Get up. Get up get up get up get up get up. When her legs refused to unbend, she tried another tact. Dorian called me a leader, which means I have a duty unfulfilled. Whether or not I caused this. I owe it to every person who died today. I owe it to every person who survived.
Trembling, before she could hesitate again, she lurched up and out into the storm.
Huddled on the leeward side of a tree, Vin shivered in her borrowed cloak and remembered again Eirlana issuing orders, hard as ice and unflinching, in the dim Chantry light. She’d lied without blinking, then turned to direct the evacuation without even a flicker of doubt or fear.
Six months. Only six months away and she changed so much. Enough to lie to me and hide it. To trick me into leaving her behind. She hugged herself. She could’ve asked. I could’ve helped. Maybe she thought….
She slumped against the tree. She lied. And I believed her.
Cloak cinched tight around her, Eirlana trudged through the snow, her focus entirely on walking in a straight line. She’d heard a few stories of people lost in storms, who lost their senses of direction staring into the whiteout and walked in circles until the weather passed. She’d heard far more stories of someone waiting in camp for a companion to return, only to find them later, frozen dead mere steps from their tent.
So she stared at the snow a couple paces in front of her and never looked up.
Of course her sense of direction had been lost from the start, with no moons or mountains visible. Her only consolation was that she hadn’t stumbled upon Haven. Though she could’ve passed within ten feet of the main gate and never known, or whatever was left after the avalanche.
Don’t think about that. Just keep moving.
She took another step and fell face-first into the snow.
Sputtering, she jerked her head up, face plastered with snow. The wind tore at her exposed skin. She tried to push up from the powder and it gave way with little more resistance than water. She tried to gather her legs beneath her, but now the snow dragged at her. She pawed around her, hoping for a bush, boulder, anything, and found nothing. Snow fell down her collar and piled against her face. Entombed in snow. At that unconscious thought, she flailed, kicking in terror and sinking deeper. The wind howled.
One foot touched ground. She launched herself up and fell on her side.
Both feet. Both feet.
She stretched her legs, found the ground, planted both feet, and stood.
The snow came up to her waist.
She caught her breath, hands on her knees, then turned to find her tracks and found only churned snow from her panic.
Fuck. No, wait. I was going uphill.
Shivering, she walked a few steps in one direction, back, and then in another until she felt herself facing uphill.
Somewhere in the struggle, her hat had fallen off. She brushed snow off her braid and clothes, then yanked her hood up and kept moving.
“There was nothing you could have done.”
Vin flinched, hand darting to her dagger.
Standing a pace away, the pale boy shook his head. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Then don’t sneak up on people.”
“I don’t sneak.”
Hand lingering on her weapon, she glanced at the unbroken snow behind him. “You’re not shem.”
“I’m a spirit.”
Vin frowned. Clan elves had a multitude of views concerning spirits, but Deshanna’s ‘not inherently dangerous, as is unknown being’ stood foremost in her mind. “What’d you want?”
“To help.”
Vin crossed her arms, holding her cloak tight around her. “Me?”
“Yes. You’re angry that you couldn’t catch her lie, aching that she deceived you. But it’s not because she thought you’re weak. She lied because it was the only way to save everyone, because the Elder One only wanted her for the Anchor.”
The knot in her chest tightened.
“Choosing to be a beacon ablaze in the dark,” he continued, gaze drifting, “diversion and defiance both. Trembling terrified but no one else will die. Am I enough, am I enough?”
With a chill, she remembered Eirlana training herself to exhaustion after Lien died, swathed in grief.
His focus snapped back to her. “I’m sorry. That didn’t help.”
She tried to say something, Forget it or It’s not your fault, but she couldn’t make a sound.
Eirlana walked, shivering uncontrollably.
The chill had begun in the tips of her ears, fingers, and toes, spread like ivy itch, and turned to aching. She’d tightened her hood and twisted her hands into the folds of her cloak but the chill crept deeper still. And there was nothing she could do for her feet, damp with sweat and snow.
She walked, dimly aware that it was hard to think.
As soon as Vin noticed the snowfall thinning, she ran back to camp.
“The storm’s passing,” she called into the command tent, hurrying by. “I’m going out to search.”
When she returned with her restrung bow and quiver, the swordswoman. the commander, and several scouts strode out, bundled in furs.
The woman tossed her a heavier cloak. “We are coming with you.”
Her fingers and ears burned. Her feet were numb. She stumbled with every step, unable to feel the ground beneath her.
Somewhere, wolves howled.
As it turned out, several passes led into the valley.
The scouts began with the southernmost, and they with the northernmost. What with struggling through knee-deep powder, climbing up took a half hour. At the top, Vin froze.
Below was a narrow and unfamiliar valley, silver-grey in the dappled moonlight and enveloped in snow: the one they must’ve crossed during the storm. There were no signs — no light, no movement, no sounds — of any life.
“EIRLANAAAAAA!”
Her scream echoed off the hills, but no one responded.
When she turned around, she caught flashes of despair in Pentaghast and Rutherford’s expressions, then rushed past them. “We need to hurry.”
First, she became aware of the cold.
Second, that her eyes were closed.
Third, that she was falling.
She landed softly, painlessly, in a puff of snow.
Distantly, she knew she had to get up, but beneath the heavy, heavy blanket of exhaustion, her limbs wouldn’t move.
She fumbled for her mana and found nothing.
Fuck. Fuck. She shuddered. Vin.
She lay unmoving, feeling the cold shift into numbness, and listened to Anchor thrum. Gods damn this thing. If I hadn't —
Voices.
She jerked. Did I imagine —
“Herald!”
Groaning, she managed to turn her face up from the snow. “Here,” she croaked, a sound barely audible to her own ears. “Here,” she tried again.
The voices kept calling. They hadn’t heard her.
She inhaled until her lungs swelled no more and screamed.
Silence, then the whooshing sound of bodies plunging through snow.
“There!”
“Thank the Maker!”
Someone pulled her up and wrapped warmth around her.
“You idiot.”
She laughed, little more than a huff, and fell into darkness.
Once the healers left, Vin sat on the tent floor next to Eirlana’s sleeping form and dropped her head into her hands.
Despite the vibrancy and warmth now returned to her skin, all Vin could think about was how blue her lips had been when they’d found her, how her skin had stung with cold, and how the healers had flinched upon seeing her. They’d whisked her into a tent immediately and refused to let anyone else in. Vin had protested. Loudly. Even though she could easily imagine that glare Eirlana would’ve thrown her.
She’d paced outside, absent-mindedly accepting the steaming mug the commander brought her, until one of the healers emerged hours later.
“Hypothermia,” the elven mage had said, an edge cutting into his voice, “four fractured ribs, laceration on her left arm, frostbite on her feet, frostnip on her ears and hands, and extensive bruising over her left shoulder blade.” He’d been about to say more, but instead shook his head and stalked off.
Inside the tent, the remaining healer told her that Eirlana was healed, but so weakened from the ordeal that any additional physical stress could cause a fever or worse.
“Sylaise preserve you,” Vin mumbled before her sense caught up with her desperation. She groaned. Even if the so-called Creators were gods, which they weren’t as far as she was concerned, why would they bother listening to someone who didn’t believe in their divinity?
Unbidden, the memory of Eirlana in command rose again, planning against their defeat without a trace of fear.
Another lie. Her fingers curled into fists. She was terrified and I couldn’t see it. Even now I can’t. She heaved in a shaky breath.
The sound of another breath drew her up.
Eirlana squinted at her from the pallet and rasped in a sleep-dry voice, “Vin.”
She grabbed the waterskin the healer had left and tilted it to Eirlana’s lips, supporting her head.
Eirlana pulled back, licking water off her lips. “Did we make it?’
“Yeah.”
She glanced her over. “Are you all right?”
“I didn’t disappear into a snowstorm,” Vin said, stiffer than she intended.
“I —” Eirlana grimaced and pushed herself up onto her elbows, then to a sitting position. “I apologize. For lying to you.”
In an instant, her anger swelled over her anxiety. “Why didn’t you let me help?”
“Vin —”
“Or anyone? Fuck, I’m positive no one would’ve said no.”
“I —”
“You always —”
She grabbed her hand. “I couldn’t risk anymore lives.”
Vin blinked, then yanked her hand away. “Why is that your decision? When other people risk their lives? How is that your right?”
Her expression hardened. “He only wanted me, and only for the Anchor. If anyone else had come with me, he probably would’ve killed them.”
“So fucking what? You’re the blighted leader! You can’t just throw yourself into battle alone!”
She swallowed, unease flickering across her expression. “As a leader, I have a duty to protect these people. My people.”
“That doesn’t justify what you did!”
“I had no other choice!”
“You’re wrong. You could’ve let someone help. Instead, you almost died.” Tears stung her eyes and she shot to her feet. Eirlana reached out, but she was already turning to flee, embarrassment, anger, and distress all tumbling together.
Eirlana watched her go. “I had no other choice,” she repeated to the tent flaps as they settled. She couldn’t have taken risk, not with that monster, who —
Who’d claimed to have entered the Fade.
She froze as the memory re-emerged, heartbeat skittering faster.
“I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the old gods of the empire in person.”
Was he one of them, one of the magisters who’d sacrificed unnumbered lives and forced their way into bellanar’an?
“I will begin again. Find another way to give this world the nation and god it requires.”
“Shit,” she muttered and stood.
Vin stalked deeper into the grove of trees, crouched with her back to a trunk, and wept.
Clad again in her winter garb, dried with magic, Eirlana stepped out in the quiet, ward-threaded shelter. Testing the wards and recognizing Vivienne and Solas’ work, as well as the signatures of several Circle mages, she scanned the tightly-packed camp.
Even though it was well past midnight, people remained awake. Agents and civilians alike huddled around fires, clutching steaming mugs, whispering comforts, or staring distantly forward. Some curled in on themselves, weeping. Off to her left, away from any flames, came the stamp and shuffle of horses and bronto.
Too few tents, she realized, counting those visible. Bolstered by Inquisition recruits and pilgrims, Haven’s population had nearly tripled to just shy of a thousand. Not half that survived, judging by the camp’s size.
Trying, and failing, to skirt around her guilt, Eirlana strode forward.
As she neared a fire, someone glanced up, eyes widening when they recognized her, and nudged their companion. In a moment, a dozen gazes had settled on her, expectant.
She hesitated, unsure of what she could possibly say, then stepped forward. “Hello.” No sooner had she knelt before someone grabbed her hands.
“You saved us.”
“Thank the Maker you survived.”
“You were so brave.”
“Andraste bless you, Herald.”
She smiled tightly, murmured something appropriate in response, and pulled away.
In the few strides it took her to find the command tent, she stopped at two more fires and offered what useless words she had. People thanked her all the same, an Andrastian prayer on every tongue.
At the camp’s centre stood the command tent, which was only a tarp raised on poles. Beneath it stood the Inquisition’s council, gathered around a makeshift table and arguing at a low volume which did nothing to hide the strain in their voices.
“Another heated voice won’t help,” someone said as she moved to join. “Even yours.”
She turned to see Mother Giselle approach and dip her head in greeting.
“Perhaps especially yours,” she added.
“I need to speak with them.”
Mother Giselle laid a light hand on her shoulder. “Their struggle comes in part because of what we witnessed — our Herald stand, and fall, before a horrendous foe. And now she has returned.”
“I escaped; I didn't die.”
“Of course. And the dead cannot return from across the Veil. But faced uncertainty and grief, people may choose to hope, to believe in what they wish to be true.”
“That I'm Andraste's Herald,” she bit out.
Mother Giselle nodded. “The more the enemy is beyond us, the more miraculous your actions reappear and the more our trials seem ordained.”
Eirlana threw an arm out, gesturing to the camp around them. “You believe this is ordained?”
She shook her head. “I do not mean to imply that we should be grateful for this suffering. Only that your triumphs are, possibly, a sign. That is hard to accept, no? What we have been called to endure. What we, perhaps, must come to believe.”
“I am not,” she hissed, patience fraying along with her restraint, “heaven-sent. I don’t believe in your Maker.”
“Nor are you required to. But there is more to our world than merely what is visible. The people know what they saw, or what they needed to see: our defender, mantled as the Herald of Andraste, rise again from certain defeat. Can we truly know the heavens are not with us?”
And what of my gods? Where does an elven heretic fit? She wrapped her arms around herself, achingly certain of the answer. “Your scripture says the Maker abandoned you. Elven mythos says the pantheon is imprisoned. Higher powers or not, none of them are watching, while a monstrosity with an army nearly crushed the Inquisition. He will try again. We can't match that might with hope alone.” She pulled away just as the hushed argument behind her ceased.
Leliana swept from the tent, Montilyet on her heels. After a moment, Rutherford followed. None of them went far, settling into pacing. Cassandra remained inside, staring at a piece of parchment. All four looked irritated, disheartened, and weary.
Eirlana paused, anxiety welling. How was she going to break Corypheus’ nature to them? Or anyone? How badly would it affect morale, for all of the Inquisition to know that their enemy claimed to be one of those responsible for the Blights?
She shrank back. What can I possibly offer them?
Behind her, a voice rose, deep and melodious, in song. “Shadows fall and hope has fled.” Mother Giselle stepped up beside her and threw her voice forth. “Steel your heart. The dawn will come.”
The council stilled and turned toward them.
“The night is long and the path is dark. Look to the sky for one day soon,” she sung, gaze moving steadily from Leliana, to Montilyet, to Rutherford, to Cassandra, “the dawn will come.”
Silence, and —
Leliana’s voice joined with Mother Giselle’s. “The shepherd’s lost and his home is far.”
Movement drew Eirlana’s attention away to see people approach, adding their voices to the ensemble as they came. Harritt, Flissa, Charter, a dozen others, two dozen, too many to count. “Keep to the stars. The dawn will come.” Varric appeared, not singing but watching intently. “The night is long and the path is dark.” Rutherford’s voice now. “Look to the sky for one day soon the dawn will come.”
People crowded closer, filling the meagre space. They’re watching me, she realized, gaze darting from face to face. Agents, civilians, Chantry members; elves, humans, dwarves: all responding to Mother Giselle’s call but coming to her. A shem she recognized as a new recruit was the first to draw near. He stopped a couple paces away and dropped to one knee.
Eirlana flinched as others began to kneel or raise fists in salute. No. She inhaled, catching Dorian and Sera in the thick of the crowd. I don’t —
“Bare your blade and raise it high.”
I don’t want this. She searched the crowd again, seeing fear and hope in equal measure, and arched her shoulders back. But that doesn’t matter.
“Stand your ground. The dawn will come.”
They need this. The Inquisition needs this.
“The night is long and the path is dark.”
Whatever it takes.
“Look to the sky for one day soon the dawn will come.”
When the song ended and the crowd remained, hopeful looks on many faces, she stepped forward.
Another sound rose above the wind. A voice, singing.
“…the dawn will come.”
Vin strained her ears when it vanished. Out in the valley, a wolf howled. What’s —
“The shepherd’s lost,” the song continued, in two voices now, “and his home is far.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she pushed herself up from the tree and slipped back into camp, quiet at its fringes. Save firelight shadows, nothing moved as she stood for a moment, listening.
Then, snow crunching under boots, people pulled away from a nearby fire and turned for the centre of camp. Following the song. She trailed after, as dozens joined the flow, some even beginning to sing along. An Andrastian song, she guessed, though she saw a number of elves and dwarves joining in. By the time they’d neared the camp’s centre, almost everyone around her was singing. Her ears rang with it. When people began bunching together, Vin darted around and hauled herself up into the low-hanging branches of a tree.
Crammed together, voices rising and falling in unison, scores of people knelt in the snow or lifted arms in salute, arrayed around —
Eirlana.
She stood, glancing around, next to a Chantry mother who lead the song.
“Bare your blade and raise it high.”
Vin barely saw the unease flicker through Eirlana before her expression hardened, the same unease she’d shown earlier, and her heart lurched.
She’s afraid. I know that but I can’t see it. Since when could she lie like this?
“Stand your ground. The dawn will come.”
She tipped forward, on verge of going to her — to do what? Interrupt? Stand with her? Her nails dug into the bark.
“The night is long and the path is dark.”
Coward, coward, coward.
“Look to the sky for one day soon the dawn will come.”
The singing tapered off, but the crowd didn’t disperse.
Into the quiet, Eirlana stepped forward. “We have a greater enemy that any of us predicted,” she said, voice raised to carry, “but that does not change the Inquisition’s purpose. We will defend all of Thedas’ peoples from this threat. We will stand strong. We will stand together. We will resist.”
The crowd shifted as someone shouted, “Aye!”
“Aye!” another echoed.
“We’re with you, Herald!”
As a ragged cheer picked up, Eirlana gathered her council and the five of them retreated to the command tent.
“Are you absolutely sure that’s what he said?”
“Without a doubt,” Eirlana replied, trying not to snap at Rutherford. She didn’t quite succeed.
He only nodded, expression grave.
Cassandra scowled. “Varric claimed that the Hawkes killed Corypheus. Clearly, he was mistaken.”
“One of the Magisters Sidereal….” Montilyet shuddered.
“Corypheus may have been lying, or perhaps he only believes himself to be one of those magisters.”
She turned in her seat to Leliana across the table — or what stood in for a table, being made of crates and boards — scattered with the few maps still in the Inquisition's possession and bit her tongue. As the only one seated, she had to keep her head tilted to meet their gazes and it was starting to grate. “Whatever the truth, it doesn’t negate the power he holds.”
Montilyet added uneasily, “Power he wishes to turn towards reviving a long-withered Tevinter.”
“And unleashing a demon horde on the whole of Thedas,” Rutherford added, leaning against the table on clenched fists. When its boards creaked with warning, he straightened with a sigh.
Brows furrowed further at his reminder, his own included, and a heavy silence began descending.
Eirlana curled her fists beneath the table. “For now, we should keep Corypheus’ supposed origins within our higher ranks.”
Rutherford frowned. “You want to lie to our people.”
“What I want is to avoid inciting a panic.”
“Corypheus poses a far greater threat to Thedas than what the Inquisition was reformed to face. We should disclose what we know.”
Fingernails biting into her palms, she held his gaze. “We are stranded in the mountains, with uncounted dead and without any prospects of safety. We are not revealing that our enemy is a once-Tevinter magister now twisted into a darkspawn.”
He jabbed Haven’s position on a map with a finger. “Our soldiers saw that monstrosity, not to mention his dragon! What would you have me tell them when they ask?”
She breathed in and, aching feet be damned, pushed herself up to stand. A little of the tension in her shoulders eased when she no longer had to crane her neck. “Tell them,” she said, setting her voice to stone, “that we will stop him, whatever he may be. Once the Inquisition is secure again, we’ll make our knowledge public. Is that agreeable?”
His mouth thinned, but he nodded stiffly. “Yes, Herald.”
She looked at Leliana, then Cassandra and Montilyet, and received three nods. “Thank you. Send scouts to fetch the rest of our inner circle. And Vin. They should know.”
A scout found her at a fireside, a half-empty bowl of something stew-like in hand, crouched beside Varric Tethras and Dorian Pavus, as they’d introduced themselves amiably.
“Ser Lavellan, Ser Tethras, Ser Pavus. The Herald would like to speak with you.”
Albeit while groaning, the men rose without hesitation.
Varric raised a brow at her. “Coming, Plum?”
She mirrored him. “Plum?”
“Oh, don’t mind him,” Dorian said, brushing his robe off. “He’s given us all nicknames. Like we’re in a club.”
“We are in a club, Sparkler. The ‘Weird Shit Happens to Us’ club.”
“‘Weird Shit Happens to Eirlana and Those in Her Proximity’ is more accurate.”
Vin blinked. He’d referred to her by name, not impersonally as ‘Lavellan’ or respectfully as ‘Herald,’ but as a friend would.
“And that’s us,” Varric replied. “Besides, names should roll off the tongue. ‘Weird Shit Happens to Eirlana and Those in Her Proximity’ does not.”
“My people,” Eirlana had said. People who’d remained despite any weird shit, who intended to fight despite an enemy armed with a blighted fucking dragon.
“Hmm. Point taken.” Dorian looked down her her. “Well? Ready to go find out if Eirlana learned anything from her stunt?”
Her people.
She slurped down the rest of her food and stood.
“You’re shitting me.”
Eirlana swallowed, glancing over the assembled expressions — ranging from murderous to incredulous to horrified — and began fervently hoping that telling them hadn’t been a mistake. “No, Bull.”
Half a dozen voices started speaking at once. She latched onto Sera’s, high-pitched with fear.
“What does that make his dragon? A freaking arch-demon?”
Eirlana leaned to catch her gaze. “Just a dragon.”
“No such thing as just a dragon, Snowdrop.”
She glared at Varric and he winced, perhaps in apology. “It’s nothing more than a dragon,” she said to Sera. “And a weak creature at that. It will die like anything else.”
Sera nodded, pale but steadied.
“— what does Corypheus hope to accomplish by tearing the world apart?” Cassandra asked, directing her question at Dorian.
“Other than world domination and widespread chaos? I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“But you —”
“My being Tevinter doesn’t give me any extra insight into his motivations.”
“He is one of yours,” Blackwall put in. “You can’t guess?”
“‘One of mine?’” Dorian scoffed. “Perhaps you could tell us where your southern Wardens disappeared to, since you are one of theirs.”
“That’s not —”
Eirlana smacked the table with both palms, as hard as she could, and drew herself up as every gaze swung to her. “Right now, there’s nothing we can do about Corypheus or who he is.” She leaned forward as she spoke, deliberately meeting every pair of eyes, one by one. “I only wanted to inform you all of what, exactly, we may be up against.” No one glanced away.
She looked at Vin last, lingering a moment longer on her, and when her sister scowled, she felt a rush of dismay mixed with gratitude.
“Recovering from our losses will not be easy,” she continued, straightening, “nor quick, and we cannot do it while we're vulnerable. So, first, we find a new haven.”
A half hour later, when the meeting concluded, Eirlana flipped a decade-old gesture at her — one palm turned up. Vin hesitated, then waited as the others ducked outside.
“Thank you,” Eirlana said as the crunching of boots on snow faded, not looking thankful in the slightest. Instead, she looked as she had eleven years ago, standing before the clan, head bowed, as Deshanna slipped a First’s ceremonial necklace over her head: haunted and burdened.
She huffed, crossing her arms.
Eirlana smiled, small and fleeting. “And I am sorry. It was foolish of me to go alone. But,” she continued, smile vanished entirely, “I don’t know if I’d act any differently, if I could go back. I...I may be responsible for the destruction of the Conclave, and I would —” a muscle in her jaw jumped “— I will prevent as much death as possible from here on out.”
Vin arrives, Haven falls, and Eirlana disappears - aka a rewrite of In Your Heart Shall Burn. ao3
Deep in the foothills of the Frostbacks, hundreds of miles away from home, Vin finally squashed the fly that’d been buzzing around her for the better part of an hour. With a grimace, she flicked it off her arm. “Fuck you.”
At the top of a rise, she paused. Visible an hour earlier, the mountaintops were sheathed in heavy cloud which looked to herald rain.
At least, she thought, peering through the trees, I’m almost there.
Ahead lay the ruin of a hillside — a massive hole, surrounded by spikes of stone. Directly above it loomed the Breach. And somewhere below, hidden by forest, was Haven. An hour, two at most.
The sky thundered.
Her gaze snapped back up.
The Breach shivered at its edges, then collapsed into light, roaring like an avalanche. She flinched, eyes shut against a flare somehow brighter than the sun.
When she looked again, only a faint ripple remained of the Breach, barely visible in the summer sunlight.
She stared, wondering it would simply tear open again. After a minute of convincing stillness, relief bubbled up her throat and out in breathy laughter.
Though the prevailing mood in the village was jubilation, Eirlana couldn’t bring herself to feel it, couldn’t feel anything more than weary and fleeting relief.
She watched the celebrations from a distance, rubbing at her aching hand. The act of closing a rift hurt, but sealing the Breach had been agony. Her every nerve had felt aflame — a bone-deep, searing pain which faded slower than the day and left her exhausted.
She sighed. After six months of battles and politics, and all the travelling in between, they’d achieved their primary goal, and yet hadn’t learned who was responsible for the Breach in the first place. Even if they ignored that, which they couldn’t, there were still rifts and refugees scattered across the continent, and still a piece of strange magic attached to her hand.
An assured gait announced Cassandra and, as she stopped beside her, the Seeker looked almost pleased. “Solas confirms the heavens are calm. The seal is holding. And despite the questions that remain, this was a victory.”
Eirlana hummed, gaze flicking up to the encroaching cloud, its shadow stark against the golden light. “We should hold council, decide where we’re going from here.”
“Your dedication is admirable, Herald, but it is wise to relax every so often.”
Despite her fatigue, Eirlana smiled. “Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of Truth, advising leisure?”
For a moment, her expression seemed to war between a scowl and a smile before she huffed. “I admit, I am…committed to my work, but moderation is important.”
“A quick meeting,” she amended, “before —”
A deep, trumpeting cry cut her off.
She startled forward. “What —”
Cassandra grabbed her shoulder. “A warning from one of Leliana’s —”
The horn bellowed again. Two heartbeats later, the Chantry’s bell began to clang.
Eirlana scanned the hills, eyes darting. Haven sat nestled against two mountains isolated from the Frostbacks, so any threat must come from —
“There!” Cassandra’s hand shot out, pointing toward the main road. Faint in the dying light, a haze of dust rose above it. “An army. We must get to the gate.”
Eirlana stared at the haze, limbs as heavy as stone. An army. Hundreds, if not thousands, of soldiers. Impossible for Haven’s defences to repel or the Inquisition’s forces to defeat. The village would be overrun. They couldn’t —
“Herald!”
She took a breath, shoved her fear down, and ran after Cassandra.
The village was in chaos.
As soon as the bell began tolling, people started running — villagers panicking and aimless, Inquisition agents trying to prepare defences amidst them. Parents screamed for children, soldiers for sandbags and swords.
Hoping to find someone who could point her to Eirlana, Vin had just stepped inside the crowded tavern when the horn blew. The wall of noise had fallen immediately as everyone stilled, shock plain on nearly every face. Then a qunari jumped to his feet and made for the door, followed by all of those at his table, and everyone else leaped into motion.
Now, Vin ran through the village — back to the gates, where someone, anyone, had to be in charge of the defence — darting around agents and villagers, and scanning all the while for a crown of red hair.
Her fear spiked when she saw the gates swung wide, then settled when rank upon rank of Inquisition soldiers marched through. She followed them out, then cursed.
In the scant minutes since it’d been spotted, the attacking army had already reached the valley floor. Above, rising dust thinned the light and blurred those soldiers into a single, pulsing mass.
She edged around the gathering soldiers, who stood at attention as their commander issued orders, and missed a step.
A dozen paces away, Eirlana faced the approaching army, standing with half a dozen shems, a couple of elves, a dwarf, and the qunari Vin’d seen earlier. Ironbark staff in hand, hair braided over her shoulder and inconveniently long as she’d always worn it, she looked the same as when she’d left all those months ago. The same, and yet different. She spoke to her companions without a single waver in her voice, and with a sharpness to her gaze. She looked, for an instant, like Deshanna.
Vin strode forward. “Lana!”
Eirlana faltered mid-word at the familiar nickname, at the familiar voice, and turned.
Vin hurried toward her, mouth thin but eyes alight. Vin, bow curving above her shock of white hair. Vin, her red-and-brown garb dusty from travel.
“What….” She grabbed her shoulders as soon as Vin reached her. “What are you doing her?”
Vin squeezed her hands. “I came to join you.”
Eirlana stared — at the shadows beneath her eyes, at her brown skin freshly freckled by summer — and caught sight of the Inquisition troops behind Vin as they began to move. She pulled back. “Up to fighting?”
With a short, sharp laugh, Vin un-shouldered her bow.
Vin nocked, drew, aimed, and loosed an arrow before the charging templar could take another two steps. Feathered shaft protruding from their helmet, they collapsed.
She spun, searching for more targets, and met the dwarf’s gaze.
He winked, lowered his crossbow, and turned to shout, “Now, Snowdrop!”
Across the battlefield, Eirlana leaped up onto the trebuchet and yanked the lever.
The machine groaned, arm swinging, and flung the boulder. It slid quickly into the murk of evening.
Vin gripped her bow achingly tight.
Then the mountain roared as an enormous shelf of summer snow collapsed and sped downhill faster than she’d ever seen anything move. Trees crumpled beneath its force, vanishing in the storm of powder. In half a minute, the avalanche reached the valley floor and swallowed the army in its path.
When the snow settled and nothing moved, cheers rose. The grinning dwarf thumped Eirlana’s back.
Something screeched.
Vin jerked back, reaching reflexively for an arrow, and looked up.
Massive wings spanned the sky. Fire bloomed, laced with lightning, and streaked down as Eirlana grabbed the dwarf by his coat and disappeared.
Eirlana skidded out of her fade-step on her knees, hauling Varric with her, when the trebuchet exploded.
She cast a barrier, reaching blindingly as far around her as she could, and threw all her energy into holding it up, as pieces of the siege engine slammed to the ground.
Something swooped low above her, close enough to stir the settling dust.
Straining to hold her barrier, she raised her head.
Nearby, her companions, a few Inquisition soldiers, and Vin stood up, looking dazed but unhurt. She searched her barrier and, sensing no living trapped beneath debris and protected only by magic, dropped it.
She staggered to her feet, wincing at the hollowness in her chest. She’d drained her mana entirely. And hadn’t even managed to protect everyone.
Outside of where she’d stretched her barrier, four soldiers lay dead, crushed by debris. So many more had died earlier, guarding the trebuchets.
And for what? Peering up, she spotted an enormous wingspan against the sun. From the village screams rose. Even with the bulk of the army gone, we can’t fight off a dragon.
Shouldering Bianca, Varric looked up at her. “We should go.”
In silence, she led the way back, grabbing Harritt on the way. Past the gates, templars waited around every corner, slowing down the search for survivors. They found Lysette fighting alone and charged in. When only dead enemies remained, the former templar led the soldiers further into the village.
With her companions covering her, Eirlana rushed into building after burning building, following cries for help through thickening smoke. She pulled Seggrit and Flissa out, but couldn’t reach half a dozen others in time. Near the apothecary, she made it to Adan and Minaeve, but not a villager who slackened with death just as she knelt beside them.
“Shit. Shit shit shit.” Her eyes burned.
Vivienne squeezed her shoulder gently, too gently. “We need to keep moving, darling.”
She swallowed, nodded, and stood.
In front of the Chantry, they found Threnn staring down more templars than she could possibly fight alone.
Eirlana charged, wielding her staff like a spear, with Bull and Cassandra at her heels.
After, she caught Solas watching her, mouth thinned with the disapproval she’d expected. She turned away, too preoccupied for the old argument or to point out that her skill in battle had improved markedly, and knocked the doors with her staff. “It’s the Herald! Let us in!”
When the doors swung open, an ashen-faced Roderick ushered them in, with the spirit, Cole, hovering beside him.
Inside, the air hung heavy with fear and the scent of blood. Terrified murmurs and meaningless platitudes drifted over from where the villagers huddled at the far end of the main hall. The Inquisition’s few healers and a dozen soldiers moved among them, tending to the wounded and frightened.
Without a word, Solas and Vivienne strode over to help. After a moment, everyone else followed. Except Vin.
Eirlana nudged her. “Go help. I need to speak to my council.”
Vin hesitated, searching her face, then squeezed her hand and left.
At someone’s pained moan, she turned to see Roderick — robe slashed and bloodied, bandages visible through the torn fabric — shuffling, with Cole’s assistance, to a chair.
“He tried to stop a templar,” Cole said, eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat. “The blade went deep. He’s going to die.”
Her jaw clenched. We’re all going to die. We’ve no way to fight a dragon, or even escape one. We can’t even wait them out — the dragon’ll turn the Chantry into a giant oven with its fire.
“Herald!”
She spun toward Rutherford’s voice as he jogged over and found her own frustration reflected in his expression.
“Our position is not good,” he reported, stopping before her. “That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us. It’s cut a path for what remains of that army. They’ll kill everyone in Haven.”
“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village,” Cole broke in. “He only wants the Herald.”
She stiffened, dread coiling in her chest. The Anchor. Her tongue felt too heavy, her mouth glued shut. Her knees shook. Only me. She breathed in slowly through her nose and glanced down the hall. Vin knelt beside someone, wrapping their wound. Only me. “If I can distract him,” she said quietly, “there must be a way to get everyone out.”
Cole and Roderick moved at the same time, both looking toward the back of the hall.
“Yes.” Cole nodded. “Yes. There is a way. Chancellor Roderick knows it.”
Roderick stood, leaning heavily on his knees, and spoke, voice beginning to falter. “There is a path, Herald. You wouldn’t know it, unless you’d made the summer pilgrimage, as I have. She must have shown me. Andraste must have shown me so I could t-tell you.”
She clutched her hands together behind her back. “Tell me what?”
He gestured to the back of the Chantry and described the path — a short tunnel leading to a trail which twisted up the northern mountain.
She turned to Rutherford. “If I distract the Elder One, can you lead everyone out?”
“Yes, but you —”
“Send someone to load the last trebuchet. Now. And discretely.”
“Herald —!”
She held up a hand and he faltered. “I’m the only one he wants, but I don’t doubt that he’ll wipe out the Inquisition for good measure.” She took a breath, forcing herself not to look at Vin again. “I’ll pretend to be the last evacuee, then slip off. Choose soldiers you trust to keep quiet to bring up the rear with you. And a mage to seal the tunnel.”
“You cannot go alone, Herald,” he said, voice lowered to a hiss, one hand cutting the air between them.
She lifted her chin. “No one is coming with me. Is that understood?”
His jaw clenched and, for a moment, she thought he would argue. But he merely said, “What of your escape?”
“I…I’ll find a way.”
He nodded, a salute obvious in the gesture. “May the Maker watch over you, Herald.”
She smiled, small and mirthless. “May Mythal guide you, Commander.”
With the weight of millions of tons of earth atop her, Vin hurried up the tunnel. She moved in near darkness, her way lit only by a magelight magicked to her belt — bright enough to see by, dim enough to not be blinded by. Every fifty paces, she thumped the quarterstaff she’d borrowed against the ground in a pattern. Thump thumpthump thump thump. Somewhere behind her, an Inquisition agent would hear her signal and give the all clear to continue moving forward.
At the end of the evacuation, Eirlana would be bringing up the rear. She’d insisted that Vin lead the way out. The Inquisition’s commander had looked uneasy at that, but whether it was her as a stranger or her going alone which was unsettling, Vin couldn’t guess.
Without even glancing at him, Eirlana had said, “Vin is one of our clan’s finest hunters. There’s no better scout.”
Now, deep in the tunnel, Vin focused on counting her strides, but couldn’t shake the sensation of weight from her shoulders. An entire mountain crouched above her, and she moved through its roots in a space so tiny she could touch the ceiling with her fingertips. The chill burned her nostrils when she inhaled too deeply, hoping in vain for the scent of trees.
At the count of fifty paces, she paused, shivered, and listened. From behind drifted the sound of the evacuation — footsteps, voices, the swish of fabric, and the scrape of armour muffled by distance into one noise, the sound not unlike wind over a desert.
From before her, she neither heard nor saw anything beyond the tunnel’s walls twisting into darkness. The old man had guessed the tunnel to be three hundred paces long; she’d covered two-thirds of that distance now.
“Almost out,” she mouthed and heard the sound of her lips moving in the silence.
She hurried on, resisting the urge to slap her feet against the cold stone, just to have something to hear.
At twenty-four paces, nails biting into the staff, she realized the darkness beyond her light was…lesser. At thirty-two, she could see the tunnel walls without her light. At forty-five, she could smell pine. At fifty-three, she turned a corner and the exit loomed above her.
She almost ran out of the tunnel, before remembering to step back to fifty paces and thump out the signal. Then she ran out into a forest dusted in snow.
Vin recoiled, jumping back onto dry stone, breath fogging in front of her. It had snowed. It was still snowing — a bizarre summer snow, falling slow but in huge flakes, clouds obscuring the sky completely. It would slow their escape, especially as the powder accumulated. At least the snow would provide cover in turn. Maybe, maybe, the dragon wouldn’t be able to track them.
She waited a few minutes for the front of the evacuation line to catch up, spoke with the Nightingale, and set off again — at a shorter distance ahead than before, so the sound of her cooing signal would carry far enough through the snow-muffled trees.
In silence, in the piling snow, in her hastily unpacked boots hastily swathed in oiled wrappings in an effort to keep her feet dry, she hiked. The path, overgrown by grass and thistle, was at least marked by stone posts. She followed it up toward a ridge, as the wind rose and the grey light dimmed to blue.
Eventually, the trees stunted and thinned, then gave way all together to a barren, snowy slope at a final slab of stone.
Again, she waited, shivering, staring into the swirling snow, staring toward Haven though she couldn’t see it, and wondered if the howling wind hid the sound of a dragon’s beating wings.
Soon, the front of evacuation emerged from the snow. A magelight hovered at the leader’s shoulder; perhaps a dozen people-shaped silhouettes down the line, just visible through the snow, was the next light.
As people arrived and huddled beneath the sheltering trees, Vin unstrung her bow and watched. She caught sight of the qunari’s horns, unmistakeable even in the gloom, and the crossbow-wielding dwarf walking with the young elven archer. Mages distributed themselves among the evacuees, holding up balls of flame for warmth or casting spells to heal the wounded. The Nightingale sent pairs of scouts off to watch for signs of pursuit, as well as to secure their escape route.
Vin watched and waited.
When the evacuation line tapered off, she straightened, peering back down the trail. As soon as Eirlana and the rear guard arrived, they could move on and leave the exposed slope behind.
A couple excruciatingly-long minutes passed before several shadows appeared out of the snow-haze.
Vin sighed, shoulders loosening, then frowned. None of them moved like Eirlana. Maybe she was behind, out of sight.
She held her breath as the shadows resolved into people — the commander, two soldiers, a mage, and no one else.
Trying to ignore the awful clench in her chest, she stepped forward.
The commander turned toward her and she froze, dumbstruck, at his miserable expression.
“Lavellan —”
She lunged at him. Someone caught her before she slammed into him and hauled her back a step. She yanked free, only to have both arms pinned at her back. She thrashed, heedless of the pain.
“What have you done?!”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked away.
She strained forward. “Where is she?!”
“The Herald stayed behind, to buy us time.”
“And you just left her?”
His gaze swung back to hers. “Those were her orders.”
“Why didn’t you stay?” she snarled. “What kind of commander leaves anyone behind?”
He flinched, guilt flashing in his eyes.
“It was her idea.”
Vin whipped toward the voice and found a shem she vaguely remembered seeing — a pale boy in threadbare clothes.
“She stayed behind,” he continued, head ducked, “because the Elder One only wants her. She has to protect everyone, dutiful and defending.” He looked up at Vin, eyes flashing through his bangs. “You know that.”
She stared, remembering the commander’s unease and Eirlana’s gaze, never straying from her. She lied. She lied to me.
Before she could form a response, the Nightingale appeared at the commander’s shoulder and slid him a look. “I presume there is more to this plan, however ill-conceived.”
He nodded. “Now that we’re out of the way, we signal the Herald and she—” he paused, half a heartbeat’s hesitation “—triggers a second avalanche to hit this Elder One.”
His jaw clenched but he said nothing, merely held her gaze.
She leaned forward, arms aching. “She’ll die.”
“We have no choice now,” he said, voice laced with something she couldn’t name, “but to trust her.”
She shook her head, fumbling for the right words, as turned toward a voice calling for him.
“You three,” the Nightingale ordered the soldiers, “gather the mages.”
As they rushed off, the grip around her wrists released. Vin glanced over her shoulder to see the qunari, who gaze flicked from her to the Nightingale.
“What’s the plan, Red?”
“We need to send a signal, yes? Then we must clear a path.”
Gaze flying from the templar rummaging in the shell of a cabin to her next hiding spot, Eirlana darted across the street. She squeezed herself against the unburned wall and listened for approaching footsteps. When none followed, she crept on.
The village, reduced to little more than smoking timbers, was thick with templars. She’d dodged four already, and hadn’t even reached the bulwark. And she had no blighted idea how to keep every single one from investigating the unmistakeable groan of a trebuchet turning.
And the dragon. Why isn’t it here? If I had even a sliver of mana….
Skirting the forest’s edge, she reached the street along the bulwark. To the left, through the thickening snowfall, she could see the village gate. To the right —
She blinked. Her cabin, and several others along the stone wall, hadn’t burned.
A minuscule weight lifted off her heart. Relief flickered, with a flood of shame hard on its heels. I need, she rationalized, all of my winter gear or I’ve no hope of catching up after…whatever happens. She tipped her head up, deterring tears, and snuck to the cabin’s window.
Inside, she instinctively grabbed her fur cloak, but set it down to don her woollen coat and pants first. Cloak, hat, boots, and gloves followed. She glanced around, then snatched her unused lyrium potion up, uncorked it, and drained it in one swallow. Heat ignited inside her, a small scorching flame, so unlike the pleasant warmth of one’s own natural mana but immensely welcome even so.
Suppressing a hiss, she climbed back out —
And froze, staring at her footprints in the snow.
I’m an idiot.
A whistle cut the quiet.
No. No, I can’t die here. I promised Vin, so I can’t. I can’t — She inhaled sharply through her nose, allowing the cold to shock her.
She settled her breathing, then magicked a lightning mine onto the ground where its shape disappeared beneath the snow, hurried to the intersecting street, and fade-stepped across.
Movement flashed at the edge of her vision.
She rematerialized between the scorched palisade and the bulwark and crouched in the bushes. The trebuchet stood at the top of a low rise, about a hundred feet away and hidden by the snowfall. Something else — templars, a rift, the blighted dragon itself — could be waiting up there.
Another whistle. A bellow — “Find her!”
She risked a glance behind, then bounded forward.
Her mine triggered, its released energy cracking against her awareness, heartbeats before the trebuchet loomed into view.
Anxiety urging her to run, she forced herself to stop before leaving the shelter of the palisade and crossing open ground. Shaking, she cast two mines across the space between the defensive walls. A cursory scan and she ran, muffled by snow, as the shroud of twilight began to fall.
She half-slid, half-stumbled into the trebuchet. Glancing repeatedly behind her, she checked the war engine over and found it, to her inexperienced eyes, sound — undamaged, the load secure. She began to cast another mine, but thought better of it. What little mana the potion had restored could not be wasted on chance.
“O Mythal, All-Mother and Great Protector,” she whispered, gripping the crank, “watch over me now.” With a deep breath, she heaved.
Wood groaned, frighteningly loud, as she turned the crank and the engine followed, spinning a fraction on its base. Again, she pulled. Again, the engine groaned and spun.
Shoulders, arms, hands, and fingers aching with the effort, she readjusted the trebuchet, gloves slipping on the metal. She lost her grip once, tumbled into the snow, sprang shakily up, and kept turning.
The row of mines activated.
Even over the creaking engine, she heard gasping and the soft sounds of bodies collapsing in snow. Trembling, she kept turning. She didn’t have time to look. She —
Someone was behind her.
She whirled, heart thudding like a ship’s war drum, to meet steel. She squawked, lurching away, and snatched her harvest knife from its sheath.
Her attacker had a sword. Get inside their guard, get inside their —
They lunged at her; she twisted out of the way and stabbed, aiming for their eyes.
Steel sliced along her arm as her knife sunk in with a squelch, gore splattering her fingers. The templar jerked to halt, mouth twitching, and sagged.
She shoved the body away and did not look at her hands as she wiped them in the snow. She couldn’t, however, avoid looking at the dark ruin of the templar’s left eye after she yanked her knife out. She cleaned the knife in the snow, and her hands again, then vomited.
Some twenty paces away, bodies lay crumpled where her mines had been. With a tendril of magic, she checked them for life and found none.
She finished adjusting the trebuchet, then stumbled. Her left arm felt funny. When she touched it, her palm came away bloody.
Wingbeats.
The dragon — approaching from the lake, its body angled to fly over the village, toward where the Inquisition had fled. A surge of terror swept away everything else.
Eirlana bolted away from the trebuchet, lightning rising to her pull. Staff held two-handed, she curled her arms back and swung as the dragon fell overhead.
Lightning erupted from the tip of her staff, arced up, and hit the dragon square in the belly, knocking it sideways.
Overbalanced, she spun and stumbled as the beast banked sharply and turned its massive body around. Diving at her, its jaws opened to reveal the white-hot glow of flame.
She ran only to be cut off by a wall of fire, sparking with electricity.
Fuck.
The fire exploded. The ground vanished from beneath her, then slammed into her shoulder with a rush of blinding pain. She gasped, unable to scream, and blacked out.
The dragon screeched.
She blinked, seeing nothing but pale blue. Then the cold on her cheeks and the heat of flames and her throbbing wounds registered. Get up. Get up get up get up. Breathing through the pain, she did.
From beyond the scattered flames surrounding her, something stepped into the firelight.
Humanoid but twice as tall as her, its body was a horrid blend of flesh, armour, and red lyrium. As it drew near, she recognized it for the creature that had appeared at the army’s forefront.
The Elder One.
She glanced around, found her staff a half dozen strides away, and lunged for it.
The demon didn’t move.
She snatched her staff and bent her knees into a fighting stance.
Still nothing.
She drew on the last of her mana.
Behind, something thundered on the ground.
She whirled to see the dragon loping toward her. When its next stride would’ve crushed her, it slowed to a stop, head lowered to snarl in her face. Fangs as long as her arm slid open.
She trembled, lightning crackling on her fingertips. Some detached part of her mind noted its tattered wings, skin-and-bones thinness, and dull scales. Oh. It’s dying.
It took another step, rotten breath hot on her cheeks, and roared.
In terror, in desperation, she screamed back.
“Enough!”
She spun back to the Elder One as a rush of magic quelled the flames.
“Pretender, you toy with forces beyond your ken no more.”
“Pretending at what?” She flung a hand toward the village. “Why are you doing this?”
“Mortals beg for truth they cannot have. It is beyond what you are. What I was. Know me. Know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One, the will that is Corypheus. You will kneel.”
“Not to you,” she snarled.
“You will resist. You will always resist. It matters not.” He lifted one hand, revealing an orb, enveloped in ripple-like rings. With a metallic clang, it began to glow red. “I am here for the Anchor. The process of removing it begins now.” He raised his other hand, glowing alike.
The Anchor flared, light seeping through her glove, as Corypheus pressed his will inside her marked hand and tugged.
She gasped, staggering at the pain — like her hand was being pulled apart, skin by muscle by tendon by bone.
“It is your fault, Herald. You interrupted a ritual years in the planning. Instead of dying, you stole its purpose.”
The pain doubled and dizziness crashed over her. She swayed, groaning.
“I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as touched, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens.”
The pain rocketed again, dragging her to her knees.
“And you used the Anchor to undo my work. The gall.”
“What — She gagged, nauseous from the pain. “What is this —” she coughed “— this thing meant to do?”
“It is meant to bring certainty where there is none. For you, the certainty that I will always come for it.” Orb pocketed, magic withdrawing, he stalked toward her.
She sagged as the pain receded, then yelped as he hauled her up by her left wrist. Her feet dangled above the ground. She kicked at him, but he merely extended his arm.
“I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the old gods of the empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. For a thousand years….”
She stopped listening, staring over his shoulder as the falling snow parted like water before a keel, revealing the northern mountain, and a pinprick of light ascended.
Thank Mythal.
“…for I have seen that throne of the gods and it was empty.”
He hurled her away. She hit the trebuchet with a crack of searing pain and shrieked. Her vision darkened.
She curled her left hand, nails digging into the Anchor, and the magic responded with a flare up her arm. She gasped, coming back to herself. The signal. I have to get up. Her staff lay just out of reach.
“The Anchor is permanent,” Corypheus snarled, moving toward her. “You have spoiled it with your stumbling. I will begin again — find another way to give this world the nation and god it requires.”
He’s insane. Gasping at the pain in her ribs, she pushed to her knees, then to her feet. Eyes on Corypheus, she inched toward the lever and cast a barrier over herself.
He took another step. “I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die.”
“I am not,” she rasped, “dying today.” Throwing all her weight behind the motion, she kicked the lever.
The chain unravelled, the counterweight swung, and the boulder soared.
As Corypheus and the dragon turned to watch, she grabbed her staff and leaped off. She hit the ground stumbling and ran, ribs burning.
A boom rattled the air, followed immediately by the roar of rushing snow.
Vin whipped around at the sound of an avalanche, boots slipping in the powder.
There was nothing to see but blowing snow and a line of people struggling upslope, a magelight at every dozenth shoulder.
Her chest clenched.
The rope in her hand tugged.
“Hey, we have to keep moving. Lavellan!” Someone dragged her back around and forward. The qunari. “We keep moving and find a place to camp,” he said over his shoulder as he trudged on. “She’ll find us.”
In this storm? How? she wanted to scream, but clutched the rope and followed, watching snow fill his footprints. I need to go back. Right now. She won’t be able to find her way alone. She tensed, ready to run, but glanced into the nothingness of the snow and faltered. She’s going to die. She’s going to die and I’m not going to do anything? The sensible part of her knew leaving the group would be foolish. But it was muffled beneath the voice that repeated, coward, coward, coward.
She rubbed her cheeks, stinging from the cold despite the scarf wrapped about her head. Again and again, she heard Eirlana assign her to be lead scout. Again and again, she heard her say she would join the rear guard. Again and again, she searched her memory for Eirlana’s tells — clenched fists or shifting feet — and found none. Why didn’t I realize? I should’ve realized. There must’ve been something and I missed it. Fuck shit damnit. I could’ve stayed and helped. Why didn’t she ask? Why doesn’t she ever ask?
She stumbled when the ground levelled and looked up.
They’d reached the top of the pass.
Still walking, she twisted at the waist and stared into the storm, trying to see anything else, any sign of her, any reason to plunge back down the mountain.
Coward, coward, coward.
Between one stride and the next, the earth disappeared. Eirlana plummeted into darkness, stomach lurching horribly, and smacked into something. Her barrier collapsed as she bounced off it. Another instant of falling and she slammed into something else. Blazing pain lanced up her ribs —
Wind blew across Lake Calenhad, lifting the gulls higher, fluttering the sails of ships anchored in the harbour, and blowing through Eirlana’s hair. She shivered, despite the warm summer evening, and tugged her cloak tighter. Across the bay, easily visible from her perch atop a low wall, stood Redcliffe’s castle.
She tipped her tankard back and finished the last of her pint of mediocre ale. Shoulders sinking, she set it down beside her. She knew she should be preparing potions or writing a report to Leliana, but all she’d managed was walking to the tavern and leaving with a drink. And now, her limbs weighed too heavy to stand up and buy another pint. She ached all over, sore from overexertion and a dozen minor wounds. And yet, something other than fatigue kept her still.
Behind her, the tavern door creaked open and, for a moment, she heard Iron Bull, Sera, and Varric — evidently still playing Wicked Grace. At Varric’s invitation to join, she’d declined with a weak smile and “Another time.” He’d nodded, though the concern in his eyes remained.
“Where were you?”
She rubbed her forehead as it began to ache. Maybe she should’ve said “yes.” Maybe she could’ve ordered food and avoided getting buzzed from one drink. Maybe losing spectacularly at a human game would’ve been distracting enough to ignore the memories of her companions, aglow with lyrium-poisoning and dying.
“I ran out of arrows making them pay.”
She shivered again. No, it would not have been enough.
The tavern door opened again and, after a moment’s pause, someone approached.
“Mind if I join you?”
Eirlana twisted around to see Dorian, holding two fresh pints. She patted the space beside her, then held both tankards while he hopped up.
They drank in silence, watching fishing boats return for the night and trying to steer their gazes away from the castle.
“This world is an abomination. It must never come to pass.”
I know. I know. The Breach so massive it had swallowed the sky and allowed bellanar’an to bleed through. Demons everywhere. Red lyrium in the walls, the dead, and the living. The sickness horridly loud in their voices and horridly bright in their eyes.
“Kaffas.” She glanced at Dorian to see his gaze fixed on the castle. “I knew Alexius was desperate, but that….” He shook his head. “What will happen to him, do you think?”
“He’ll return with us to Haven. After that, I don’t know. I…I’m sorry.”
Blurry in her peripheral, he turned toward her. “You don’t?”
“Why would I?”
When she looked at him, he raised an eyebrow. “You’re their leader, are you not?”
She swallowed, the ale suddenly tasting worse than salt water. “Not that I’ve been informed, no."
“Perhaps not officially.”
“I’m not.”
“You offered those Circle mages an alliance — a decision which several of your companions disagreed with, I noticed.”
And no one had argued. Yes, Bull had grumbled, Sera had griped, and Cassandra’s lips had thinned to one, near-invisible line. But no one had intervened, or tried afterward to convince her to reverse her decision.
She clutched her tankard, fingertips rubbing back and forth against the dented metal. “No doubt they’ll regret it,” she said, then realized she’d spoken to herself more than Dorian.
He snorted, ignorant of or ignoring her slip. “And choose to take your place? I doubt that.”
She knew, with an uncomfortable feeling in her gut, that he was right. None of her companions had shown any desire to lead the Inquisition, while their spymaster, ambassador, or commander could not afford to. Even disregarding the full-time duties of those titles, none of them paired well with the exposure of leadership — Leliana couldn’t manage her networks efficiently if she stood at the forefront, as much as Montilyet couldn’t simultaneously handle politics or Rutherford an entire army.
That leaves me. The gods-damned Herald of Andraste. She set her tankard down with a clatter. At Montilyet’s advice, she hadn’t yet denied that title, and at her own desire, hadn’t affirmed it. It didn’t matter. The hostility townsfolk once watched her with had shifted to something far heavier, something bordering on awe, and with every person saved or demon slain, those looks shifted farther. Within the Inquisition, too — agents in the field offering help at every turn, her colleagues turning to her during war councils. And her companions, who deferred to her, who stood by despite their disapproval.
Deshanna would be proud, she knew with sudden certainty. What else have I trained for for fifteen years but to lead?
But Clan Lavellan, not an Inquisition. Not something so vast. Not something with so many pieces. Not something with that horror waiting if we fail. I can’t — She dropped her head into her hands, unbound hair spilling over her shoulder. Her stomach churned and the Anchor throbbed. Demons. An army of demons massive enough to conquer Thedas. How do I stop that from happening? How do I stop any of that future from happening? How do I stop this? How do I stop —
Warmth blossomed between her shoulder blades. She stiffened, then registered the slight weight of a hand.
“Deep breaths. You’re okay.”
She inhaled shakily, thoughts tumbling on. I can’t lead the Inquistion. Someone else must. I won’t be enough. I’m never —
“Eirlana, breathe. Focus on the heat.”
At the sound of her name, a sound she hadn’t heard in months, her thoughts dissolved.
“Breathe.”
Focusing on the magicked heat moving slowly, back and forth, between her shoulders, she inhaled and exhaled deliberately.
I can’t lead — Jaw tight, she squashed the thought.
She timed her breaths with the movement of Dorian’s magic — inhaling as it swept left and exhaling as it moved right. Gradually, as the sunlight dimmed, her panic ebbed.
She slumped further, elbows resting on her knees. “Thank you.”
He squeezed her shoulder before drawing his hand back. “Are you all right?”
She straightened and nodded. Left hand in her right, she squished her palm between thumb and fingers to dull the pain through pressure. “We’re lucky. We know what this Elder One is planning. Now we need a plan to stop them.”
“‘Lucky’ isn’t quite the word I would have chosen, but I’m with you.”
She blinked at him. “You’ll join the Inquisition?”
“You thought I’d want to sit out the apocalypse?” He grinned. “Not a chance.”
“Good,” she said, picking up her tankard and tapping it against his. “I’d hate to lose my time-travelling partner.” She didn’t say, you’re the only other person who’s seen what will happen if we fail.
“Let’s avoid getting stranded again, yes? As monotonous as the South is, I much prefer ‘rustic and boring’ to ‘blighted and nightmarish.’”
She snorted. “I promise, nothing about this will be boring.”
He sighed. “You’re overlooking the weeks of walking it will take to get anywhere from this backwoods village of yours.”
She laughed softly, only faking it halfway. “We do have horses.”
“There is a perfectly good reason I’m eating these mini marshmallows right out of the package, I’m certain of it. Probably.” for Andi and best friend (if it suits them)?
~*~*~*~
“Isit because they’re delicious?” Liam asked—it seemed like aperfectly good reason to him, and besides, when you were 600 years away from homewith no way back, you learned to appreciate the small comforts–an old couch, a car launched across the galaxy, a bag of marshmallow shared with a Krogan merc.
Ryder,who had been gearing up to defend every single one of her lifechoices, deflated a little. Her mouth twisted up in that littlehalf-smile Liam was quickly learning to associate with bad days.
“Iwas gonna go with ‘cultural exchange’,” she said, indicatingDrack who was eating marshmallows by the fistful. “But, yes.”
Shepopped another marshmallow into her mouth, sighed deeply and slumpeddown into her seat. Liam looked at her, and then looked again. Shelooked tired—scratch that, she looked exhausted, the kind ofbone-deep, brain-altering fatigue that came with running yourselfragged. She’d been very open right from the start about not wantingto become Pathfinder; she’d never said it was because she didn’tknow how to pace herself, just kept going and going and going untilshe collapsed.
“SoI take it the meeting with Director Tann didn’t go well, huh?”
“Euuuuuuuugh.”
“Wow.That bad?”
“Istill think we should airlock him,” said Drack hopefully.
“No!He’s not—well okay he really kinda is but it’s not him,it’s just—this was never supposed to be my job, you know?I signed up to explore a new galaxy, not—this.”
Notthis. Not her father dead, her brother in a coma and the Initiativedepending on her. Sometimes, Liam wondered which was worse: to leavefamily behind and wake up knowing they’d already lived and diedwithout you and there was nothing you could do about it, or to makethe jump with them only to lose them anyway.
Hesupposed it didn’t really matter. Grief was grief was grief. TheInitiative had thoughts on how to deal with it, which seemed to bemostly to deal with it on your own and let others do the same, butLiam was man enough to admit he’d cried himself to sleep more thanonce since he’d been pulled from cryo, and he would be verysurprised if she hadn’t as well.
“Wellyou’re in luck, because I just got my hands on Terminal Overkill IV. So how about I make us some hot chocolate to go withthese marshmallows, and we can move this to the couch?”
“…that sounds really nice, actually,” shesaid. And then she turned to Drack: “Have you seen this one? You’dlike it. Everything blows up a lot.”
And,yeah, that was the thing: he’d thought she’d been flirting atfirst, when they’d been fresh out of cryo and trading easy banter over life and death situations; now he wasn’t so sure, because she could not take ahint—it was almost impressive, in a way, except it didn’t help him make sense of the whatever-the-hell that was growing between them.
Thankfully Drack was much better than Ryder at taking a hint, and when it came down to it being his old grumpy self won over yanking Liam’s chain every time.
“Nahkid, I’m good. Just leave me some of those and go have fun.”
Ryder rarely smiled for real—she didn’t have many reasons to; none of them did—but whenever she did it changed her whole face. She was smiling for real now.
You learned to appreciate the small comforts. Football games, cheesy movie nights, making your best friend smile for real on a bad day.
“Alright then,” she said. “Guess it’s a date.”
“Guess it is.”
Whatever that meant for her, for them, there would be time to figure it out later.
For the first time in fifteen years, she returns home. Almost. ao3
Eirlana breathed in, slowly and deeply. Salt and cedar scents permeated the damp air, heavy and welcome on her tongue. Woodsmoke and elfroot tingled her nose. Up from the sea rose the roar of breaking surf and the gentler sound of diffusing waves, tumbling over the stones. Gulls squawked and cawed. Wind gusted through the trees, rustling their soaked boughs and sending a pattering shower onto the tarp overhead. Movement swished the ferns.
She looked up from her notebook.
Beyond the burning incense, the dwindling campfire, and the shelter provided by the tarp, a hare paused at the clearing’s edge, caught sight of her, and froze.
She rolled her lips. Roasted meat would be a delight, especially for her companions less accustomed to the damp weather. Pulling on bellanar'an, she raised her hand.
The hare spun on its feet and bounded back into the underbrush.
“Fenedhis,” she huffed. Their supplies were not low, only uninspired — inadequately spiced jerky, oatmeal with dried apples, and a bitter tea — but fresh, hot food would help keep morale up.
At least the weather’s clearing, she thought. Only a light drizzle fell, as late-afternoon sunlight burned through the thinning clouds.
She glanced at the tents, also pitched beneath the massive tarp. Blackwall’s fondness for the sea likely didn’t extend to the rainy weather, and she doubted that either Sera or Solas had enjoyed being drenched. None of them had lingered long after making camp in the torrential rain; they’d changed into dry clothes, left their wet garb by the fire, and retreated inside.
Bundled in her bear-pelt cloak, Eirlana had remained by the fire, jotted down her observations of the rifts, and breathed deeply of the salty air of alalin’nu’an. Of home and yet not.
The tumbling waves and crying gulls, the fragrant cedars and pungent fish, the bracing chill of rain and interludes of sunlight — all of it was achingly familiar and achingly wrong without red sails bright against the trees, halla snorting and snuffling, and a myriad of voices speaking a Common-Elven blend. Without Tunehn. Without Ren, Arion, and Tanmi. She gripped her tools, nails catching on nicks in the stone. We won’t encounter anyone by chance; Isan has long since fled, she thought, then grimaced at her bitterness. Varadahlen keepers had kept their half-dozen camps secret from shemlen only by avoiding the towns of alalin’nu’an entirely, and retreating to the islands in times of turmoil. Her uncle would’ve fallen back months ago, as soon as news of the Inquisition reached him. She wouldn’t find any trace of Varadahlen, never mind happen to glimpse aravel tracks in the mud or red sails on the water. Only luck, or a lack thereof —
The Anchor throbbed, needlepoint-sharp. Grimacing, she squished her hand under her knee. The blighted thing was a rank mess of fish guts. No one knew who created it or for what purpose, or how it was connected to bellanar’an, or why it responded to her anxiety, or if its strain on her body would eventually kill her. And she had no choice but to use it. The Anchor was the only key to the rifts, and to the Breach. It was the only reason she was here, so close to Varadahlen. Whether or not she survived, she would never be closer.
The unbidden thought stuck with the force of a slap.
She jolted to her feet and strode out into the trees. Her legs shook. Her hand felt numb. Cedar boughs scratched her face as she stumbled forward, feet catching on roots and stones. The sea thundered.
She slowed, suddenly seeing the cliff, and stepped carefully to the edge, feet sinking into the sodden earth. She stared at the sea, watching waves crash again and again over boulders, until noticing the chill creeping down her exposed neck.
Shivering, she clutched her cloak — a gift from her parents in celebration of her apprenticeship, eleven years ago. A nomadic Keeper, one of the few aravasi ghilan, had delivered it. She couldn’t remember their face, or her parents’ voices.
Thoughtless as breathing, she remembered how she felt when Deshanna named her First, three days after Lien bled to death. Her chest ached, heavy again with that stifling weight.
Jaw clenched, she brushed her tears away and walked back to camp.
Her companions still showed no signs of emerging; the tents stood silent, save for faint snoring.
Eirlana sighed, relieved. How to explain abruptly wandering off, much less returning with reddened eyes, she didn’t know. Not that anyone would have pried. She just didn’t want them to see.
Halfway back to the campfire, she paused, as the clouds shifted and sunlight swept across the trees. In the next, the wind scattered raindrops onto her upturned face.
I won’t be away more than an hour, she thought, kneeling to douse the fire and scribble a note on a scrap of parchment.
Staff in hand, she followed an animal trail into the woods — into grey-green shadows nestled in quiet. The narrow path curved downhill, overrun by temporary streams. Raindrops dripped off leaves and landed with soft taps on the ferns beneath. High in the trees, ravens croaked.
She walked out onto a wash of dark sand littered with driftwood and gulls hunting for shellfish in the golden light. Looming cedars curved around the small beach. Far out over the water, another front of storm clouds gathered, veined with lightning. A warm feeling rose in her chest.
The Anchor twinged, as if reminding her. As if she could forget that she’d bound herself to the Inquisition voluntarily, despite her instinct to run, despite the humans who whispered and glared at her back. As if she could forget that she was the only person capable of sealing the rifts that threatened tens of thousands of people. As if she would forget the refugees, huddling behind overturned carts or bleeding out in ditches.
As if she would ever forget her duties or vows as a First, or as a healer.
A foolish child’s dream, she thought, as another bolt illuminated the clouds. I know. I’ve known for years. She’d grown up with stories of mages who shaped nature to their wills, harnessing storms or creating their own to protect their people. Ren had told her those stories, especially after her magic manifested so violently she’d destroyed a tree. As they collected firewood or mushrooms, he’d tell her of a clan elf who used a sandstorm to bury darkspawn, or a city elf who sealed off their alienage with snow, while young mages snuck out of the city and away from templars. He’d grin, whispering, “Don’t repeat those to Isan.”
His voice, like their parents’, was lost to memory.
She breathed in, held, and breathed out.
Watching the faraway storm darken and a veil of rain fall, she plucked seaweed off boulders revealed by low tide. Spiced and roasted, the plants would be tastier than any of their other provisions. Her companions might decline — Sera and Solas both disliked Dalish customs, albeit for different reasons, and she didn’t know Blackwall’s preferences — but it was the best she could do. With her water-proof pouch filled, she started back to camp in the failing light.
alalin’nu’an: place where the sea crashes (aka the Storm Coast)
bellanar’an: place of eternity (it's bothered me for AGES that the Dalish supposedly have a different name for the Fade, buuuut it's not actually an Elven word)
“Tell me a secret,” Imira said. She smiled at him from where she was curled up in her bedroll, her magic keeping the tent warm and positively cozy despite the snowstorm that was raging on the other side of the canvas. They’d set up camp early when it had moved in, and everyone had retreated to the tents rather than deal with the cold. So here it was, just the two of them.
“You know I’m not the secretive type, Prim,” Varric said, flashing her a smile from where he sat giving Bianca a thorough cleaning. Trekking through the wilderness fighting demons was as tough on her as it was on him.
“So what’s the story behind Bianca, then?” she said, peering at him through the dim candle light.
“I told you, found her locked in a chest in a cave after fighting off the forty bandits that lived there,” he said, hardly glancing up from where he was polishing the brass casing of the barrel.
“Hmm, if I recall correctly, you told me you won her off of a demon in a high stakes game of cards,” Imira said thoughtfully. “Or perhaps I’m confusing it with the time you stole her from a Tevinter magister after correctly three riddles posed to you by the demon he had set to guard her.”
“Maybe it was all of those,” Varric said.
“So you won’t tell me who Bianca is?”
“Bianca is a crossbow,” he said pointedly. He was used to people pressing him for this particular story, but still wasn’t used to the way Imira smiled at him when she could see right through him. He tried to focus on getting the grime that had built up out from under the trigger mechanism.
“That song you always hum for her,” Imira said, shifting beneath her blankets. “Why does it sound so sad?”
“Why do you want to know?” Varric asked, sounding maybe a little more prickly than he had intended. “Look, it’s… a long story. And I don’t want to talk about it.” He looked up, and was grateful to see that Imira looked satisfied with that answer. She settled back onto her bedroll, and he settled back into his work. They sat quietly in comfortable silence, till Imira broke it with a soft voice.
“My husband used to sing,” she said, staring at the tent ceiling. “Sometimes when we needed the coin, he’d sing in taverns for the night, and I’d play a lute or something to accompany him. I was never very good at it, but he made up for it.” She sighed with well-worn sadness. “He’d sing for our daughter too.”
Imira never talked about her family. The bare details would occasionally come up. He knew they were long dead, that her daughter had been very young, and that Templars were responsible. Beyond that she never mentioned them. Maybe it was the storm howling outside, how safe it felt inside the tent together, or maybe it was just the sudden realization that he trusted this mysterious Dalish witch who had fallen out of a rift, and she trusted him too.
“Bianca would always make fun of me when I sang for her, but I think she liked it anyway,” he said. Imira looked up at him. “The girl, not the crossbow,” he clarified.
“I knew it,” Imira said, smiling triumphantly at him. “I knew it was a girl.”
“Don’t act like I don’t see what you’re doing,” Varric said, giving her a look. “Opening up about yourself just to get me comfortable enough to share all my private affairs. It’s very manipulative.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” Imira told him, teasing, but he knew he could trust her.
Mahariel discovers that Anders is gone. Mahariel discovers that Justice is gone. Mahariel discovers that they are both gone together.
no lets be real its dribble but I’m making sure I write *something* regularly and this is today’s; also I might add onto it tomorrow idk but right now it’s lit just mahariel has several crushing realizations at once
Mahariel realizes that Anders and Justice are missing only minutes before Stroud storms in, somewhere between outrage and incredulity.
She’s not surprised Anders left, not really, but she had hoped he wouldn’t. She’d hoped that after everything—well, as much as he’d complained about being here, about being a Warden, he’d stayed. She’d given him every opportunity to go, from the moment Anora’s retinue disappeared over the hill of the road to the Joining, to the templars in Amaranthine, to the final delve into the Deep Roads. Now that the hard part’s over, she’d just fallen into assuming he had no more reason to run.
But then, they promised her that Denerim would be the hard part, that the archdemon would be the end of it.
So maybe he took a page from her book and knew exactly when to leave.
After “leaving” Weisshaupt, Nathaniel and Mahariel stop to make camp. My kiddo is depressed af. Cue the sads and also the fluff.
I was only semi-productive today so I made myself write 500 words that turned into 500 more. Now: bed. I’m an old man, let me rest.
It’s not the first time, not for any of the things that happen tonight.
Weisshaupt’s behind them, but not far enough. All Mahariel can think about is I’m so glad these Anders bastards don’t have Ferelden dogs.
But it’s dark and hot and they’re exhausted and she’s starting to wonder what the fucking point of it is. What’s it matter? What the fuck is even left to run toward anyway?
“Come on!” Nathaniel tries urging her forward but he’s just as worn out as she is.
“We’ve got to stop,” she says, doing just that and bending over with her palms bearing into her knees, wheezing to catch her breath. “Nathaniel, we—we’ve got to.”
They don’t have water, they don’t have food, they don’t really know where they are or which way they’re headed. They’re just running. And it’s only been a few hours of going like this but it feels like it’s been so much longer; whatever end there is seems so far away.
Sometimes she’s sure she’d have been better off if she’d just died in that fucking cave the first time Fen’Harel came sniffing about. Just gotten it over with.
“Hey.” Nathaniel’s got his hand resting heavily on her shoulder, trying to catch his breath too. “We’ll make it back home. I promise.”
Also on AO3. (And here’s the tumblr link to pt I, if you’d rather read here.)
I know canon says Shaun doesn’t age but that’s fucked up (and it makes no sense, as with the inability of synths to gain and lose weight like that’s??? not how organic material works??? doesn’t matter if it’s grown in a lab or in a womb that’s just not biology???) so I ignore that. Because it’s dumb.
She knows who he is. Of course she does.
He let his hair grow out—only a few inches but the ginger suits him. He hasn’t tanned at all, though his few, scattered freckles have multiplied a bit. His hands are rougher, which makes her think more farming and less sniping. The lack of bruising under his eyes suggests that he’s actually been sleeping.
Really the only surprise is that he didn’t come up with anything better to tell Bertha than “J.D. Smith.”
She’s different too, though. It’s not just longer, unshorn hair or tanned skin or the way the island has wrapped her in itself (these days, no matter how clean she gets, she has the scent of the harbormen: brine). Far Harbor carries the same dangers as the Commonwealth—maybe more—but it gives her something the Commonwealth never did, never could.
She jerks her chin up and tilts her head toward her house. It’s a cabin, really, some twenty or thirty odd yards from Longfellow’s house. Took a while to build the place up but the island isn’t lacking in wood.
“Come on,” she says to him. Then she looks down, quickly, at his feet. “We’ll get you some dry socks.”
Years after Tens left the Commonwealth for Far Harbor, Deacon is finally able to catch up with her. Except that maybe he still doesn’t quite have his shit together. Also, the kids go camping, which is inadvisable given the state of the Acadia camp grounds.
I’m going down with this dysfunctional ship. And so is Deacon. I mean he has no idea how to man a boat.
Also note that my survivor is actually nonbinary but A. AO3 still doesn’t haven’t a box for that and B. she uses she/her pronouns in addition to and more often than they/them.
Nick did warn him that this wouldn’t be easy.
There’s two people on the dock before Deacon’s even brought the boat to a full stop. He’s barely hopped off and said “hiya” before one’s telling him to board right back on and leave.
“Allen—”
“Nah, Avery, not today.” The man—Allen, presumably—isn’t quite pointing his gun at Deacon, but he’s already got the hammer pulled back and ready to go. “Whatever you want, mainlander, you ain’t gonna find it here. Go back where you came from. Far Harbor’s got nothin’ for ya.”
He’d beg to differ, but there is the gun to consider.
“Mariner wouldn’t want you acting like this, Allen. Not after all that with Dalton.”
Allen scowls, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before he spits on the ground at Deacon’s feet. Real charmer, this one. But he does holster the gun at least.
“Captain Avery,” says the other, stepping forward with her hand out. Deacon shakes it, almost automatically. Handshakes are… well, a hell of a thing in his line of work. Used to be, anyway. “We don’t get many mainlanders out here, is all,” she continues. “When we do, we usually know they’re coming. What brings you this far out?”
“Actually, I’m looking for another mainlander. Short woman, ‘bout yea high?” He brings his hand to his chest, one corner of his mouth turning down a bit at the somewhat falsified description; he’s just got no clue how much she’d have told any of these people about herself. Short woman is about the closest he can get without treading on ground that isn’t his to walk. “Name’s Tens? Or—”
Wanderer, he thinks. Maybe you call her Wanderer too.
But of course not. “I hear she moved up here a few years ago; just wanted to catch up.”
Avery doesn’t much react to that, but Allen. Oh, Allen’s brow knits together like someone’s just pissed in his sugar bombs. Just for a second.
“Don’t got nobody on the island by that name,” he says roughly. “Sorry you wasted your trip, but I reckon you ought t’ head back now.”
The thing is though, Deacon knows she’s here. It’s not hearsay, not some gut-feeling. He knows. Nick visits. Often. And Deacon knows, without a doubt, that Tens is here. And gun or no gun, he’s not leaving ‘til he sees her.
The fluorescent lights make Tens wanna claw her own eyes out but every step is one step closer. Every bullet, every felled enemy, every moment—she’s getting closer and closer to finding the Institute. Closer and closer to finding answers.
She still can’t remember everything—the flashes of light, the dark rooms, the faceless bodies—but whatever they did to her, they’re gonna pay for it. And if Kellogg really wants to go down for the Institute, she’s happy to oblige him.
He looks at her—angry, but something else too—over the barrel of his gun, his pause just a second too long. “Who the fuck are you?”
Yeah, he knew that eventually somebody was gonna come after him—scratch that, somebody’s always after him. He knew that eventually somebody was actually gonna get him. Had a decent idea who it might be, too. Wasn’t expecting this though.
“You got two choices, Kellogg: you help me and I’ll make it worth your while, or I shoot out your kneecaps before I ask again.”
Hi @skogrr I was your Holiday Harbinger! I’m sorry this took so long
He feels like they’re always saying goodbye. He hope eventually that’ll come to an end. Or, three times Shepard and Garrus said goodbye, and one time they said hello. Also on AO3
(goodbye one)
It’s strange, stepping off the Normandy without Shepard a few steps behind him, walking backward as she shouts a few last orders toward Pressly before the airlock doors close on her to finally leave Pressly in peace.
(It’s strange without Tali, too, he tells himself. Or Wrex. Or Ashley. Or Liara. The point isn’t Shepard, the point is that he’s walking down the gangway alone. At least, that’s what he tries to tell himself.)
But the mission’s over. They’ve defeated Saren, defeated Sovereign, saved the Citadel, and now it’s time to go back to his life. C-SEC, collaring jerks like Harkin, that tiny apartment in Tayseri whose fridge Garrus isn’t entirely sure he cleaned out before leaving eight months ago. He’s kept up on rent, though, so at least his access code will still work.
The mission’s over, so there’s no reason for him to stay on the ship, no reason to stick around. Garrus tried to find one, but the Alliance issued out orders – patrolling for geth, of all the bullshit missions (Shepard’s grumbled words the second she hung up with Hackett) – and those orders very pointedly did not include him. Or Wrex or Tali or Liara. Shepard delivered that news with a heavy sigh and a muttered so much for this being my ship.
The war is over, but Shepard’s recovery is not. When she gets tired of lying in a hospital bed, Garrus volunteers to become her live-in nurse while she recuperates in a borrowed house. After sharing heat sinks, medi-gel, and war stories for years, they now share a home, a life, and eventually, a bed. A friends to lovers post-ME3 Shepard/Garrus story.
Chapter 2: Home Care
The house is a small cottage in an old neighborhood. It’s been left mostly untouched by the war—a side benefit of the area’s status as a sleepy little suburb with no tactical importance to the Reapers. Nearly all previous occupants are gone, however: evacuated, chased out, then killed by weapons fire, starvation, disease, or any one of the innumerable ways people tend to perish when the world around them starts to burn.
Only a precious few survivors have returned; the rest of the houses are homes to military and government officials now. It’s a safe location, well guarded by checkpoints at each entry point—a perfect shelter for someone who, despite all the lives she’s saved in the galaxy, could still draw an inordinate amount of negative attention from the media, stalkers, and old enemies that might yet lurk in the shadows.
Shepard tries not to think too much about the previous owner of her new digs as Garrus wheels her to the front door. She wishes she could see the house, though. Something about it must be impressive, for Garrus comes to a sudden halt before they reach the threshold and makes an appreciative sound in his throat.
“What?” she asks. “Is it made of gold or something?”
“No, it’s just… I’ve never seen so many flowers in one place. Well, not on Earth, anyway. Reminds me of my mom’s garden, actually.”
Shepard takes a whiff of air, inhaling the scent that she hasn’t paid much attention to until now. She’s not an expert, but she thinks she can pick out some roses and maybe some… lilacs? Botany is not really among her main interests, but she does like nice things, and she can’t help but feel a little sad for not being able to see the profusion of blooms.
“We going in anytime soon?” she asks, tamping down on her small burst of self-pity.
“Yeah. Yeah.”
He sounds subdued, maybe a little sad. She knows how it is to lose a parent, hell, your entire family, and she wonders if she should say something about his mom, but then they are inside and he’s pushing her chair from room to room, describing the layout so she could familiarize herself with this new environment, so she keeps quiet. She’s never been good with platitudes anyway.
