Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She falls from the sky. 

Burning. 

All systems are malfunctioning. Please prepare for immediate em-er-gen-cy l-l-la-n…

The computer explodes, unable to finish its warning. Not that she needs the dumb thing to say she is about to die when she can see the ship's hull is on fire. 

“Artificial Intelligence,” she grumbles. “Nothing intelligent about the obvious.” 

But she should already be dead. Shouldn't she? “No time to worry about that now,” she murmurs as her metal coffin burns through the planet’s atmosphere. 

The heat is building up. Atmosphere and fire twist and burn metal while wires spark and smoke fills the air. Coughing, she tries to steady herself as she pulls on a helmet and moves towards the control system, only to be lurched forward as the left side of the ship is ripped off. 

She gasps, and her fingers automatically grasp for anything to anchor herself to. Gloved hands meet the wire, and it holds. Her fingers and shoulders ache from the stress as she holds onto her lifeline as the pressure from the atmosphere tries to pull her away. She can't hold on much longer.

Glancing up at the controls beeping in front of her, she tries to make out the estimated time of impact. 4.5 minutes. That's too long. 

She slips. She holds on. Her hands scream at her to let go, but she won't. She won't. Never. She won't die like this again. Not alone. Not in the cold dark. Not crawling to death as air is forced from her. She refuses. 

Another piece of her ship tears loose, flinging her sharply into the wall. The impact to her gut forces the air out of her lungs, but worse, she slips. She forces her fingers to close tighter even as instinct and muscle scream for relief. Now she is at the end of her wire. 

3.34 minutes. 

“Hold on,” she pants, ordering her fingers. “Hold on. We aren't dying today. Not yet. Not here. Hold…”

The ship lurches, then rolls. Belly up, side gutted and streaming smoke and fire, the ship plummets faster and faster towards the planet, not unlike a caught fish writhing at the hook as it is inevitably pulled to its doom. 

It is then that her body betrays her. 

She lets go. 

Chapter Text

She falls from the sky.

Glowing.

Pain and panic pursue her. Her muscles scream. She tries to stand, but her body betrays her yet again. She falls back down.

A familiar darkness greets her.

——

Pain tears at her left arm. She grits back a scream as a green, glowing energy pulsates to the surface of her hand. Sweat and grime trickle down her neck as she raises her head. The pain subsides, and her hand stops glowing. “What the—?'' she groans, trying to move her stiff, sore limbs, only to feel rough, itchy leather suppressing the movement of her arms. She is restrained. Instinct and panic snap her out of her fog and into sharp analysis. Years of experience and training automatically run through her mind in seconds.

Step one: analyze her surroundings.

It is dark except for a faint flicker of firelight in the distance. She sees stone and metal. Bars. She is in a containment jail of some sort. The air is damp and has a musky smell like a cave. She is underground then.

Step two: assess the situation.

She is alone. She is hurt. She is being held. Who and for what is unknown. Looking down, she sees she is in strange, leather armor. Rough and weathered too, as if it had been through several beatings. Most alarming is her biotics. Her hand had glowed green, not blue. It hurts and feels wrong. Before she can attempt to initiate a small test of her biotics, her hand glows green again, and pain sparks through her. As it dims, she hears metal clang and the sounds of heavy footsteps coming towards her. Her biotics will have to wait. Facing and understanding her captors takes priority.

Two women enter, both armored, and both looking at her with suspicion and hostility. One has a sword. Her steps are full of purpose and intent. Soldier then. The other stands off to the side, hood drawing over her face like a secret. Interrogator most likely. Before she can think further on this, the dark-haired woman with the sword circles her with unguarded hostility. She is starting to feel like an unarmed recruit facing a thresher maw. A very angry thresher maw. Then, the woman begins to speak. Words, hot and angry, roll from the woman’s sharp mouth and fling towards her, and then she waits for a response. Demanding a response.

She shakes her head. Whatever the soldier has said is like static in her ear. Her translator must have a glitch. The soldier snarls and speaks again, shoving her face just inches from hers. Still, nothing. She shakes her head again and tries to speak slowly.

“I don’t understand you. My translator isn’t working.” She squints at the soldier, never breaking eye contact. Trying to convey with expression what her foreign words cannot. Evidently, that fails too. The soldier looks surprised for but a moment, then her face contorts into what she can only liken to a thresher maw opening its mouth to chew and spit her out. She thinks her chances with an actual thresher maw would be better. “I don’t understand y—”

Suddenly, the soldier grabs her by the neck, presumably to pin her to the ground, but she fails to complete this action. Instead, the soldier finds herself sprawled out beside her prisoner, bum hitting the cold floor hard as her legs are swept from beneath her. For a moment, there is a stunned silence, then chaos. The hooded woman leaps forward, attempting to help the soldier up, but is shoved aside as she lunges towards her again. This time, her hand reaches for her sword. The prisoner, however, is faster. Instinct makes her faster.

“Stay back,” she commands, uselessly.

Their only warning is a slight stirring of air before a blue, glowing ball flings the soldier across the room and on her bum. Again. The hooded woman freezes mid-step towards the prisoner and stares at her. She looks at the prisoner like an animal, realizing they might be the prey instead of the hunter. There is no fear in her eyes, but there is hesitation.

Hesitation is all she needs.

Before the hooded woman can call out, she finds herself lying on her back beside the soldier. With glowing hands still tied, she runs down the dimly lit hall. Two armored guards who have been guarding the outside door charge at her as she runs by, swords raised, voices shouting. She lets out another push of her biotics before resuming her course.

“At least my biotics are working better than my translator,” she huffs.

The hall is long and full of doorways, but when she sees the stairway on her left, she takes them. If she is underground, surely this was the best way out. But, that also means reinforcements for her now screaming pursuers, so she steals herself when she reaches the top of the stairway and kicks through the wooden door. Stepping out, she is prepared for more soldiers with swords to greet her, but what she finds instead shocks her into momentary stillness. Women in white and red robes and hats stop and stare back at her. They are illuminated in a kaleidoscope of colors that shines through large, stained glass windows. Tall pillars pull her eyes upward to gaze at the tall girth of the building, but she is quickly torn away again as her senses pick up a sudden movement in the corner of her eye.

She barely has time to deflect the soldier that has snuck up on her with a quick biotic throw before bolting to the mammoth, heavy, wooden doors that lead to freedom. As she reaches them, she hears shrieks from the robed women as they scurry away from her, and the sound of her pursuers’ heavy footsteps emerges from the dungeons. Throwing her shoulder out like a charging Krogan, she pushes the heavy door wide enough to open to her freedom.

Then, with a gasp, she falls. Pain, hot and green, surges through skin, muscle, and bone. But even that is not what forces her to her knees. Above her, just beyond the gray haze of a cloudy sky, is a funnel of green, pulsating, twisting light. The light, she sees, is more than light. There is a heavy substance to it that twists, lashes, and juts out in jagged angles like crystal rocks. Her hand flares, and so does the sky.

She grits back a scream.

By now, her pursuers have joined her, encircling her with swords. The angry, dark-haired soldier from before grabs her by the collar and pulls her to her, noses almost touching. “You will rewsna ! Gnikaf yticilpud will not krow on me.”

Her eyes grew wide, hopeful. “Say that again, I think I’m beginning to understand you.”

The woman snarls, her scar crawling angrily on her cheek, and draws back her fist. “You’re faking!”

“No!” A voice cries from behind her. Suddenly, the hooded woman is pulling the angry soldier back from her. “We deen her, Cassandra.”

“Cassandra.” She parrots the name.

The women freeze again, eyes snapping to hers. Relief floods her as she looks directly at the woman warrior and repeats, “Cassandra?” asking, looking for confirmation.

“So you do dnatsrednu ,” the hooded woman says.

The prisoner shakes her head. “My translator is still decoding your language. I can only understand some.”

The angry warrior, Cassandra, rips her arm from the woman’s firm hold. “I do not tsurt her. She is faking ecnarongi in hopes of escaping what she has done.”

“What have I done?” she insists, cautiously getting to her feet. “Cassandra, what do you think I’ve done?”

“Do not speak my name with your lies. You do not fool me with your act!” Cassandra howls at her. Her arm gestures to the green sky before then. “You did this, and you will fix it. Even if I have to drag you there. Then, you will answer for your semirc !”

The prisoner stares at her and then at the sky behind her. Unbelieving. “You think I caused this?”

Again, she is met with blank stares. The hooded woman, however, seems to stare at her with something more. Calculation. Searching her for deception, maybe. She tries again. Pointing to the sky and then lifting her hand in a question. “You think I did this?”

The woman seems to get her meaning and nods slightly. “You fell out of the sky.”

“With that mark on your hand,” inputs Cassandra. “It sdnapxe as it does. They are deknil , and it is killing you.”

She blinks, looking down at her hand, and gives a short laugh. How many times is she going to die? Does it ever end? “I don't remember,” she says, shaking her head. “I don't remember how I got here, or even where this is.”

Her captors stare at her in confusion. Right. Her translator is still not working, but even worse, she knows it's because they do not have a translator themselves. This was going to be difficult. She lifts her hand again towards them, looks at the sky, and shrugs her shoulders.

“You don't know how it got there, or how to fix it?” guesses the hooded woman.

She nods.

Cassandra angrily snorts again. Shaking her head. “We will take you there, and we shall see. Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the tfir .”

The hooded woman, Leliana, nods. Giving her one final glance before moving away, taking the circle of soldiers with her. Now, all that is left is Cassandra, who is staring at her with suspicion, anger, and resolve. She grabs her shoulder and lifts her back on her feet. “I didn't know you were a egam .” She shakes her head at her. Her translator is still struggling to decode their language. Cassandra ignores her and moves her forward. “I was not prepared before, but I am now. Do not try that again.”

She doesn't need a translator for the sharp look she gives her to understand. As much as she doesn’t relish being held captive, she doesn't know where she is, how she got here, or what the hell is going on. Cassandra and Leliana seem to know, however, so these people are the best chance at getting her answers.

Cassandra leads her through the rustic village and towards a great, stone bridge. On the way, she soaks in her surroundings, looking for clues. Wherever she is, she is far away from any signs of modern civilization. If her hunch is right, she has found a culture in a similar time not unlike Earth's medieval period. The swords, the armor, and even the buildings seem to all point to this theory. The most unnerving implication of this is that she is nowhere near any known system. She is alone, in unknown territory, with no memories of how she came here. Even worse, she might somehow be responsible for the strange disruption in their atmosphere… and the green power in her hand that might be killing her. Regardless of how she got here, the danger is immediate, and she must push aside her questions for another time. Right now, she must tread carefully.

If this really is uncharted territory untouched by modern technology, then she must do her best not to interrupt their natural order of life. Or at least, limit it. She curses herself for using her biotics so soon before she knew where she was. It is too late to correct the mistake, so she will just have to be sure not to utilize it again unless absolutely necessary. That doesn't sit well with her instinct of self-preservation, but the Alliance Military code of pre-space flight contact is clear. No contact, and no interference. Earth's first contact with the Turians proved how ignoring such a code could go south for all involved.

Finally, they reach the bridge, and she notices the deadly glares of the people surrounding them. Cassandra halts, her gaze ascending to the massive green energy pouring from the sky. “We call it The Breach. It’s a massive rift into the world of snomed that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift. Just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.” She stops to look at her.

She shakes her head. “A rift into what? What explosion?”

Cassandra ignores her, or doesn't understand. Probably both. “Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

As if on cue, The Breach flashes, and so does her hand, flaring with green energy. She grits her teeth to fight back a scream.

“That mark on your hand may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”

Finally, the pain subsides, and she stares at her hand for a moment, then at the sky. If she is the cause of this, she has to fix it. This would never have happened if not for her. Resolve rallies her. Setting her jaw with determination, she holds out her bound hands to Cassandra and then points with her chin at the Breach.

Understanding and surprise dawn on Cassandra’s face. “Then…you will help?”

She gives a swift nod and lifts her bound hands farther.

Cassandra considers her for a moment, suspicious still, but draws her dagger and cuts her bindings. “It is not far,” Cassandra tells her as she rubs her wrists. “Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the breach.” Slowly, they make their way through the camp and the sea of deadly glares. “They have decided your guilt. They need it. The people of Haven mourn our Most yloh, enivid Justinia, head of the Chantry. The conclave was hers. It was a chance for peace between segam and srarlpmet . She brought their leaders together. Now they are dead.”

She wants to ask Cassandra questions, but knows it would be futile with the language barrier, and her translator is still unable to decode everything. What she can gather makes her heart drop. She has caused important people to die. This is not good. Whatever peace was trying to be made, she has no doubt destroyed it. Somehow.

“Open the gate!” Cassandra calls to two soldiers. “We are heading into the valley.” The gates open and allow them through.

“We lash out, like the sky. But we must think beyond ourselves, as she did. Until the Breach is sealed.” Cassandra stops and turns regarding her. “There will be a trial. I can promise no more.”

She nods her understanding… mostly, and walks through the doors. Along the way, she sees a priest of some sort praying over wounded soldiers and wrapped, bloodied corpses. Whatever happened here, whatever she did, did more damage than could ever be undone. She shoulders her guilt as she trudges onward past spiked barricades manned by soldiers, burning wagons, and even more still, bloody bodies. Soldiers shout as they pass by, and suddenly, flashes of green light strike the ground before them. The Breach grows; her hand flares once again as the pain makes her fall to the ground in pain. It passes, and Cassandra helps her up.

“The pulses are coming faster now. The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear, the more snomed we face.”

She sighs as they continue. “Damn translator.”

They cross a second bridge, following a group of soldiers. Suddenly, stone crumbles beneath their feet as the bridge is struck by another bolt of green energy and collapses, sending them flying onto the frozen river below. They gasp from the impact and struggle to their feet. Before she can take a breath, yet another bolt strikes the ice ahead of them. She braces herself, expecting to have to jump from cracking ice, but instead, pools of green light recede like smoke as a tall, shadowy figure emerges. For a moment, she only sees what looks like a hunched, hooded figure, and then it raises its head. A singular, shining light looks at her.

“Geth!” She shouts in warning and charges forward, biotics flaring blue.

She hears Cassandra yell something, but it's lost to the familiar thrum of her heartbeat in her ears as she flings into battle. Energy pulses through her as she uses her biotics to warp through the Geth’s shell. That is when she realizes her mistake. This is no Geth. This creature, whatever it is, is neither machine nor humanoid. It's like fighting shadows. There is substance there, but not enough for her biotics to cling to. It is as if her warp is merely a hard shove, not a tearing force of matter. The creature jolts from the impact, but otherwise, looks unfazed. Then, its bright eye finds her again, and it slinks towards her almost like it is swimming through water.

“Well… shit,” she says, before looking around.

She has her Omni-Blade, but she knows that it will be just as hard to explain as her biotics. Thankfully, fate is finally kind, as a few feet to her right, she sees a small blade peeking out through a broken crate. Wasting no time, she runs and picks it up. It’s heavier than it looks, but the balance is good enough. It is then that she notices Cassandra a few feet behind her, fighting another one of these creatures. It’s encouraging to see that her companion’s blade seems to do damage.

The creature is now upon her, swinging back its arms for a blow, but never lands one. She ducks and swings her blade across its middle in one, clean stroke, then swings back around and stabs it in the back. The creature disintegrates like ash in the wind. She lets out a relieved sigh, but turns to find Cassandra approaching her, sword still drawn.

“Drop your weapon. Now!”

She huffs, but drops it. Then, not breaking eye contact, flares her biotics briefly. Her point seems to get through.

Cassandra sighs. “You’re right. You don’t need a sword, but you should have one.” She sheathes her blade. “I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenseless. I should remember that you agreed to come willingly.”

Slowly, she picks up the sword again, nodding her thanks.

Reaching into a satchel strapped to her side, Cassandra holds out several glass flasks with a strange, bright red liquid inside. “Take these snoitop . Maker knows what we will face.”

Curiously, she accepts the vials before tucking them into her belt.

They crest a small hill, where they have to defeat two more geth-like creatures on the frozen river below before they continue. This time, a creature made of green gas forms above the stone stairs. It proves to be more difficult to defeat, as it flings beams of green energy at them. She isn’t keen on finding out what getting hit by it will do. After Cassandra helps take it down, they continue, passing more corpses along the way. They go up more stone stairs, this one steeper than the ones before.

“We’re getting close to the rift. You can hear the fighting,” Cassandra pants over her shoulder. “We must help them.”

Once they reach the top, she sees a bridge covered in burning wagons and barrels. To the left, there is a short drop down a stone wall. That is when she sees them. Four people in the distance are fighting the strange creatures that are coming out of the green rift of energy. Cassandra jumps down to join them.

“Well, I’ve had stranger days,” she mutters to herself before following.

While Cassandra helps two soldiers in uniform, she takes on a creature that is sneaking up behind a volus-sized man with a crossbow. She charges at it and lets her blade cut through its middle before the man has a chance to turn around. The man finally turns in time to see it disappear. He shoots her a surprised, curious glance before giving a sly smile and turning back to the fight.

Her attention is drawn to her left by a strange flash of light and pulling in the air. She looks to see a bald man with pointed ears twirling a staff. Two creatures are slinking towards him. The man points his staff towards one, and she watches in fascination as ice flares from the top and shoots out to freeze one in place.

“One of these days I’m going to wake up to something normal,” she says, before charging in his direction. She reaches him just in time for the frozen creature to emerge from its icy prison. It barely has time to move before it dissolves as her blade slices through its neck. The man, meanwhile, uses his staff to send a strange energy field against the remaining creature. The wave pushes it back towards her, and with a swift flourish, her blade sinks into its back as well. It disintegrates.

The man stares, then approaches, hastily. “Quickly, before more come through!” he urges as he reaches out to grab her.

Instead, he finds his wrist being twisted slightly by her hand. Her eyes narrow at him. “The last guy who tried to grab me got his guts spilled on the ground,” she says.

His brow pulls together in confusion and curiosity, but only for a moment. Tentatively, he lifts their joined hands towards the rift.

“You must use the mark. Quickly!”

She needs no further explanation, for she feels a strange tug of power in her hand and understands. They are linked. Somehow, the power in her hand seems to want to pull at the rift, much like a key turning in a lock. Without further hesitation, she lets go of his wrist and thrusts her hand, palm spread upward, to the rift. The air grows heavy around her as her mark leaps into the rift like a bolt of green electricity. It crackles, and then, closes. For a moment, there is no sound, no wind. Just the quiet relief of stillness.

The bald man shuffles beside her. “Well done.”

Turning her head, she is able to better study him without the chaos of battle distracting her. His face is very defined and angular, with keen, bright eyes and a thin mouth. But, most notably, his ears are pointed. She realized this before, of course, but now it is sinking in. It isn’t until his eyes narrow at her again that she realizes she's been staring, and looks down at her hand, studying it instead.

Footsteps crunch in the snow towards them, and Cassandra is once again by her side. “It worked!”

“Indeed,” the bald man replies before turning his attention back to her. “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake – and it seems I was correct.”

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” Cassandra answers for her.

“Possibly,” he turns to her again with piercing eyes. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

She looks at him, not knowing what to say, even if he could understand her. Thankfully, the shorter man replies for her as he completes their circle.

“Good to know! Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” He lifts his crossbow and secures it behind him on his back. “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally-” he winks at Cassandra, “-unwelcome tagalong.”

Cassandra scowls.

Silently, she nods her greeting.

Cassandra adjusts her sword and lets out a sigh. “I'm not certain if she is able to fully understand you. She seems to… not be from here. Presumably. Whether it is a clever ruse to avoid answering questions, however, remains to be seen.”

That got her even more looks of surprise and curiosity.

“Truly?” Solas asks.

She nods.

“What, are we dragging more innocent people who don’t belong here into this? Seeker, I’m surprised at you. If you’re going to kidnap a person, at least make sure they can tell you a story first. Maybe let you stab a couple of books, at least.”

“I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine. Clearly, that is no longer necessary,” Cassandra retorts.

“Yet, here I am. Lucky for you, considering current events.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes.

“Varric,” she greets him, nodding in his direction.

“She speaks!”

“Seemingly a little,” Cassandra states.

“Enough to show she appreciates my company.”

“She may reconsider that stance, in time,” the bald man quips.

“Aww. I’m sure we’ll become great friends in the valley, Chuckles.”

Cassandra snorts and shakes her head. “Now we must go to meet Leliana.”

“What a great idea!” Varric smiles.

“Absolutely not,” Her hand slices through the air like her sword. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but…”

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.”

“Ugh,” Cassandra gives up and walks a little ahead.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.” The pointy-eared, bald man nods at her. “I’m pleased to see you still live.”

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

Interesting. She looks at her hand, then stares at him, eyebrow raised in curiosity. “I don’t know what you did, but thank you.” She knows he can’t possibly understand her words, but she hopes the intent is clear.

His slight smile and inclined head reassure her of that. “Thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process.”

“Like you, Solas is an etatsopa . Well-versed in such matters,” Cassandra offers.

“Technically, all segam are now setatsopa , Cassandra. My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle egam . I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed regardless of origin.”

She shakes her head, wishing her translator would decode faster.

“I don’t think she quite got all that, Chuckles.”

“Apologies, but Cassandra, you should know: the cigam involved here is unlike any I have ever seen. Your prisoner might be a egam , but I find it difficult to imagine any egam having such power.

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

“Well,” Varric says, raising his hands. “Bianca’s excited!” They all start to move forward and down the riverbank when Varric glances over his shoulder at her. “By the way, I assume you have a name besides ‘The Prisoner’?”

She nods.

Varric laughs. “Care to share it, or is it a name that's too embarrassing for polite company?”

All eyes simultaneously glance at her, curious and calculating. She sighs and meets their gaze. “Shepard.” The sound is crisp, clear, and to the point. “Commander Shepard.”

With that, she marches past them and charges at a creature that materializes once again from the Breach. They watch her for a moment. A mixture of curiosity and admiration at her determined fearlessness. Once again, it’s Varric that breaks the silence.

“Huh. I don’t know what in the Maker’s name she said, but that girl has the balls and looks of a charging bronto.”

_____

They are climbing yet another set of stone stairs when her hand flares again. The pain is almost too much, but she doesn’t scream.

“That… didn’t sound good,” Varric says, looking at her with concern.

“My magic cannot stop the mark from growing further. We must hurry, before the mark consumes her.” Solas trudges ahead of them with more urgency in his steps.

Shepard catches her breath, then follows. Varric has to jog to keep up with her. “So… are you innocent?”

Without stopping, she shrugs.

“What, you don’t know?” Varric laughs. “That’ll get you every time. Should have spun a story.”

Cassandra snorts ahead of them. “That’s what you would have done.”

“It’s more believable, and less prone to result in premature execution.”

Finally, they make it to the forward camp after fighting more weird creatures and closing another rift. After walking through the gates and past the wounded and dying, they come to a stop before Leliana arguing with a priest. Very loudly. Honestly, Shepard tunes them out for most of it. Her translator is still only decoding parts; she has a splitting headache, a hand that’s killing her, and little patience for arguing politics when people’s lives are at stake. Lives she might be responsible for, somehow. It’s at this point she loses her temper.

“That’s it.” Shepard slams her palm down on the makeshift table and gives Leliana and the priest the look that would have Krogans diving for cover. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’ve had enough of this arguing. You!” She yells, thrusting her marked hand up towards Leliana, and pointing to the Breach with the other. “This is apparently the only way to close the Breach, so take me there so I can close it before this damn thing kills me!”

The priest sputters in astonishment. “What is this? A barbarian? Do you really think—”

“Shut your pie hole!” Shepard commands with a deadly glare.

The priest turns an amusing shade of reddish purple, but says nothing.

Again, Shepard points to the Breach.

“I think she’s saying, ‘I don’t care about your political bullcrap, shut up and take me there already'," Varric looks up at her with a teasing smile. “How’d I do?”

Shepard nods and gives him a twitch of a smile. She likes the volus-sized man. Good sense in that head of his.

“She’s right,” Cassandra says, voice firm. “Leliana, bring everyone left in the valley. Everyone.”

Leliana nods and runs off to do as she was bidden.

Pleased to finally be taking action, Shepard follows Cassandra. She’s unexpectedly starting to warm up to her harsh captor. At least she acts.

“On your head be the consequences, Seeker,” the priest taunts one final time.

Yep. Definitely hates that man. “Politicians,” she scoffs on her breath.

“If that means ass in our language, then I couldn’t agree more,” Varric says.

She definitely likes him.

They hike up a path and see debris scattered everywhere as they turn up some steps and go through an archway. There, they drop down and see more soldiers fighting the Breach creatures. A rift sparks above them.

“Be wary—”

Before Solas can finish his sentence, Shepard is already charging, blade slicing expertly through the creatures.

“You’d think she’s done this before,” Varric remarks, firing an arrow appreciatively at one sneaking around to her flank.

With their efficiency, they quickly fight through another wave before Shepard engages the rift with her hand. Its energy crackles through the air, sputters, and then disperses. She shakes her hand like a match, trying to put out the energy still tingling and pulsing within.

Solas quietly appears by her side, startling her. “Sealed, as before. You are becoming quite proficient at this.” His tone sounds impressed.

“Let’s hope it works on the big one,” Varric adds, patting his crossbow affectionately before securing it behind him.

“Lady Cassandra,” a blonde man in heavy fur and armor greets as he approaches them. “You managed to close the rift? Well done.”

“Do not congratulate me, Commander. This is the prisoner’s doing.”

“Is it?” His head snaps to hers, eyes cool and stern. “I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here.”

She studies him for a moment. The scar on his lip tells her he’s seen his share of combat and pain. His gait is steady, purposeful. A man of action. A man like her. A commander. Realizing he’s expecting something, she inclines her head.

“The way to the temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there.”

“Then we’d best move quickly,” Cassandra concedes. “Give us time, Commander.”

“Maker watch over you—for all our sakes.” The Commander turns and hurries to help an injured soldier limp away.

She lingers for a moment to watch, feeling a familiar pang in her heart as she does. Memories threaten to pull her in, but she shakes it off and follows her party down a ledge towards some ruins.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Solas explains to her.

Varric sighs, “What’s left of it.”

“That is where you walked out of the edaf, and our soldiers found you. They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.” Cassandra looks at her from the corner of her eye. Suspicion and doubt are battling for truth.

The smell hits them before they enter, and sadly, Shepard doesn’t need anyone to tell her what it is. She knows. Burnt flesh. Dozens of burning, charred corpses are scattered through the ruins. All are petrified in their moment of terror. Shepard’s heart falls. She did this? Stars, she wishes she could die without dooming others with her. Just once.

“You okay?”

She snaps her eyes up to Varric’s. He and Solas had stopped when they saw her staring at the corpses. Varric looks at her with concern, while Solas… she isn’t sure. Curiosity or pity? She doesn’t want either.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” she says and marches past them. Finally, they descend and come to the Breach. It’s even more massive up close. “What the hell?” She swears, staring up at it.

“The Breach sure is a long way up,” Varric responds.

Leliana approaches from behind with some soldiers. “You’re here. Thank the Maker.”

“Leliana,” Cassandra greets, “have your men take up positions around the temple.” With a nod, she is off, and Cassandra walks up to Shepard. “This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?” Her eyes narrow, searching hers again.

Shepard looks up at the Breach, very high in the sky. She doubts they have shuttles. Looking back at Cassandra, she lifts an eyebrow quizzically and points to it.

“No,” Solas answers her wordless question instead. “This rift was the first, and it is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

Ah, not as difficult then.

Cassandra nods. “Then let’s find a way down and—”

Shepard is already leaping off the edge, her biotics flaring blue as she eases to the ground of the temple floor. Above her, her party stares down in shock.

“You know, she either isn’t one for waiting or she likes taunting death,” Varric muses. “I honestly can’t tell.”

“She’s eager, I give her that,” Cassandra says with a hint of approval.

Solas narrows his eyes. “That is an unusual form of… magic.”

“Yes,” Cassandra answers. Her mouth twists down into a studying frown. “I can’t sense any lyrium from her.”

“You know what else is unusual?” Varric interrupts. “What’s big, and angry, and green all over?”

“Ugh,” Cassandra groans. “Let’s hurry down there and help her.”

“Agreed,” Solas says.

“Just so we’re clear, I’m not jumping off any ledges.” Varric raises his hands in defense. “Magic or not.”

“How about I throw you down there?”

“Why, Seeker, don’t make me blush! You don’t need to come up with an excuse to hug me. Besides, we both know I’m too much dwarf for you to handle.”

Cassandra snorts. “On that last part, we can agree.”

——

Shepard approaches the rift below the Breach. As soon as she gets close, her hand begins to crackle with power.

“Someone help me!”

Shepard starts and looks around the dark ruins for the voice that called out, but sees no one else. Above her, she notes this rift is different from the others. It’s not sparking like the others were. Cautiously, she circles it, studying the way its energy floats in the atmosphere. She is tempted to unlock her omni tool and scan it, and almost does until she hears footsteps approaching behind her. Turning, she sees her party has joined her. However, all look considerably more grim than before.

“We heard voices—” Cassandra starts to say, but is cut off abruptly by an eerily familiar voice echoing around them.

“What’s going on here?”

“That was your voice,” Cassandra notes with awed confusion.

Suddenly, there is a bright flash, and Shepard is standing in front of herself. Wait. What? Before she can process what is happening, her figure runs up to an old, wrinkled priestess. She is being restrained by a tall, bony figure that she can’t make out.

“What’s going on here?” Her figure demands.

The ancient woman pleads to her. “Run while you can! Warn them!”

The tall figure holding her points with a long, bony claw. “We have an intruder. Kill the woman. Now!”

Another bright flash, and the scene vanishes.

“You were there!” In an instant, Cassandra is by her side, demanding in desperation, “Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

All Shepard can do is shake her head. Ever since she woke up in that prison, nothing has made any sense. Thankfully, Solas offers her aid.

“Echoes of what happened here. The edaf bleeds into this place.”

“Damn translator,” Shepard sighs as she walks up to him.

“This rift is not sealed, but it is closed… albeit temporarily. I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

“Other side or what?” She asks, but she knows they won’t understand her.

“That means snomed ,” Cassandra says. “Stand ready!”

Around and above them, soldiers take up their positions as Shepard approaches the rift. Her hand throbs with the unknown energy. She takes a steadying breath and raises her hand. A huge Yagh materializes before them. No, not a Yagh. Something bigger. Much bigger. For a moment, Shepard only stares in wonder at the sharp angles and multiple glowing eyes before her. Horns twist like tree branches from its crown, and when it stands, its armored muscles ripple with might and power. It is only when Cassandra yells that she is snapped back to her task.

Cries of battle erupt around her as soldiers charge at the creature while archers let fly their arrows. Most of the arrows either bounce off its hard skin or do nothing more than irritate it. As the soldiers approach, including Cassandra, she suddenly feels the hairs on her body stand up as an electric current whips out at them. Some are able to roll out of the way, but a few cry out as their bodies are charred in seconds.

“We must strip its defenses!” Cassandra instructs. “Quickly, wear it down! Disrupt the rift!”

Immediately, she engages the rift again as the rest distract the beast from her. No sooner does she complete her task than she sees the beast fall to one knee, as though weakened.

“The nomed is vulnerable—now!” As everyone charges at the beast, that is when the first wave of geth-like creatures appears. “More coming through the rift!” Cassandra warns.

Shepard draws out her blade and slashes at the nearest one. Behind her, Varric is letting loose a volley of arrows, and to her right, Solas has used his strange energy to freeze some. Cassandra is still with her soldiers, slashing and stabbing the beast while it’s in its weakened state. Shepard has a feeling it won’t last long, and she’s right. With a roar, it rises from its feet as the rift erupts again. Quickly, she moves to disrupt it when the hairs on her body warn her of the beast’s intentions.

She dives and rolls out of the way just in time to feel the air crackle and snap with the beast’s electric whip. Suddenly, a strange energy envelopes her. A barrier, though, not a biotic one. Looking up across the battlefield, she locks eyes with Solas for a second. Understanding and curiosity pass between them before it is broken with the beast’s massive arm coming down to swing at her. Swiftly, she dodges it and attempts to slice his arm, but the tension proves too much, and her blade shatters. She staggers back slightly and only has a moment to recover before the arm is once again swinging towards her.

“Protect her!” Cassandra cries as she rolls out from underneath it.

“Duck!” Varric says. She does, nearly flattening herself on the ground just in time as an arrow sings by and explodes in a fiery blaze on its arm. The beast roars in outrage. The works. Its attention is now on Varric.  “Well, shit,” he says, before he starts running. “Protect the dwarf, anyone?”

Shepard uses the distraction to disrupt the rift, and once again, more geth-like creatures appear. But, she doesn’t have a blade. “To hell with it,” she says, and with a flash of orange light, her omni blade engages and forms around her arm. Their questions about her strange tech mean nothing if she’s dead. Its familiar hum is welcoming and gives her more confidence. Now, she can really fight.

And fight she does. Lung, stab, evade, deflect, attack. It is a dance she has honed and used for years. It is a dance she always wins. Occasionally, she uses her biotics. They don’t seem to affect the creatures nearly as well as people, but it helps. Occasionally, she notices Solas flashing curious looks in her direction, but ultimately, they stay focused on the task at hand. Finally, after the fourth time she disrupts the rift, the beast falls to the ground. Defeated at last.

Cassandra raises her sword high. “Now! Seal the rift! Do it!”

Weak and winded, Shepard stands and lifts her hand up one last time, exerting all her will into the flow of energy. Around her, everyone watches in awe, desperation, and hope. She grits her teeth as the energy mounts.

Darkness hugs her like an old friend, carrying her away.

She falls.

Chapter Text

Darkness. 

For a moment or an eternity, that is all she sees and all she knows. Then, there is pain, sharp and white. She opens her eyes. The pain ceases, but the darkness remains. There is no light, no sound, no touch. Just being. 

Is this it? Is she finally, blissfully, truly dead? If so, she is not afraid. She does not regret. Besides, she's died before. You can only cheat death so many times. Maybe now, she can finally just be… 

A figure approaches in the distance, lithe and elegant. Then, it's beside her, and yet, around her. Blue skin, flawless, and piercing eyes, soft and bright. Her heart lurches. 

“Liara?” 

She does not know if she says it or thinks it, but she knows it to be true, and yet, not. Those eyes that sear into hers are her shape, her color, but the feeling is amiss, aloof. It's like looking at an imitation of an original. Beautiful, the exact image captured, but not the same. The feeling or intent is changed. One can not capture the soul of another. 

Liara, or her likeness, smiles. It reminds Shepard of the Mona Lisa. She is a woman with the smile of many secrets. Wistful, near, yet distant. Watching and waiting… but for what? 

Then, her mouth lifts the secrets and speaks. “You have strayed far from your flock, shepherd.” Her head tilts knowingly to one side. “But what things you have seen! What experiences have you obtained?” 

Her voice– her voice is right. That's her Liara: full of wonder and enthusiasm for the things she has yet to discover. An archeologist: forever digging, forever searching. 

“I have information you need.” And just like that, she changes again. From innocent archaeologist to secretive Shadowbroker. 

“Information?” 

“Indeed,” Liara says, holding out her hand. “I have the rest of the cipher.” 

“The cipher?” Her mind whirled. “You already helped me with the cipher. We already defeated the Reapers. I am—” 

Dead? What was she? Where was she? 

“No, the cipher you need to understand what lies before you. The new flock that follows its shepherd.”

“Before me? Flock? What are you talking about, Liara?”

She withdraws her hand and tilts her head. “Liara–” She says the name, its form and sound dripping from her lips like honey. “No, and yes. I am her, but less, and more.”

“Alright, I'm either dead, dreaming, or this is one hell of a shore leave.”

“Dead or dreaming,” Liara says, “I am what you need, and you have what I seek.”

“Which is?” 

She smiles again. Eager, enthusiastic. “Information. An equal trade, I think. One helping the other.” 

“And what information is that exactly?” 

“Everything: all you know, and all you have seen, all you have lived, and all you have lost.”  

Shepard considers her for a moment, then relents. “I have no idea what is going on, but if you need help and can help me, go ahead. Things can't get any worse.” 

“A deal then,” Liara says, reaching her hand out again. “Open your mind, and–” 

“-and embrace eternity, I know.” Shepard sighs while she takes Liara’s hand. 

“No,” Liara says, bringing their hands up together. 

Light encompasses her, warm, bright, and burning. Her mind and consciousness expand. For a moment, she knows and sees all, and it is too much. She thinks she will burn with it, but then, she feels herself being pulled back and dimmed like a flaming fire to a flickering candle. 

“Embrace Knowledge,” Liara says. 

With a gasp, she wakes.

Chapter Text

It takes her a moment to realize she’s alive. 

The pain helps confirm it. 

Her heartbeat is pounding in her ears, her left hand aches, and as she sits up, her muscles scream. Slowing her movements, she takes in deep breaths, cleansing the confusion and panic from her mind. After a few moments, her adrenaline settles, and she swings her legs off the side of the itchy bed. She’s in a small, one-room, rustic cabin. In the corner, a raven in a cage peers at her, flaps its long wings, and squawks. 

Suddenly, the door swings open. In an instant, Shepard is on her feet, biotics flaring blue around her. There is a shrill, piercing shriek as a small, slender woman with pointed ears drops a crate to the ground as she falls on the floor. Her eyes are large and frightened. 

“Sorry,” Shepard says, disengaging as she stoops down to offer the woman a hand. “You startled me.” 

“ Oh! I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” She shrieks, stumbling over her words and cowering back from Shepard’s outstretched hand. 

“Don’t worry about it. Let me help you up.” 

Instead, the woman shakes her head and crawls onto her knees, bowing to her. “ I beg your forgiveness and your blessing. I am but a humble servant. You are back in Haven, my Lady. They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days.”

Shocked, Shepard stares at her for a few moments. The woman is frightened of her. Yes, a lot of people are frightened of her, Krogan included, but this… this is reverence. She doesn’t like it. It disturbs her so much that it takes her a moment to register what she said. 

“Three days?”

“Y-yes, my Lady. They say you almost—almost died, b-but the Maker must have saved you for saving us. For which, we are extremely thankful.”

“Better than two years.”

“My Lady?”

Wait. Wait. The woman answered; she understood. How? Her translator only translates languages into her own, not the other way around. Was she speaking English then? She shakes her head. That, she can figure out later. 

“The Breach, it’s gone?”

“The Breach is still in the sky, but the danger has passed. At least, that’s what they say.”

Shepard sighs with relief. “Well then,”  Carefully, she helps lift the woman up by the arm. “Let’s hope that it stays that way.”

The woman shrugs out of her grasp and backs towards the door. “I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve awakened. She said, ‘At once. ’” 

“Cassandra? She’s here?” 

“In the Chantry, with the Lord Chancellor. ‘At once,’ she said,” the words tumble out of the woman’s mouth in a rush. As soon as she finishes speaking, she turns and runs out of the cabin. The crate is left forgotten on the floor. 

“What’s a Chantry?”

The raven squawks in its cage.

“Well, at least I don’t have to play charades anymore, hopefully,” she tells her feathered companion. 

It squawks again. 

Shepard takes in a long, deep breath and follows through the door. Outside, a wall of people has formed after the woman who ran out, babbling nervously about telling Cassandra. She expects to see the same hostility and suspicion in their eyes. Instead, she sees awe and reverence… just like the woman had shown. It unnerves her. 

Carefully, she traverses through the crowds, following the direction where the woman had run. Occasionally, she picks up words or phrases from them, such as “Herald” and “Andraste”. Finally, after limping up two sections of stairs, she recognizes the large, stone structure as the church-like building she was held prisoner in before. Hopefully, she won’t be going to prison again. Who keeps a prison in a church anyway? 

Walking down the long hallway, she hears voices getting louder as she reaches the end. Through the door, she hears the voice of Cassandra arguing with another familiar voice. One she can’t quite place. 

“The prisoner failed, Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, she intended it this way.”

“I do not believe that,” Cassandra’s voice replies.

“That is not for you to decide. Your duty is to serve the Chantry.” 

“My duty is to serve the principles on which the Chantry was founded, Chancellor. As is yours.”

Shepard opens the door. Immediately, she recognizes Cassandra, Leliana, and the annoying priest from the bridge. Aside from them are two guards in heavy armor standing by the door. They all turn as she enters. 

“Chain her!” The priest says to the guards. “I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial.”

“Try that, and you’ll travel to a hole in the ground,” she says, readying herself for a potential scuffle.

Cassandra, thankfully, steps forward. “Disregard that, and leave us.”

The guards bring their arms over their chest in a salute before withdrawing from the room. Shepard doesn’t untense until the door closes behind them. 

“ You walk a dangerous line, Seeker,” the priest threatens. 

“The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat. I will not ignore it.” Cassandra then ignores the priest and looks at her, eyes narrowing. “I understood you, just now. You can speak our language then.”

“Perhaps I just needed a hit to the head,” Shepard shrugs, deflecting. “I heard about the Breach. Any ideas on how I can fix it permanently… without killing me, that is?”

“Your act of concern does not fool us, as you yet live. A convenient result, insofar as you’re concerned.” The priest scowls.

“Have a care, Chancellor,” Cassandra warns. “The Breach is not the only threat we face.”

“So… you still think I’m responsible?” She asks.

“You absolutely are!” the Chancellor says.

 “No, she is not!”

Shepard raises her eyebrow at Cassandra. “That’s a change in tune. You believe I’m innocent now?”

She sighs, “I was wrong. Perhaps I still am. I will not, however, pretend you were not exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

Leliana steps forward and eyes the Chancellor. “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others… or have allies who yet live.”

Roderick gapes at her. “I am a suspect?”

Leliana sneers, “You, and many others.”

“But not the prisoner?” 

“I heard the voices in the temple,” says Cassandra. “The Divine called to her for help.”

The Chancellor did not seem convinced. “So her survival, that thing on her hand—all a coincidence?”

“He’s got a point,” Shepard concedes. “I honestly don’t know if I didn’t have anything to do with it. Regardless, I will try to help fix things as best I can.”

She knows that it would be in her best interest to be quiet, but even though those voices and visions showed that she was trying to help someone, she has no memory of what happened. Without evidence, she very well could have caused the Breach. Intentionally or not. She would not shy away from responsibility. 

Cassandra and Leliana both seem stunned by this possible admission. The Chancellor harrumphs in victory beside her, but Cassandra dismisses it. “No, it was providence. The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour.”

“You think your God, this Maker, sent me?”

“The maker does as He wills. It is not for me to say. We lost everything…” Cassandra’s voice breaks for a moment. “Then, out of nowhere, you came.”

“Oh, for–seriously?” She lets out a disbelieving laugh. “You think I'm some kind of ‘chosen one' sent by your God? There can be other explanations, you know.”

“No, I do not know.” Cassandra's brow creases. “No matter what you are, or what you believe, you are exactly what we need. That is all that matters.”

“Now that I can get behind. The Breach is stable now, so what else can I do to help?”

“We must try again.”
“And your mark is still our only hope of closing it,” adds Leliana. 

The Chancellor points at Cassandra, “This is not for you to decide.”

Cassandra, jaw clenched, but head held high, slams a large book on the table. In the middle of the book, a silver eye embellishes it. 

“Do you know what this is, Chancellor? A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn. We will close the breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval.”

As she speaks, she approaches him, jabbing an accusing finger back at him. With each jab, he takes a step back, before angrily waving her off and stomping out of the room. 

“Nicely done,” Shepard hums in amusement. “Politicians would talk you to death as the world burns. Literally.” 

Cassandra snorts. “I do not doubt it.”

“So, what's this writ exactly?”

“This is the Divine’s directive: rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos.”  Leliana answers. “We aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.”

“But we have no choice: we must act now.” Cassandra turns to her. “With you at our side.”

“What is ‘the Inquisition of old,’ exactly?”

“It preceded the Chantry,” Leliana explains. “People who banded together to restore order in a world gone mad.”

“After, they laid down their banner and formed the Templar Order.” Cassandra shakes her head. “But the Templars have lost their way. We need those who can do what must be done united under a single banner once more.” 

Shepard’s mind buzzes with a hundred questions. “This Chantry, it's your church? Temple?”

Leliana’s eyes widen. “You haven't heard of the Chantry? Where are you from, exactly?”

“A long way away.” 

Her response does little to ease the crease forming on Leliana's face. “Evidently.” 

She will have to be careful around her. 

“It is an organization of our religion. We follow the Maker, who created this world, and Andraste, his beloved bride, who was slain while spreading his chant across Thedas.” 

“And your Chantry holds power politically,” Shepard replies to Cassandra. “So are you part of this Chantry?” 

This earns her another snort from the firm warrior. “Is that what you see?”

“The Chantry will take time to find a new divine,” Leliana pauses, considering her. “That is the title we give to its leader–and then, it will wait for her direction.” 

“But we cannot wait. So many Grand Clerics died at the Conclave…” Cassandra shakes her head, determination evident in her face. “No, we are on our own. Perhaps forever.”

This time, it's Shepard who snorts. “What? The people in power are ignoring the actual problem because they would rather argue among themselves? Perhaps to gain more power? Asses are asses wherever you go, apparently.”

“You sound familiar with these types of people,” Leliana notes. 

“Yeah, I tend to ignore them. Do it a couple of times often enough and they learn to stop shoving bullcrap down your throat.”

That earns a sharp laugh from Cassandra, who blushes and clears her throat. 

Shepard sobers. “If you still need my help…”

Leliana inclines her head. “We do.” 

“Then you have it.” 

Cassandra holds out her hand. “With you, we can fix this before it's too late.”

Shepard shakes her hand firmly. “When I woke up, I certainly didn’t picture this outcome… or thought I'd wake up for that matter.”

“Neither did we,” says Leliana grimly. 

Cassandra offers a slight smile. “But we are glad you did.”

Shepard’s stomach grumbles, echoing through the room. 

“Do you think I have time to eat before saving the world?”

Leliana chuckles. “That, I think, we can manage.”

_____

Shepard is directed to ‘The Singing Maiden’, a tavern. With drinks. Maybe this planet has something going for it after all. After she samples the local beverages, however, she changes her mind. What she wouldn't give for some Asari honey mead. 

The food, though a little bland, is good enough. To the surprise and amusement of Flissa, the owner, she cleans three plates in minutes. Finally, she can feel some of her energy return to her. The pain in her hand, however, has not gone away. 

After only a few minutes of sipping her beer–or mud water (she really can't tell), the room is crowded with piercing eyes. She hastily thanks Flissa and leaves. Just outside the door are some priestesses. 

“Excuse me,” she addressed them. “Do you know where I can find the sick bay–I mean… do you know where I can find someone with medicine?”

“Adan,” replies one of the priestesses. “He’s a healer, of sorts. Kept you alive, anyway.” 

“Where can I find him?” 

“Up those stairs, first cabin. Can't miss it,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “Did the Maker really send you to us? Not much to look at, are you?” 

“Mira!” The older priestess gasps. 

“What? I'm just saying she looks normal. Too normal. If the Maker really sent her, shouldn't she be too beautiful to behold: hair flowing in the wind, radiant white robes glistening in the sunlight as she calls down holy fire?” 

“She closed the sky, Mira,” the other priestesses says through gritted teeth. “While glowing . Honestly, if you had as much zeal for the Chant as you do for that dwarf’s romantic tales, the Chant of Light would be spread across the world within a week.”

“ I would do it in flowing robes,” Mira retorts, lifting her chin. 

The older priestess sighs. “Forgive her, Herald of Andraste. She is young, and therefore has a head full of fanciful tales rather than common sense.”

Mira sniffs, pouting her lips. “It's not my problem that the Chant is devoid of anything that feeds the imagination.” 

“It's supposed to feed the soul, Mira, not your imagination.” 

“Why can't it feed both?” 

The old priestess sighs. “You're right. Tonight, you can recite the Chant while you help Tessa clean the floors.” 

Mira frowns. “How does that feed my soul or imagination?” 

“The scrubbing, hopefully, can teach some humility while you imagine how you could have better learned the lesson.” 

“Um…I should go…” 

Shepard backs away slowly and hurries in the direction of Adan’s cabin. 

_____

She just reaches the top of the stairs when she notices a familiar figure standing off to the side. Hands clasped behind his back, standing tall, bare feet in the snow, is Solas, looking up at the Breach. He does not give any indication that he hears her, and not wanting to disturb him, she starts walking past, only to stop again as he speaks. 

“The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.” He turns, his cool eyes meet hers. 

She groans. “Not again.”

Brows lift up at her quizzically. 

She sighs. “I’m not a hero. For all I know, I caused this damn mess. If I did, I’d find a way to fix it.”

“Spoken nobly indeed.” His head tilts slightly to one side, studying her. “You say you do not know if you caused the Breach, and yet, you would stay to fix it?”

Shepard shrugs. “I clean up my messes.” 

“And if it is revealed not to be the mess you caused?”

“Unfortunately, I’m somewhat of an expert at cleaning up after people. Besides,” she looks up at the Breach and can almost see an old friend’s face. “Someone else might get it wrong.”

“Confident, but ultimately irrelevant—considering you are the only one with a means to close it.”

She laughs at that. “True, but I wouldn’t say I’m confident. Determined, maybe even hopeful, but I know how quickly confidence can screw you over. I’ve met enough ‘heroes’ who were confident they knew what they were doing, only for it to end in death.”

His lower jaw works like he’s chewing on a thought that won’t quite form. The way he looks at her is unnerving. It’s like how Liara looked at her the first time she talked to her about the Beacon. Analytical curiosity. The moment passes as Solas joins her in watching the Breach. 

“I have journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past of wars both famous and forgotten.” He turns back to her. “Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

“If I have to be one, I’d rather be the one forgotten. The one that walks into a crowd and remains noticed.”

His eyes soften, and his mouth droops slightly. “It isn’t an easy dream... but I wish you luck.” 

She nods, taken aback by the odd tenderness in his look and words. There is something about this man that seems so— poetic? The rhythm of his words is like a forgotten song. Mesmerizing, yet alluding. For some reason, she thinks Ashley would have liked him. 

“Solas?”

“Yes?” 

She considers her words carefully. Trying to think of a way to get answers without making it too glaringly evident just how much of a stranger she is to this world. Her question is a risky one, she knows, but something tells her asking him these things would be less damning than asking Cassandra or Leliana. 

“You mentioned the Fade and that you journeyed into it? In dreams?” 

If he is shocked by the question, he doesn't show it. His gaze is still steady. His stance is one of a patient teacher or a soldier. In fact, his voice gives a pleasing hum as he answers her.  

“Yes, any building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.” 

Well, that just gave her more bloody questions. Spirits? The Veil? The Fade? This was going to be a difficult game to play without showing her cards. Still, she tries again. 

“Sorry, but a lot of that went over my head. I guess I'm still confused by… well, everything really. I'm not from around here, and trying to keep up while fixing the Breach has been… overwhelming.” Absent-minded, she rubs at the pain in her hand. “I'm a long way from home,” she whispers, more to herself than him. 

For a moment, the silence that follows makes her fear she gave away too much. But then, his voice speaks gently to her again. 

“Cassandra did mention the question of your origins, but I had not thought to consider… Forgive me. If there is any way I can help ease your understanding, you have but to ask.”

“Thanks,” she says, and she means it. “You might start running the other direction after a while, though. I've been told I'm a bit relentless with my questions.” 

He lets out a short laugh. For some reason, it surprises her. Its lightness is in contrast to his rigid demeanor. She likes it all the more. 

“As have I. You need not fear me reclaiming the offer. Relentless pursuit of knowledge is often the only path to finding true wisdom, for which the world is always in much need.”  

“Especially when it's always falling apart.”

“Quite so,” he hums grimly, and she immediately misses his laugh. “If you would permit, a question of my own?”

Her heart skips wildly, but her voice is even. “Sure, fire away.”

“Before, you seemed to understand very little of the language. I am impressed with the fluency of it now in such a short time.” 

Again, his eyes shift around her face. He is studying her. Anticipating. Waiting. An all too familiar feeling of being hunted creeps up her skin. 

Careful. 

“That isn't a question,” she quips lightly, teasing, “but I understand your meaning. I don't know… too many hits to the head probably.” It is true. In part, she doesn't know. By all accounts, her translator shouldn't work for them. “I don't even remember how I got here.”

As soon as the words leave her lips, the hairs on her neck bristle. She said too much. 

“Oh? What is the last thing in your recent memory?”

She lets the silence linger: both to buy her time and to actually consider the question. What did she remember? 

London burning. Her world is on fire. Her people, her team, fighting, hurting, and… Kaidan. Anderson. Choices she didn't want to make. People she didn't want to leave. 

“I don't–” She lets out a gasp. 

Her chest hurts. Her head hurts. Her hand hurts. Everything hurts.

“I don't know.” She hates that her words come out shaking. Weakness. She hates feeling weak. 

“I'm sorry. I did not mean to cause you pain.” 

The words are calm. The hunter is gone from them, but replaced with something she equally dislikes. Pity. 

“I'm fine!” She snaps harshly. 

No. Remain in control. A soldier doesn't let their emotions control them. 

Shepard takes a deep breath and lets it go. “I'm fine,” she corrects smoothly, flashing him a quick glance. “Sorry.” 

The pity is gone from his face, for which she is glad. Instead, she thinks she sees a flash of recognition in his eyes. It unnerves her. She suddenly wants to be anywhere else but there. 

“Think nothing of it. You have been through much that would have seen a lesser spirit destroyed. Given enough time, your memories may yet restore themselves. For now, you must prepare for the difficult path that lies ahead.” 

Once again, his gaze is drawn to the Breach. Solas sets his jaw firmly as his eyes ease into determination. 

“I will stay then. At least, until the Breach has been closed.”

Shepherd can't help the genuine surprise bleed into her voice. “You were going to leave?”

“I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion, and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

Apostate? Mage? So many questions, but she bites them down. One thing she does know: he is afraid these people might turn on him. 

“But you’ve helped them–helped me. Varric said I wouldn't be alive without you,” she points out. “No one is going to hurt you for that.” 

Solas scoffs, his voice low. “How would you stop them?”

“Simple. They'd lose my cooperation.”

Surprise flickers through his eyes. “Thank you,” he says, and briefly looks down at the snow.

It's a simple phrase, but his husky tone and genuine surprise tell her she had thrown him off his guard. Trust doesn't come easy to him, she thinks.

“For now, let us hope either the mages or the templars have the power to seal the Breach.” 

He doesn't say it, but she recognizes an urge for dismissal when she hears one. 

“I should go.” 

With a nod, she turns and walks into Adan's cabin. Even as she thanks the grumpy healer for saving her life and inquiring about the medicine he calls “potions”, her mind is haunted by the strange man with loneliness and mistrust in his voice. 

_____

When Shepard steps out of Adan’s cabin, she doesn’t realize she is even looking for Solas until she feels disappointment at his lack of presence. 

She has so many questions running through her head, and he is willing to answer them. 

For a moment, she considers looking for him, but decides against it. She has disturbed him enough for one day. Besides, she has her own private task to complete. One best done away from inquisitive minds.  

Slowly, she makes her way back to the cabin they have given her. In her arms is a small crate full of potions that Adan had begrudgingly parted with. She will have to make it up to him by finding those notes for him later. Once inside and finally alone, she sighs, puts down the crate, and sinks to the floor. 

Lifting her arm, she hesitates a moment, braces herself, then activates her omni tool. Familiar clicks and hums greet her as orange light illuminates the room. She immediately starts clicking away, looking for logs, records, or anything else that might clue her in to what has happened. 

What she finds is more alarming than anything she has prepared herself for. Nothing. Her omni tool has nothing. No previous records. No recordings. No data of any kind. 

A heavy weight settles in her gut. She checks the manufacturer information. Logic Arrest. 

Kaidan. 

This was Kaidan’s favorite omni tool. She checks the installation date. 2192. 

Five years. It's been five years since the Reapers. Five years since she…

Her eyes close, shutting out the thought. 

“No tears, no fears,” she orders herself. 

After a breath, she begins searching again. There had to be something. There had to be. There…there! She had almost missed it. It blinks at her in bright letters. 

User/Activity/Action: Navigational Point 

Her heart soars. Bolting off the floor, she snatches a long, woolen cloak off the bed and drapes it over her shoulders. Going to the door, she pulls up her hood, covering her face, and steps out into the night.

She has a mission to complete, and not even a thresher maw was going to keep her from it. 

____

It isn’t long before she spots the figure following her. 

She has made it past the stables and is heading towards the main bridge; the nav point is located past the destroyed temple. A bit of a journey on foot, but one she can make within a night if done swiftly. That is why it is with great irritation that she doubles back when she spots her follower. 

If it wasn't for years of training, along with her paranoia, she never would have noticed them. It takes some doing, but she finally loses the red-headed, pointy-eared woman when she dips into the tavern and comes out the other side door in someone else's cloak. This one isn't as warm as the other, but at least it confuses her shadow enough to aid her escape.

She is going to have some words with Leliana and Cassandra about spying on her. Strong words. 

Once she passes the bridge with no other signs of being followed, she breathes a little easier. Instead of traveling the road directly, she sticks to it from a distance, just in case her shadow decides to send a search party out. 

The air is cold, and when she has to trudge up a slope or hill, icy snow gets in her boots and soaks her feet. What she wouldn’t give for her thermal-webbed gear. And a gun. Stars, does she miss her gun. As thankful as she is to still have her omni blade, she would rather have an option of ranged protection. Especially on a planet alone and full of unknowns.

Finally, she sees the temple in the distance. It's odd, being back down this path after the chaos from before. Except for the wind, it's eerily quiet. Shivering, she pulls up her omni tool and checks the nav point again. It shouldn't be too much farther. 

After another half hour trudging through the ice and snow, she sees faint lights in the distance. A village, perhaps. She stops and checks the location again. It should be in an area close by. The terrain is rocky and full of sudden gaps. Fir trees line the edges of the cliffs and occasionally blow snow dust into the wind. After a quick double check around her, she starts scanning the area. 

Even though she is not a scientist, Shepard is still fascinated by what her scans pick up. Some of the foliage and minerals have foreign elements unknown to her, but a lot of what she sees isn’t so different from Earth. She could almost believe she had simply gone back in time—almost. Liara and Mordin would have a field day. That thought sobers her, and for the rest of her search, she prohibits her mind from straying that way again. 

When the area isn’t providing anything new, she sighs and continues walking. Ahead, the terrain takes a sudden drop down into the valley below. She starts scanning again, and after a few minutes, starts to backtrack when her scanner picks up something familiar. Her pulse quickens. Spinning back around, she scans the foot of the rocks below the cliff again. 

Match Confirmed

Without hesitation, she flares her biotics and lifts herself down to the rocks below. At first, she doesn’t see anything but rocks and snow, but then a slight glimmer catches in the moonlight. Her hands instantly reach forward, clawing at the rocks and sending them tumbling aside carelessly. The sharp edges of the rocks cut her hands, trickling a few drops of bright red onto the snow, but still, she digs. Finally, her fingers find its treasure, and with one frustrated, desperate pull, it comes free. 

For a long while, she sits there in the dark, cold of the night, and doesn't move. Her fingers, now cold and caked with dirt and blood, caress the smooth curves and edges of the symbol most dear to her: N7. There, alone in the calm and quiet, holding her old, battered helmet, she finally releases her mind from its carefully contained cage and cries.

The tears fall quickly down her face. It isn't long before she can taste salt on her lips and feel her collar dampen. Her shoulders shake and tremble as her body struggles to breathe deeply. How long she stays this way, she doesn’t know. She is numb to everything around her except the feel of the letters on her fingertips. The only trace left of her home. 

When the tears would no longer come, she wipes her face with her sleeve and starts digging again. This time, it doesn’t take long for her to find the rest of her armor. It had been wrapped in an old, rumpled sack. She checks inside to make sure it’s all there before carefully placing her helmet inside with it. 

Suddenly, there is a sound of trampling feet, and rocks slide down the cliff above and settle around her. Whirling around, she prepares for an attack, but sees nothing but the bleak, uninterested eyes of a ram as it chews on some twigs at the edge of the cliff above. Shepard shakes her head, slings her sack over her shoulder, and begins the long trek back. 

In the dark, two gold eyes watch her, unseen. 

Chapter Text

Solas doesn’t particularly care for his mead. He would prefer wine, but options are limited in this deprived world. Besides, a knife ear drinking wine in a bedraggled tavern would draw attention unbeneficial to his task. Thus he sits, surreptitiously sipping at his pint while giving the occasional glance at the windows. 

It has been nearly a week and a day since his agents dropped word of their success. Now, he has only to wait. Waiting should be easy. For a millennium, he has bided his time in the dreaming, moving pieces from the shadows. Now that his plans are so near completion, the anticipation clutches at his throat like a knife’s edge. He hopes the cut will be swift and clean. Though the inhabitants of this world flit about like flippant shadows, he is not so callous as to presume they cannot feel pain. Even animals cry out before the blade is plunged, and a good hunter knows how to kill swiftly. 

The tavern is full and lively with chatter, clinking glasses, and drunken singing. A large, circular fire is roaring in the corner, and above it roasts a ram. The smell of sweat and other, more obscene, bodily fluids permeates the air. Thankfully, the pint of mead under his nose helps alleviate it some. Throwing his head back, he takes a long swig and then shakes his head at the tingling sensation as it goes down his throat. 

Suddenly, his attention is drawn from his taste’s discomfort when the sound of an arrow hitting wood silences the tavern in an instant. Across the room, a man stands gaping at his arm, which is pinned by an arrow to the wall. Flicking his eyes to the door, he sees a beardless dwarf holding a rather unusual crossbow. Everyone around him is collectively holding their breath. 

“She’s not interested,” says the dwarf. Stepping forward, a smirk appears on his lips. “But Bianca here is a sucker for dumb, drunk, and ugly.”

Growling, the man pulls his arm free and reaches for a knife…only for a well-placed arrow to knock it from his hand. 

The dwarf huffs. “Take a hint, human.”

That is the moment all his carefully laid plans fail. 

A sudden roar fills the air as a blast of green light electrifies the sky. The ground shakes as waves of energy ripple through the earth, and great winds from the blast tear through the windows and blow snow through the open door. 

Solas is thrown backwards to the wall, his tank of mead spilling on the ground. For a moment, he sits there, stunned. The instantaneous change in the veil is staggering. He can feel it still. It was like cracked glass on his skin, sharp and cutting. Something had gone terribly wrong. 

In an instant, he is on his feet and wading through the chaos of shrieking people and tangled limbs. He reaches the door where the dwarf is still standing, reloading his crossbow and looking up towards the sky. Solas follows his gaze. 

Despair forces the air out of his lungs as he beholds the harvest of years upon years of effort. Above him is a broken sky. The veil has been torn asunder, leaving a massive, gaping hole of magical energy that is warping in and out upon itself. A sky being pulled in two directions to two completely different worlds. Meteors of magical energy fall from the fade; some explode on impact, while others bring through spirits–spirits which are twisted into demons. 

What has he done? 

“Shit.” The dwarf hangs his head and shakes it morosely. “Not again.” 

With an odd look of determination, he reloads his crossbow, just in time for a meteor to land thirty feet ahead. A demon appears in its wake. The dwarf suddenly takes notice of Solas. With a quick glance, he looks him over. 

“Better get behind me,” mumbles the dwarf as the demon starts towards them. “This could get ugly.” 

The arrow hits the shade in the eye. It gives a shriek and falters, then charges at them with more vehemence. This time, the dwarf lets loose three arrows in rapid succession, and the shade dissipates just ten feet before them. Its energy returns to the fade. Solas feels a sudden shift in the veil around him, and his eyes look to their left to see another shade that had been sneaking up on them unawares. Without a thought, Solas lifts his hand and freezes it in place. Then, with a quick blast of magic, it shatters into pieces. 

The dwarf lifts an eyebrow at him. “Maybe I'd better get behind you.” 

“Maker! The sky…” They both turn to see the man, who moments before had tried to throw a dagger at the dwarf. His mouth hangs open in shock and fear. “It’s the end of the world!”

“Don’t shit your pants yet,” the dwarf says. “Just run off and find someplace to hide. Leave the saving of the world to the experts.” 

Another demon falls. 

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” The man screams as he pushes past them and takes off running. 

The dwarf shakes his head before firing at the demon. “So, you’re a mage, huh? Any idea what’s caused it to rain demons?”

“At a guess, whatever powerful magic caused the explosion.” Solas freezes another demon, and the dwarf shatters it with an explosive arrow. 

“No kidding. All I can say is it better not be a mage… I’ve already met one who liked to blow things up. It started this damn war.”

He must leave. Find out what happened. Find what went wrong and fix it. He must stop this madness before it’s too late. The orb. He has to get to the orb. Nothing else matters if it is destroyed. For it to be gone would mean—no, he will not even think it. It must be there, where it happened. He will go there. He will find a way. He must. 

Moving swiftly, he goes to the corner of the building and pulls out his staff that he had safely stowed away behind some logs. The staff still feels strange in his hands. If only he had recovered enough power, but then, he wouldn’t be in this mess now, as it were. Staff now in hand, he looks toward the tear in the veil and takes a step towards his retreat when another figure approaches. 

Sword drawn and breath heavy with effort, a woman in a Seeker uniform stomps up to the dwarf. “You’re alive! Thank the Maker!”

The dwarf laughs. “Worried about your prisoner, Seeker? Now that’s a good book title. ‘The Seeker and the Prisoner’: a tale of forbidden love.”

The Seeker scowls viciously at him. “I swear I shall feed you to a demon myself if you don’t—“

“Alright, alright! Don’t get your braid in a tangle.” The dwarf points at Solas with his crossbow. “My friend and I were just introducing ourselves to the demons. A bit handy to have around, too.”

He needs to leave. Now. 

“We need to get to the conclave. Now! Everyone there—The Divine—“ The panic in her voice is evident. “I must find Leliana. She can help rally what troops we can and rescue whoever may still be alive.”

The conclave. They were going there? Perhaps then, this was just what he needs to get as close as he can without suspicion. There is a level of risk, putting himself, an apostate, in the reach of a Seeker. However, the urgency and need to find out what happened is all too great. 

“I shall accompany you, if you permit me.”

The Seeker takes in his humble dress before narrowing in on his staff. “That will not be necessary.”

“Come now, Seeker! Did you miss the part where I said he’s been useful to have around? Or are we not heading straight into demon town?”

Solas presses just a bit more. “My magical abilities extend beyond the battlefield. I am a dreamer, and as such, have a great familiarity and knowledge of the fade that many lack. If you are truly going to the heart of the breach, a closer study may help determine how to best close it.”

“See? Helpful,” poked the dwarf.

The Seeker sighs. “Very well, but we must move. Now.”  She takes off at a brisk pace, not waiting to see if they follow.

“Varric Tethras,” the dwarf greets him. He pats his crossbow with an amusing tenderness. “And this is Bianca.”

“Well met, child of the stone.”

“So, fade expert? Huh. Do you think that anyone at the conclave is alive?”

“No,” he says firmly. Inwardly, he fears he is wrong. If the creature had managed to…no. Impossible. 

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine?” Varric quips grimly. “Let’s not fall behind then, Chuckles. Cassandra will feed us to the demons if we do.”

“Solas,” he corrects him.

“As I said, Chuckles.” 

They speak no more as they traverse the chaos of the night. 

_____

The cut had not been clean. 

It is far worse than he had ever feared. There is no sign of the creature—either he died in the blast or…no. He still cannot think of it. Not only is the orb nowhere to be found, but the conclave and all that attended, completely destroyed, and the anchor, the key to all his power, is sealed in the hand of a human woman. The only means of saving his people lies in the fumbling hands of a human. Humans, the current oppressors of the remaining shadows of his former people.

Oh, the painful irony. 

The human had fallen out of a rift, through the very fade itself, and lived. That, at least, brings him a small bit of hope. If he can remove the anchor from her, then all this chaos, all this effort, need not have been in vain. In the end, the task proves to be a difficult one. Soldiers have dragged her from the temple, unconscious, burned, and bleeding, with the anchor flaring in her hand. Cassandra gave orders for her immediate arrest, and now she lies in the dark, damp of the Chantry cell, dying. 

Solas bends over the bedraggled body and lets his magic seep into its arm. The familiar aura of his old power recognizes him in return and flares to life. The human lets out a cry, even in her feverish state, and it echoes loudly through the empty cell. He stops in contemplation. Even if he heals her, he doubts the human will survive the magic in her hand for long. Humans will die anyway; it is only a matter of how and when. A good hunter kills its prey swiftly. It will be better this way. 

Resolute in his task, he grasps her hand and pulls at the anchor with his magic. He is not gentle, but he intends to be swift. Green light bursts from her hand as he pours all his will into drawing the raw power to him. Sharp screams of hot pain reverberate in his ears, but he sets his jaw and tries again. The anchor holds. It will not come to him. Not without the orb. 

It is with great despair and regret that he releases them both. The anchor lets out one last spark before it sputters and settles in her hand. All had been for nothing. There was no hope now, no hope except… 

He studies her now, really studies her. Her body is quivering violently from the pain of his efforts. There are fresh burn marks on her hands and forearms that are blistering over. Green, yellow, and purple bruises are evident on her face and abdomen, and blood has dried around her nose and mouth. Even without the anchor consuming her body, she is in a dire state. Yet, there is no better option but to try and save her. Without her, there was no anchor, and no way to fix what he had failed to foresee. 

With a heavy sigh, he sets to work. First, he must stabilize the anchor, or healing her wounds will be for nothing. He begins by placing wards inside her hand in hopes of obstructing any further expansion. It proves to be more complicated than he thought; not unlike trying to build a dam over a rapidly flooding river. He will have to recast them later, he knows, but for now, it will have to do. Then, he turns his focus to her burns and begins with cooling healing magic. 

That is when he feels something amiss. 

While the magic is having an effect on her wounds, there is an unfamiliar hum and energy beneath her skin. Curious, he pauses, and begins probing at it with caution. Something about this human is wrong; that much is very clear as his magic explores her body. Parts of her feel missing—incomplete. There is blood, muscle, and bone: the same as any human. However, what stuns him is his recognition of what is there that should not be. Frowning, he passes his magic over her again. No, there is no mistake. There is metal inside her, holding her together where bone and tissue should be. Something has infused metal throughout her body as a whole. Even more disturbing: the metal was not separate, but a part of her. Necessary. To remove one would destroy the other. 

This should not be possible. 

There is more. An energy. Not magic, but ever-present in her. It is humming, strange and unfamiliar.

“What are you?” he asks in a whisper, equal parts curious and disturbed. Before he can investigate further, he hears the familiar footsteps of the Seeker enter the cell. He stops casting and turns to see her disgruntled face. 

“Well? Will she live?”

“I—do not know. Her wounds are extensive. Even without the mark, healing will take time.”

Solas does not mention his discovery, not until he himself knows what it might mean. It may not even matter, in the end. 

“You must know!” she demands, voice rising. “You said you are an expert with these things. Now you say you do not?” 

“I have an expertise with the fade, yes; and while I have a relative knowledge of healing magic, I am no healer.”

“If she dies, I will personally see that you do as well, apostate !”

He feels a warm anger rise in his chest. “I cannot answer if a spirit has the strength left to fight or simply let go!”

“For your sake, you'd better hope that she does.” Scowling, she left as quickly as she had come. 

Contempt boiled within him. No matter. He had no intention of lingering longer than was necessary. If all else fails and he cannot help seal the Breach, he will take his chances with demons rather than putting his life in the hands of frantic humans. For now, he will try to help. 

Again, his magic seeps under her skin, mending what it can. There is no time for curiosity about what manner of creature she is. He notes with alarm that it takes almost double the amount of magic to help heal even the slightest of her wounds: as though something in her body is actively resistant to it. After a while, he feels a sickening ache in his muscles as his mana is all but depleted. He has done all he can. The rest is up to her. 

She sleeps, not peacefully, but in quiet stillness. The only sound is her breath wheezing from her mouth in slow, heavy breaths. He does not believe she will wake. How can she? So frail and weak, these things that roam this fractured world. 

He leaves the human to her fate. 

_____

The demons are endless. 

Just as he and Varric clear the area, more inevitably come through the rift. He has tried countless times enough to close it on his own. A desperate attempt. A vain attempt. What a weak thing he has become: too powerless to destroy his own creation. 

It infuriates him. 

It shames him. 

Still, he remains and helps fight. One more time. One more try. Again and again. His mana and will are waning. This was a mistake; his mistake, no doubt, but to linger any longer will be a greater one. To remain means his death–if the Seeker really would make true her threats. He does not doubt that she would.

Slowly, tactfully, he starts to fall back to the edges of the battle. It isn't long before he is positioned behind Varric and the rest of the soldiers. Out of their line of sight, it will be an easy thing to slip away and get lost in the chaos and terrain. All he has left to do is dispose of the demons following him, and then he will be gone. There is a slight twinge of regret at the thought of Varric, still determinedly fighting a lost cause, but he snuffs it out quickly. He has to get away if he is to come up with another plan. 

Two demons have followed him to the edge where he now stands. His muscles tighten in anticipation of his intent to flee. Very soon now. He will kill them quickly, then flee. Just as he is about to cast, he notices a flurry of movement in the distance. 

Looking up, he holds his breath from the shock of what he sees. There, before him, fighting off a demon with nothing but a short blade, is the woman he had left for dead. In fascination, he watches her move with swiftness, though he notes a stiffness in her movements where the worst of her injuries had been. She lives. Newfound hope springs within him, and he attacks the demons with renewed vigor. 

A blast of ice freezes one of the demons, giving him time to assess the one closest to him. That is when he sees her. In a flash of movement, her blade cuts across the demon’s neck as it breaks free from his ice spell. It disperses back into the fade. Pulling the energy of the fàde around, Solas releases it in a blast that sends the other demon staggering backwards, right into her blade. 

Violet eyes meet his, and the world shifts around him. 

Solas blinks the sensation away and hastily strides to her side. “Quickly, before more come through!” he urges and reaches for her hand. 

A jolt of pain floods his wrist as she grabs him instead, deflecting and ready to fight. Then, she opens her mouth and speaks. Her words are utterly foreign to him, and even the accent is lost to his ears. The flow is sharp and clipped. His brows pull together tightly as he listens. More and more of this human woman keeps surprising him. With caution, so as not to startle her, he slowly points their joined hands to the rift. 

“You must use the mark. Quickly!” 

The woman blinks once before releasing his wrist and spreads her hand to the sky, as if reaching to grasp hold of the stars. The anchor responds instantly, and he feels the energy in the air around them as it leaps out of her hand and into the rift. Solas feels time stop around him. This moment was all that stood between success and disaster. If she cannot wield it, withstand its power, his renewed hope will be all for not. With a crackling flourish of energy, the rift closes. 

In an instant, the world snaps into place. 

“Well done,” he says to her. 

The woman turns, and he is lost in violet. They are deep and rich, like the petals of a deathroot in bloom. It suits her, he realizes, for although not in her physical peak, he can see the firm muscles in her arms and legs. For the first time, he notices a thin, jagged scar cutting through the arch of her left brow. An old scar. She is a vessel that has honed itself for battle well. A deadly weapon indeed.

Suddenly, he is very much aware that her eyes have not left his face once. Her eyes roam across his face unabashed and linger on his ears. To her credit, he does not see any contempt or animosity in her as he stares at them. Quite the opposite, in fact, she seems curious. 

When her unusual eyes wander back to his, she seems momentarily flustered and retreats to looking at her hand. The anchor is now quiet in her, though he can still feel its presence nonetheless. Cassandra joins them then. Solas thinks it's the first time he has not seen her angry. It is almost unnerving. 

“It worked!”

“Indeed,” he agrees, but turns back to the woman.  “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake – and it seems I was correct.”

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” Cassandra concludes. 

“Possibly,“ he concurs and looks at the woman again. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

Solas waits, expecting what he does not know. Ultimately, it is Varric that interrupts the momentary silence. 

“Good to know! Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” He lifts his crossbow and secures it behind him on his back. “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally…” he winks at Cassandra, “…unwelcome tagalong.”

Cassandra scowls at Varric. Meanwhile, the woman looks at the dwarf and inclines her head in a silent greeting. Cassandra adjusts her sword and lets out a sigh. Solas looks to Cassandra, who must have seen the curiosity in his face, for she lets out a long sigh. 

“I am not sure if she is able to fully understand you. She seems to…not be from here. Presumably. Whether it is a clever ruse to avoid answering questions, however, remains to be seen.”

“Truly?” It is not completely surprising, given into account what he found upon examining her with magic, as well as the strange language he is unable to pinpoint. 

The woman nods silently to him. 

Cassandra and Varric begin bickering again, but his attention remains on the strange woman. Just how far away is she from her homeland? Perhaps, not even from Thedas but from across the seas? If so, how and why is she here, at exactly this moment of crucial events? The timing is uncanny—and unlikely. Suspicion crawls its way to the back of his mind. 

“Varric,” Her lips roll the name in a strange tone, but not beyond recognition. 

“She speaks!” Varric gasps, either in mock surprise or actual astonishment, Solas couldn’t tell. 

“Seemingly a little.”

“Enough to show she appreciates my company.”

Solas shakes his head at the dwarf. While Varric has proved to be a surprisingly admirable company in a short time, he has a way of rankling people in a way that tests even his patience. “She may reconsider that stance, in time.” 

“Aww. I’m sure we’ll become great friends in the valley, Chuckles.”

Once again, Cassandra and Varric have a battle of words and stubborn heads. He waits until there is a pause in their standoff before making an effort to communicate with the woman again. She seems to understand far more than she is able to speak.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.” And something inside of him, perhaps a twinge of regret, makes him add, “I’m pleased to see you still live.”

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

This seems to pique her interest in him even more, and through deliberate body language accompanied by foreign words, she conveys her gratitude. Solas looks down at the snow as a sliver of shame falls on him. He was, after all, responsible for its threat to her life, as well as giving up on her survival altogether only hours ago. Inclining his head, a bitter smile tugs at his mouth. 

“Thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process.”

“Like you, Solas is an apostate. Well-versed in such matters,” Cassandra says.

He admits, somewhat reluctantly to himself, that he is happy to correct the Seeker. She did, after all, threaten to kill him regardless of his assistance. “Technically, all mages are now apostates, Cassandra. My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed regardless of origin.”

“I don’t think she quite got all that, Chuckles.”

Solas notices the woman shaking her head. There is a slight warmth to her cheeks and pull of her brows that further hints at her frustration. 

“Apologies,” he says to her, though he does not know if she understands his meaning. 

After a brief while of debating what to do next, they finally start moving forward. The woman walks briskly between him and Varric. As they start down the riverbank, Varric glances over his shoulder at her. “By the way, I assume you have a name besides ‘The Prisoner’?

The woman only nods.

Varric laughs. “Care to share it, or is it one of those names that are too embarrassing for polite company?”

Once again, Solas notes the way her brows pull together as she lets out a frustrated sigh. Her eyes dance around them before speaking in a slow, over-enunciation of what is presumably her name. Suddenly, a meteor falls from the Breach, bringing a demon with it. Without even the slightest show of hesitation, the woman charges it with a ferocity he has seen only in the boldest of warriors. 

“Huh. I don’t know what in the Maker’s name she said, but that girl has the balls and looks of a charging bronto.”  

Solas agrees silently, though he would not have used that particular turn of phrase. Thinking back to how her lips formed her name, he tries to mimic the sounds in his mind. It would be best to know the name of the one who may still die, despite having defeated the odds once already. If he can, he will remember her name. 

She deserves that much, at least. 

They finally make it to the forward camp, only to come upon Leliana, the spymaster, in a heavy argument with a Chancellor of the Chantry. Precious minutes are being wasted by their pointless argument of blame and a show of limited power. Solas feels his patience wearing thin as they continue yet again the pointless circular argument. Apparently, so does the survivor. 

With a blast of words, she slams her hand down on the table, bringing a halt to their petty bickering. She continues on her passionate tirade, and even though they cannot understand her ways, she makes sure to get the point across with deliberate, exaggerated gestures. Her intention is clear: she is done waiting, and she is ordering them to take her to the Breach. Quietly, Solas allows himself a brief huff of amusement, especially when she yells at the indignant Chancellor what he assumes to be “shut up”. 

This display of commanding confidence inspires action in the direction they need to be. Solas inwardly commends her for being able to produce such swift results despite her language barrier. They finally head into the valley towards the remains of the conclave and the foothold of the Breach. When they arrive, they are just in time to help the soldiers there in securing the area of demons that are emerging from a nearby rift. 

“Be wary—” He is unable to complete his warning before the woman charges forward. 

At first, he is cursing at her recklessness and moves to restrain her, but halts the attempt halfway. She has already killed two demons and is throwing herself at another. Whatever the danger, she is skilled, and apparently, more capable than he had thought. 

“You’d think she’s done this before,” Varric remarks to him as he joins the fray. 

He wonders if she has indeed. They are efficient in their combined efforts, and the woman once again closes the rift, this time more swiftly than the last. Though the action had seemed effortless, he does not miss the way she shakes her hand in obvious discomfort. For all the times the power of the anchor has caused her pain, not once has she given up to it. Pity mingles with admiration as he joins her. 

“Sealed, as before. You are becoming quite proficient at this.” He hopes he is able to convey the sentiment through his tone what words she fails to comprehend. 

They are briefly greeted by Commander Cullen, who wishes them well before leaving to help his men. Finally, they are ready to enter the temple, and Solas feels his anticipation mounting in a tangle of hope and apprehension once again. Soon, he will see just how resilient this woman really is and if she will be the one to save them all, in the end. 

As they walk through the ruined temple, regret settles heavily on him, and he does not attempt to look away. Scattered around the temple, in various stages and positions of decay, are the meaty, burnt remains of the hundreds of people who had met here in hopes of a chance for peace. A hope that led them here to an unfortunate, grisly death. His doing. If there was to be death, it should be swift, painless… not this. Never this. It isn’t until he feels his regret turn to shame that he forcefully pushes it away. Now is not the time to indulge in pointless self-reflection. Steeling himself, he joins Varric as they come to a turn in the ruins that leads out to the Breach.

They almost turn the corner when they both realize the woman is no longer following behind them. Turning around, they see her, still standing among the burning, petrified corpses. There is an odd look on her face. He had expected to see a more common emotion to display on her features in such a scene: shock, anger, despair, hopelessness, for instance. Instead, he finds none of these. Her demeanor is calm, almost stoic, but when he watches her eyes track the evidence of the terror these people faced, he catches a glint of something so familiar it shocks him. 

Remorse. 

“You okay?”

The sudden sound of Varric’s question startles both of them: Solas, from his shock, and the woman from her inward grief. She looks up at them–at him, and for a moment, he finds pity for her that he could never have for himself. For that one, brief moment, he recognises in her the truth behind her remorse. She thinks this is her fault. Somehow, for some strange reason, she thinks all of this death, all of this pointless destruction, rests on her shoulders. At this discovery, more pieces come into play. Her resilience, the fierce passion with which she thoughtlessly charges into battle–experience, yes, but also the actions of one who is so desperate to own their responsibility, to resolve it. How far misplaced her feeling of blame was. 

If she only knew.

As if able to read his thoughts, she glares at him contemptuously before muttering something incoherent to their ears and marching past them. Varric, ever so perceptive, notices the exchange and looks up at him quizzically, asking without words what he has done to deserve such a disgusted glare. Solas ignores him and follows behind her steps. 

When they descend into the heart of the ruins, they come to stop at the foot of the Breach. At the sight of its massive size, the woman’s eyes grow wide, and she mutters something so quickly under her breath that Solas has no doubt it was a curse. The spymaster rejoins them, relieved to see them alive. 

“Are you ready?” Cassandra asks her prisoner. She does little to hide the obvious doubt on her face. The woman ignores it, however, and gestures to them the question of how she can possibly get so high in the air to close it. 

“No,” he answers, shaking his head. “This rift was the first, and it is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

“Then let’s find a way down and—”

Before Cassandra can finish, the woman runs to the edge of the drop. Solas is about to call out a warning when a burst of strong, unfamiliar energy disrupts the air around her, glowing blue. Then, with a push, the strange energy propels her into the air and then eases her down to the rift below, unharmed.  The silence that follows informs him that his companions are equally as shocked by this strange display. 

Questions immediately flash through his mind in waves. Some, too quickly to even form properly. That energy that irradiated from her, he had felt it before. He recalls the strange hum of power that ran through her body as he examined her with his magic. So this is what it can do, then? How can this be? Cassandra had said she was a mage; she had just assumed…but no. If this was magic, it was a magic unlike anything known on Thedas before. Nothing in his memory, either before or after the veil, could explain it. The suspicion that had settled in the back of his mind early now grew. He must be wary of her. Savior or no, he did not like the implications these lack of answers presented. 

After the initial shock wears off, they hurry down the winding steps to assist her. As they descend, a deep voice reverberates from the veil around them. Solas clenches his jaw in self-projecting anger. So the creature had survived after all. All this time, he had refused to let himself think it possible–because something deep inside him knew that he had. Damn him. Damn him and foolishness. 

When they reach her at the end, the veil shifts around them, then flashes. Soon, they are reliving the fragmented echoes of what transpired. There, towering above them, was the thing that should not have been able to live. His biggest miscalculation. When the veil releases them from the memory, Cassandra bolts to the woman’s side, desperate for answers. 

“You were there!” In an instant, Cassandra is by her side, demanding in desperation. “Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

The woman can only shake her head, either in ignorance of what happened or at the Seeker's words. 

“Echoes of what happened here. The fade bleeds into this place.” Solas walks closer to the rift, examining it. “This rift is not sealed, but it is closed… albeit temporarily. I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

“That means demons,” Cassandra says. “Stand ready!”

Once everyone is in place, the woman steps up to the rift, takes a breath, and stretches out her hand. When a pride demon emerges from it, only thirty paces from her, she does not move. Instead, she simply looks up at–not in shock or fear, but with awed curiosity. Solas would appreciate her reaction more if the demon were not about to kill her. Thankful, she snaps out of her lapse of awareness after a belting warning from Cassandra. 

Throughout the battle, Cassandra helps direct both the soldiers aiding them as well as the prisoner on what to do. Though chaotic, they soon find a rhythm in the battle that transpires. They protect her while she disrupts the rift, and then collectively turn their efforts towards slowly chipping away at the pride demon’s defenses while in its weakened state. The most difficult times are when waves of demons come through. 

Between evading the electrical attacks of the pride demon and the lesser demons that surround them, it is difficult to divide his attention enough to keep track of the woman, should she need protection. No sooner does he spot her again than the pride demon does as well. Thankfully, the woman seems to sense it gathering its energy in time to evade its whip of electricity by rolling to the side. Wasting no time, Solas concentrates his magic and sets a protective barrier around her. 

Instantly, their eyes lock.  

It is only for a meager few seconds, but so much in those dark eyes is conveyed to him. She not only feels his magic around her, but she also knows what it is for. She knows he is protecting her. Beneath his barrier, he can feel the warm hum of her own–magic. It is so unlike anything he has felt before. Then, the seconds pass, and they fight on. Their mutual curiosity momentarily forgotten. 

With cat-like reflexes, she dodges any attempts the massive demon makes to hit her and forces her blade down hard into its arm. Her blade shatters, the impact throwing her off her focus. The demon will take advantage, he knows, and takes off running in her direction, unsure if even his barrier could deflect such a blow. Cassandra and Varric notice the danger too, and Varric manages to get the demon’s attention while buying her time to recover. This, however, does not prove well for Varric, who tries to run away on stubby legs. 

“Protect the dwarf, anyone?” Varric cries as he dashes away (from Solas’ perspective, it's more of a jog, really, but for a dwarf running for his life, he relents to the kinder word).

Solas looks for her again and sees she is safe and working on disrupting the rift. Sighing, he changes tactics and redirects the demon’s attention away from the dwarf long enough for him to get a safe distance away. It is then that the next wave of demons appears. Cassandra intercepts the pride demon, giving him time to look for the woman again. Without a weapon, she may be defenseless, for he does not know the extent of her magical abilities. 

She is still standing near the rift with three shades surrounding her. Alarm rises in his chest, but suddenly, her left arm is flooded with orange light that forms into the shape of a magical blade. What follows is a graceful dance that only a warrior knows when fighting with a weapon that has become a part of them. 

On occasion, she even uses her strange magic to throw the demons back or send a wave of energy through them that leaves them dazed for a short time. This catches his attention even more, for he can sense the veil reacting oddly to her. It twists and bends as if trying to get away from her, as though repelled by her magic. He must think about this more later. For now, he must remain focused. 

After about the fourth wave of demons is cleared, they fervently throw all their collective strength at the pride demon. With one final roar, it falls to the ground. Black ichor seeps into the ground around it. Cassandra raises her sword high into the air in a triumphant gesture.. 

“Now! Seal the rift! Do it!” 

Solas doesn’t have to look at her face to know the exhaustion that is in her. She is on one knee, her breathing is haggard, and he can smell the sweat of her straining body in the air. For a moment, he thinks they will need to help her up, but with a deep breath, she stands. Squaring her shoulders, she lifts her hand up one final time. The anchor flares and connects to the rift. 

All is silent except for the crackling sounds of energy. The feelings in the moment are almost palpable as they watch her strain under the effort of such raw power. He leans forward in his desperation, willing her to persevere, to succeed where he did not. Her arm begins to shake and bend as the power and resistance builds. Doubt starts to form in his mind, but when she clenches her jaw and pushes back harder in defiance, he knows she will succeed, and she does. 

When she falls to the ground, he is by her side, checking for a pulse. Once he finds it, however faint, he lets go of the breath he did not know he held. Cassandra begins to motion for nearby soldiers to lift her, but he does not let them. In one swift motion, he scoops her gently off the ground. This woman, this human, feels so light in his arms. For all her strength of spirit, she really was a frail thing. Solas carries her all the way back to Haven. 

He will not leave her to her fate this time. 

_____

Three days. 

For three days, Solas paces the path from his cabin to her room in the Chantry. 

The first two had been ones of constant effort and worry. Her fever was great, and the further exertion her body had undergone since the day they had first found her was alarming. Many had declared that she would not last the first night, and for a brief moment, he had shared that doubt before resolutely insisting they had only to double their efforts. She survived the night and the next. Solas did everything in his limited position to make sure of that. 

Adan, the man they charged with her care as “healer”, was not one, though what he lacked in experience he made up for by willfully admitting to the shortcomings in his knowledge and adamantly seeking answers wherever they could be found. It was his voice that stopped the others from replacing him with a mage they deemed more capable, and insisted that he remain to better assist him. For that, the gruff man had his respect and gratitude. 

Now, on the third morning, he walks toward the Chantry once again. Slung over his shoulder is a sack full of elfroot, deathroot, deep mushroom, and any other healing herbs he could find in the snowy, mountain terrain nearby. Today, he is hopeful of her waking, for the previous night she had begun to respond, though deliriously, to their attentions. 

He is lost in the thoughts of a frightful tea that he can brew that may help relax her muscles when he notices the unusual clamor of raised voices in the otherwise quiet of the early morning. Perhaps she had woken already. The thought hastens his pace. 

Upon opening the heavy Chanty doors, he knows it is not to be the case. Leliana, Cassandra, and Cullen stand in a circle completed by soldiers. In the middle, kneeling on the ground with contempt, bloody faces, are two men in Templar uniforms and a woman in the robes of a Chantry sister. He does not need to ask what their crime is, or why his companions had such grim, angry faces. All he needed was the answer to one question. 

“Did they succeed?” 

For a moment, they stare at him in confused silence before Leliana steps towards him. “No,” the word sends a welcome relief through him. “But they very nearly did.” The sneer in her voice conveys to him her discontent at the implications of what that meant. 

“How could they get so far?” He forces his anger to remain centered, but he knows they hear the question he is really asking them: how could you let them get this far? 

Cassandra frowns at him. “That is what we are determining.” Turning to the soldiers, she waves them off, and they drag their prisoners down to the dungeon below. The very same one she had been thrown in just days before. 

“I will question them. This situation will be addressed swiftly,” Leliana says, a hardness in her eyes that he knows all too well. 

They will not survive the night then. Good. 

“Almost?” Sudden fear returns at the realization. “Then is she–” Not dead, but almost? Did they stab her? Poison her? A dozen scenarios play out in his mind, and none of them are pleasant. 

“They did not touch her,” Cullen answers his unfinished question. 

Solas breaths. 

“They very nearly did,” Cassandra adds, grimly. “And the fault would be ours. We cannot let this happen again.”

“We won’t,” Leliana agrees. “I will station an agent of mine on her at all times. She will watch from a distance, to be discreet, but close enough to aid her should others make the same attempt.”

“Very well,” Cullen rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “And I will question my men and have them re-examined. For people under my own command to have—it is most unnerving. How are we to change anything if we cannot trust our own?” 

By not trusting anyone. By setting up a system where you can cut off the ones that become a liability. His frustration almost outweighs his better judgment, so instead, he clenches his mouth shut.  A wandering, elf apostate should not know of such things. Instead, he suggests something safer within his station of a lowly, elf wanderer. 

“You may want to consider moving her to another place here at Haven until she wakes. I might suggest the cabin outside the gates that is being used for storage.”

“How is that going to be safer than having her here?” Cullen retorts. “No, here we can keep an eye on her, keep her close to–”

His calm facade slips.

“Close to the members of the Chantry that think she is a living heresy? Close to the men under your command that may still want to kill her?”

Cullen looks surprised at this outburst, but forgets it in his own anger after the jab about his men. “As I said, there will be questions and further examinations. In the meantime, I can place extra guards to–”

Solas lets out a bitter laugh. “Ah, yes, do place more Templar guards around her. I'm sure you can always place more guards to guard them, just in case they try to kill her as well. What a comfort that will be.” 

Cullen's face flushes red. “You would do well, apostate, to–” 

“Enough!” Cassandra's voice echoes through the hall. “We will not solve this by fighting amongst ourselves.”

“I agree,” Leliana chimes in. “Solas has a point, Cullen.” 

Solas tries not to show how smug he actually is, though, admittedly, not very hard. 

“I refuse to believe that moving her further away from us will–”

“That is precisely what we need to do!” she interrupts. “There will be others, Cullen. The best we can do is maintain the illusion she is here, which will not be difficult. Meanwhile, she will be safe where no one will think her to be. Besides, I spoke to the healer. He says she is much better today, and may even wake by tomorrow.” 

“I–” Cullen sighed, physically deflating. “I see your point. Although she should still be guarded at all times.”

“My agent is discreet.” As she leaves, she meets his eyes and nods.

 Cassandra sighs. “Come, Commander, it seems there is much for us to do.” 

“I shall see to her,” Solas says. 

Not waiting for a reply, he strides past them and slips into her room. Adan greets him with a low growl in his throat. Solas notes the dark circles under the man’s eyes, the telling signs of a restless night. Looking over at the bed, he sees her, eyes still closed, but breathing. Then, his eyes scan the room, and he is angered further when he sees the signs of a struggle in the turned-over furniture, broken potion bottles, and small blood splatters on the floor. 

Adan notices his gaze and says rather simply. “Even though she almost died trying, they still think it's not enough.” 

“How did they–?” He lets the rest of the question hang in the air between them. How did they try to murder her?

“The sister tried first. Came in saying she was to pray over her for the Maker’s healing and some other such nonsense. I don’t like people in my way, and told her to pray to the Maker from outside.” The man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s when the guards outside–her friends, no doubt, came in and said it was our duty as the Maker’s faithful children to put an end to the murderess heretic. I said the only murderous heretics in the room were them and called for help. They didn’t like that much. The Nightingale found a dagger on the sister. Poisoned tip, of course. ” 

The fools. Did they not care to use their minds to see that she was more important than any Maker who is said to have already abandoned them? But no, these were mindless beings who cared only for what made them comfortable at night. Never mind the painful sacrifices made by those around them for them to have that privilege. Clenching the strap of his sack, he let it fall to the table with a loud thunk. Then, a sudden thought struck him. 

“How did you manage? There were three of them.”

Adan grumbles something incoherent under his breath and begins sweeping up the bits of broken glass from the floor. “People always forget I’m an alchemist, not a healer.”  

He said no more, and Solas let it go. His respect for the man that day grew quite considerably. “They will be moving her to the empty cabin outside the gates today. Leliana will assign an agent to stay close by if needed.” 

Sweeping up the last bits of glass, Adan growled in his throat again, considering. “That could be better. I imagine Sister Nightingale will maintain her presence here as a decoy. Hmmm. Yes. It could work, but how are we supposed to move her without anyone noticing?”

“There is more than one wounded person being tended to in the Chantry, are there not?”

“Ah! I see…hmmm. Could be done. We’ll need plenty of bandages to cover that face and hand of hers. Hmmm. Yes.” With that, the alchemist turned healer wandered out of the room, grumbling to himself. 

The door closed, and Solas was once again alone with her. Removing some herbs he had gathered from his sack, he set to work. Most of the work is pure muscle memory; he needs only to be sure of the precise measurements. Though he does not like tea, he could not deny the benefits of a well-brewed batch, no matter how offensive to his tastes. It does not take him long, and once complete, he strides carefully over to the bed, hot cup in hand. 

Sitting gingerly on the edge of her silken sheets, he pauses to look at her. Adan had been right. She was much more stable. Her breathing was even, and her restless thrashing and moaning had ceased. Though her eyes still looked sunken in, the color was returning to her cheeks. He lifted a hand and gently stroked a strand of her long, raven-black hair away from her eyes. It was soft, he noticed, and he let it fall behind her ear. 

“Who are you?” He whispers.  

By midday, Adan and he wrapped her noticeable features in bandages, and then two sisters came and carried the wounded patient to the cabin. Once there, Leliana had two agents assigned to her. Adan and he kept their distance, not wanting to draw attention to the ruse. Their ploy proved fruitful. Before the afternoon was over, another attempt was made. This time, it was an elf serving girl. She died trying to stab the Herald as she slept. Leliana’s hidden dagger went through her heart.

In the morning, the Herald will wake, and he will be there when she does. 

_____

The word is passing on everyone’s lips: the Herald of Andraste lives. From a distance, Solas watches her ascend the stairs towards the Chantry, passing by the wall of people that bless her name without even a glance. Their reverence either confuses her, or she chooses to ignore it; he is not sure which is true. Perhaps both. By her limp and the stiff way she moves her muscles, he knows she is still in pain. If only his magic were not so resistant to her. It bothered him greatly, though he knew he had no right to, not caring before if he hurt her in his attempt to free the anchor from her hand. 

Soon, the crowd dwindles as people go back to their tasks for the day. He goes back to his cabin but stops just outside the door. Instead of going in, he turns his gaze up to the sky, and his eyes automatically find the Breach–still floating ominously in the air, but calm. The worst of the danger has passed, but the threat still remains. Especially with the creature still alive, and presumably, still wielding his orb. Inwardly, Solas once again curses his carelessness. 

Last night, he went in his dreams to meet with some of his agents. The reports were not as he had hoped. They have heard of stirrings, whispers of something stirring through Tevinter, gathering forces. The name they gave themselves was Venatori. What they were after, they could not be certain. Still, the thought was disturbing, considering the timing. He left instructions for their movements to be tracked, and then inquired what information they had found on the woman. 

Though he knew it was somewhat of a stretch to hope for, he had still expected them to have found something. A lone woman with strange magic that cannot speak the common tongue would stand out. Unfortunately, there was nothing. No ships nearby with such a passenger, and no word of her at any inns or travelers on the road. It is as if she had truly appeared from the fade. All he could do was to be on the watch for anything they might have missed, and leave. Perhaps he could glean some answers from her himself. This prospect proves more hopeful when Cassandra suddenly appears next to him. 

“She has agreed to join the Inquisition and use her mark to help us close the Breach.” 

“That is certainly good news to hear, though I did not think she would have left without helping, regardless of the offer.”

“No, she would not,” Cassandra hums. “She is a woman of action, I think.”

“You sound pleased,” he observes. This truly is a different tone than he has become accustomed to from her. 

“I am. She is not what I expected her to be, and we need someone who does not wish to sit on their hands while the Breach swallows the world. Perhaps it is because she is not familiar with our Chantry or politics that she can afford to take action so directly.” 

That stirred his curiosity. “How do you know she is not accustomed to the Chantry?”

Cassandra looks at him, obviously just as curious as he. “She told us as much.”

“She spoke to you then?”

“Yes,” she shrugs. “Apparently, she understands our language quite well, and after what she went through— She still claims she remembers nothing from before waking, so maybe whatever she went through confused her momentarily. Who can say? Regardless, she is not from here and will need our knowledge to guide her through the coming trials.” 

Solas considered her words. Though she has been through much indeed, he doubts it would be enough for a whole language. Still, it is not entirely impossible. He will look into this matter himself. 

“Solas, I want to–” Cassandra hesitates and shuffles beside him. 

“Yes, Seeker?”

She sighs again, but lifts her head and looks him directly in the eyes. “I want to apologize for— before. You were doing your best and I… I am sorry. If you can look past our differences, I would like to formally offer you a role in the Inquisition. You have proven your abilities, and honestly, we would be lost without them.” 

Cassandra does not break eye contact, waiting resolutely for his reply. This was an unexpected turn of events, but not entirely unwelcome. It is, after all, an excellent excuse for his continued presence here. However, he has yet to determine if it is in his best interest to stay. That will depend on her, this newly crowned Herald of Andraste.

“Thank you, Seeker. I appreciate the invitation, and I will think on it.” 

If Cassandra is disappointed, she does not show it. Instead, she simply nods. “That is all I can ask. There is time.” She leaves him to his solitude. 

It is not long after that he hears footsteps crunch through the snow and up the stairs behind him. He needs not turn to know who it is, for he can hear the faint hum inside her. She does not speak, but starts to make her way past him when he halts her with his words.

“The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.” 

He turns and looks into those rare eyes once again. Solas is pleased to see a warm color in her cheeks and fewer shadows under her eyes. The change in her condition in only a few days is astounding. Especially when her body seems to have a strange resistance to magic to some degree. At his remark, he hears a groan of dismay come from her throat. 

“Not again.”

Solas lifts his brows at her quizzically, unsure of what she finds so dreadful. 

She heaves a sigh. “I’m not a hero. For all I know, I caused this damn mess. If I did, I’ll find a way to fix it.”

“Spoken nobly indeed.” He tilts his head as he studies her for any insight her words will not give him. Finally, he asks the question he has been wondering since he saw that look of remorse at the temple. “You say you do not know if you caused the Breach, and yet, you would stay to fix it?”

“I clean up my messes.” The reply is casual and nonchalant. 

“And if it is revealed not to be the mess you caused?” 

“Unfortunately, I’m somewhat of an expert at cleaning up after people. Besides,” she pauses for a moment, looking up at the Breach. He does not miss the way her eyes squint into the distance, as though she knows something to be there that she cannot see with clarity. “Someone else might get it wrong.” 

“Confident, but ultimately irrelevant—considering you are the only one with a means to close it.”

She laughs. It is a low, melodic sound, but pleasant nonetheless. It is not entirely joyful, however. In it is a hint of bitterness, the telling signs of experience. 

“True, but I wouldn’t say I’m confident. Determined, maybe even hopeful, but I know how quickly confidence can screw you over. I’ve met enough ‘heroes’ who were confident they knew what they were doing, only for it to end in death.”

The remark catches him off guard. The truth in her words, mixed with the irony of the one she speaks to, is not lost on him. He had been so confident, both when he made the veil and when he gave away his orb. Both times, only death and destruction followed in ways he had not anticipated. Standing before him now, so resolved to fix his mistake, is the human woman he had given little thought to. An unfortunate means to an end. Now, she is his last hope. Solas joins her in watching the Breach, shaking off his grim thoughts. 

“I have journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past of wars both famous and forgotten.” He turns back to her. “Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

Her voice is so quiet, non-Elvhen ears would miss it. “If I have to be one, I’d rather be the one forgotten. The one who can walk into a crowd and not be noticed.”

Solas’ heart drops in sorrow at her words. How many times has he not wished the very same? To not be a general, giving orders, dealing out death. To not be a rebel, a dreaded foe in children’s tales. To not be a deceiver, a trickster, doomed to walk the dark paths alone. Instead, he yearns to be the dreamer, the wanderer of ancient ruins, the seeker of knowledge and memories forgotten. To be a teacher, a friend, perhaps, even a lover. To simply be Solas. 

“It isn’t an easy dream,” he murmurs, both to himself as well as her, “but I wish you luck.” 

She nods, and with a sudden caution in her voice asks, “Solas?”

“Yes?” All at once, he is wary. Her caution gives him pause. Bracing for something unpleasant, intrusive. Instead, she yet again surprises him. He wonders how many more times she will continue to do so. 

“You mentioned the Fade and that you journeyed into it? In dreams?” 

It is with great pleasure that he fulfills her curiosity. So few have an interest in such things, deeming it dangerous and the subject altogether avoided. No wonder she is cautious to ask. “Yes, any building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.” 

When he pauses, he waits for more questions or comments on his experiences. Instead, he is disappointed and confused by the silence that follows. He had thought her interest sincere; was he mistaken? 

“Sorry, but a lot of that went over my head. I guess I'm still confused by… well, everything really. I'm not from around here, and trying to keep up while fixing the Breach has been… overwhelming. I'm a long way from home,” she whispers, her tone one of sorrow. 

The reality of how much more difficult her task will be sinks in. So distracted by his own frustrations and difficulties, he had not stopped to consider the immense difficulties she faces in being in a land far from her own, all while trying to save it. But then, he should have, for in a way, he is not in a situation so different. The memories of waking up from his long slumber to a broken world so far removed from the glory it once was still haunt him. Even though dreams help guide him through, he is always aware of his misplacement in them. Not unlike a puzzle piece that does not fit, he has no place in this world. She is feeling just as lost and misplaced as him.

“Cassandra did mention the question of your origins, but I had not thought to consider…” He cuts off, not wanting to overstep. I had not thought to consider your loneliness. “Forgive me. If there is any way I can help ease your understanding, you have but to ask.”

“Thanks,” Though the word is quick, he feels the sincerity of it in her eyes. 

“You might start running the other direction after a while, though. I've been told I'm a bit relentless with my questions.” 

Solas cannot stop the brief laugh that escapes past his lips. How many times has he heard the same said of him come to mind? “As have I. You need not fear me reclaiming the offer. Relentless pursuit of knowledge is often the only path to finding true wisdom, for which the world is always in much need.”  

“Especially when it's always falling apart.”

The remark is meant in jest, but the reality behind it hangs between them. “Quite so,” He should not get distracted. There was much he needed to learn about her. “If you would permit, a question of my own?”

“Sure, fire away.”

“Before, you seemed to understand very little of the language. I am impressed with the fluency of it now in such a short time.” 

The words he speaks are a carefully crafted and concealed trap. Worded just so to pass for casual curiosity. In anticipation, he watches her face, ready to read what nuances in her body language that might otherwise be missed. 

“That isn't a question.” 

The remark is light, and her tone teasing, but he sees the shift in her eyes. There is caution there, a tension in her shoulders, like a rabbit sensing something amiss before it bolts for shelter. She is no fool, and no easy prey. He must be a careful, patient hunter.    

“But, I understand your meaning. I don't know…too many hits to the head probably.” 

Flippant humor again. Ah, a defensive reflex. He knows the tell to her hand now. 

“I don't even remember how I got here.”

Solas leaps at the open opportunity. “Oh? What is the last thing in your recent memory?”

She is silent. Her shoulders are tense, but the way her eyes flick back and forth across the horizon tells him she is looking for something, not avoiding the question. 

“I don't–” She gasps slightly, and her words have a slight quiver to them. Fear. “I don't know.” 

He instantly regrets the question. “I'm sorry. I did not mean to cause you pain.” 

“I'm fine!” She snaps at him. The unusual slip in her controlled demeanor is startling, especially after something as simple as an apology. It is only a moment, though, and he sees the regret in her face as she takes a breath and corrects her tone. “I'm fine. Sorry.” 

Realization dawns on him. That look she gave him is one he has seen many times throughout his long life, both in dreams and in the waking world. It is seen in many a battle-worn soldier–soldiers who need rest, but can have none. Solas wishes he could say she will have to for peace, but he knows such a promise is unlikely.  

“Think nothing of it. You have been through much that would have seen a lesser spirit destroyed. Given enough time, your memories may yet restore themselves. For now, you must prepare for the difficult path that lies ahead.”  

He turns from her then, staring at the Breach, and Cassandra’s invitation comes to mind. Solas sets his jaw. No, he will not go; he cannot leave her to fix his mistakes alone, whatever the danger. 

“I will stay then. At least, until the Breach has been closed.”

“You were going to leave?” Her surprise is evident.

“I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion, and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

“But you’ve helped them–helped me. Varric said I wouldn't be alive without you,” she points out. “No one is going to hurt you for that.” 

Solas scoffs at her ignorance and lowers his voice. “How would you stop them?”

“Simple. They'd lose my cooperation.”

Her words are so firm, so sure. That she would use her position to protect him, a stranger, is all the more surprising–and undeserving. “Thank you,” is all he can manage before he has to look away from her gaze. 

He is undeserving: of her gratitude, her respect, her misplaced loyalty, all of it. Solas has been ashamed of many things throughout these long ages, but he has not felt the weight of it more than he does in this moment. 

“For now, let us hope either the mages or the templars have the power to seal the Breach.” He seeks release from her faithful gaze. 

She seems to recognize his desire for sudden solitude, and respects it with a simple dismissal and a grateful nod. Then, she is gone, and he is left alone with his sorrowful contempt. 

____

Solas is on his way to the tavern to snatch a quick meal to eat in the solitude of his cabin when he senses the now familiar hum of her magic. There, in a long cloak covering her face, she stops in front of “The Singing Maiden” and darts inside. Curious, he follows through the side door and makes it inside just in time to see her switch her cloak for one hanging on a peg before darting out the opposite way. Disturbed by her odd behavior, he moves to follow her when an elf woman comes in, looking around hastily. Upon seeing the Herald’s discarded cloak now hanging on the peg, she curses, then exits quickly. 

This scene quickly fills in the reasons for her odd behavior. She was being followed by one of Leliana’s agents, no doubt, and was trying to lose her. Why though? This seemed extreme behavior if it was for want of simple privacy. No longer hungry, Solas leaves in the direction he saw her go. It does not take long to determine where she may be, for he has only to concentrate his aura to find her. As swiftly as he can go without attracting attention, he moves past the gates and stables, towards the bridge that leads out of Haven. He frowns. What need does she have to leave?  

The sound of crunching footprints makes him pause. A quick glance behind him shows that Leliana’s agent was still looking for her and was headed his way. Purposefully, he steps into her line of sight while keeping his eyes on the Breach. Soon, the agent’s boots stop beside his bare feet. 

“Solas, is it?” 

He turns to the Elven woman and inclines his head. “I am, yes.”

“Charter,” she nods. “I was wondering, have you seen the Herald pass this way, by chance?”

“We spoke this afternoon, I believe.”  A truth. “Perhaps she is in the tavern or went for a stroll, as myself?” A suggestion to sway in the desired direction. 

“If you see her, do let us know, if you please.” With a slight bow, she leaves, eyes still searching around her.

He waits until she is out of sight before continuing on his way. Too much distance is between them for him to hone in on her again. Though he could look for signs in the snow, he has no desire to wander aimlessly without direction. Looking around to make sure he is alone, he considers one other option. Something familiar to him and helpful in tracking. With much concentration, he wills his form to shift. 

When he opens his eyes, he is much shorter than before, but also much swifter in the snow and has a heightened sense of smell. The white wolf lifts his snout to the air and sniffs deeply. Through the scent of pine being carried on the wind, he gets a strong whiff of mead. There. With graceful, easy leaps, he bounds through the snow after her. Soon, he spots her footprints and slows his pace. There, in the distance, he can see her. Though not on the main road, he can tell where she is going–towards the temple. 

Suddenly, she stops, and her arms glow in the orange light he saw before, but this time, not in the form of a blade. He is too far back to see what she is doing exactly, but the way she keeps glancing at it and then at her surroundings indicates she is looking for direction. Soon, she continues on. Once again, he follows. For about half an hour, they continue on in this way. She stops, looks at her orange light, then at her surroundings, and then moves on. Finally, when the village he was in before the explosion comes into view, she stops and does something different. 

Using her magic, she interacts with it in a way that casts the light out to things around her. The light hums and traces the area around her. Then, she moves on. This latest odd pattern establishes itself, and he watches in fascination. It seemed as though she was looking for something, and her magic was somehow aiding her with it. Concentrating hard, he tried to extend his aura out to see if he could feel its interaction with the fade, but found nothing. It made him more disturbed and curious. 

She has just used her light to look down over a ledge when she freezes, then turns swiftly around, and does it again. Whatever it was she saw or sensed excites her greatly, for she glows blue with her magic and drops down below. As silently as he could, Solas follows. The padding on his feet helps him tread through the snow with silent ease, and soon he is hunched low under a bush, looking down over the ledge. 

Below him, she is digging frantically into the rocks and dirt. With alarm, he notices the salty, metallic smell of blood, and sees drops falling from her hands onto the snow as she continues to dig. The disregard for her own pain makes clear the urgency to find whatever it is she seeks. His ears twitch suddenly at the sound of her gasp, and with a forceful tug, the rocks release a circular item into her hand. 

For a moment, he cannot make out what she has discovered, for she holds it so tightly to her chest. Then, slowly, as if holding the face of an old friend, she traces her fingers over its body. It was a helmet, albeit of an unfamiliar shape and material. On its sides were markings he could not make out. Carefully, her long, slender fingers trace over them again and again, as if they would disappear. Solas is still trying to make sense of it all when he notices her shoulders start to shake. At first, it is so subtle that he thinks it is a shiver from the icy wind. However, it is not until they continue with no signs of stopping that it strikes him how much his curiosity has led him to intrude upon her. 

Deep down, Solas knows he should leave and leave this private, intimate moment to her alone. Yet, for some unknown reason, his paws remain rooted to the ground beneath him. Instead, he bows his head and rests in his paws, and waits for the moment to pass. It is not long before it does, and with a quick wipe at her face, she continues her fervent digging. Soon, she frees a rumpled sack from the rocks and looks inside. Pleased at what she sees, she lifts up the helmet and tenderly places it inside as well. 

Again, his ears twitch, and he raises his head. So enraptured by the scene below, he has failed to detect a group of rams coming to the ledge to graze. He freezes, staying as still as he can. Once the ram gets too close, and in its haste to flee the predatory gaze of his wolf form, it knocks over some small rocks down to the valley below. Even though she would not recognize him, he does not wish to startle her unnecessarily, and he would rather not have to fight, should she try to attack. Thankfully, one ram remains, unaware of his kin’s distress, and continues to graze at the few bits of twigs that still cling to life in the frozen snow. She sees it too, and her tense stance eases as she grabs her treasured sack and flings it over her shoulder. Then, she starts retracing her steps. 

Solas waits for a moment, making sure he can no longer hear her footsteps, before moving around the cliff, looking for a way down. It does not take him long to work his way below, and soon, he is where she had knelt only moments before. With a shudder, he shakes out of his wolf form and instantly misses the warm wolf’s fur as the wind blows through his light clothes. Leaning forward, he casts a wisp of light as he peers at the ground around him. He is unsure of what he is looking for, perhaps any remains of what else had been in the sack. All that he sees are the remaining rocks and dirt. Sighing, he straightens, and the wisp of light extinguishes. 

He starts to retreat when his foot steps on cold metal. Gingerly, he lifts his foot and sees a necklace, almost hidden under the snowdrifts beneath. His heart starts thumping in his ears as he bends and plucks it from the snow. The chain is simple and plain, but sturdy. It would not easily break. What catches his interest mostly are two thin plates of metal that hang from it. Etched into the metal plates are the symbols of a language he has never seen. He traces his thumb over them thoughtfully and secures the necklace in his pouch before resuming his long trek back to Haven. 

It would seem he has more answers to seek about this human woman.  

Chapter Text

By the time the first rays of light start streaming through her window, she has already been awake for hours. Though exhausted, her mind will not quiet, and so she gives up altogether and, piece by piece, takes out her armor and begins cleaning it. Meticulously, she scrubs hard to remove the dirt and scorch marks on each piece, but most of the scorching is too permanent to remove with sheer elbow grease. In some places, there are large dents that she can not hope to repair on her own, and some of the webbing is fried. Thankfully, she does have some Omni-Gel still safely stored away and uses some sparingly to repair the worst of the damage. Even though she knows she shouldn’t wear her armor due to the many questions it would pose, just knowing it will be there for her gives her comfort. It is a piece of her, and always will be. 

She is just starting to examine the damage on her helmet when there is a light tapping on her door. Shepard freezes and looks quickly around at her armor scattered on the floor around her. Hurriedly, she begins scooping them up and shoves them under the bed, the sack barely covering them from sight. Going to the door, she casts one last quick look at the bed before opening the door. There, hand poised to make another knock, is a lovely, dark-skinned woman in a golden, silk shirt with puffy sleeves. The woman blinks a few moments in surprise at her before lowering her hand. 

“Oh! Do forgive me. When I didn’t hear anyone answer, I was unsure if you were awake.” She ducks her head in a deep, graceful bow. “I am Josephine Montilyet, ambassador and diplomat for the Inquisition. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”

“It’s good to meet you. I’m Commander Shepard.”

“Ah! That is the name! Cassandra tried to tell me what it was, but couldn’t remember. Though I confess, she also failed to mention you were a soldier as well. Are you with a mercenary company or do you have alliances with Ferelden or the Free Marches, perhaps?” Josephine’s eyes sparkle at hers in pure enthusiasm. 

 “I –” 

“No, no! That can’t be right. You don’t sound Ferelden. Actually, you sound like you have more of a dwarven accent than anything else. Have you been near Ostagar for long by chance?” 

“Uh…no?”

Josephine shakes her head. “I am so sorry for getting ahead of myself. It is just that there are so many different tales about you already, and none of them seem to be the same or make any sense. You are quite fascinating to many of us. In fact, this is why I am here.” Josephine clears her throat quietly and does her best to school her enthusiasm for a look of dutiful reverence. “Cassandra and Leliana would like to meet with you in the Chantry with Commander Cullen this afternoon to discuss future plans, as well as give you the chance to clear up some questions in regards to your story.”

Shepard hums in her throat as she thinks. Their request is no surprise; she just thought she would have had more time to come up with a plan on what to say. Still, she has no valid reason for putting them off, and doing so would most likely just make her seem suspicious. 

“Alright, this afternoon then. Will Solas and Varric be there too?”

The lady ambassador looks surprised by her question. “Uh, no. There seemed to be no reason to include them.”

“Is there any reason why they shouldn’t be there?”

Josephine hesitates. “No, none at all.”

“Then I would like them to be there as well. If I’m going to tell my story, I’d prefer to do it once.”

“Of course. I shall pass on the request myself. Until this afternoon, then.” With another graceful bow of her head, Josephine walks off in the direction of the Chantry. 

Shepard watches her go and stands in the doorframe, watching as the little village wakes up around her. Well, she is in a sticky situation. In order to know what to say and what not to say, she will need to know about the culture and environment around her. How in the world is she going to accomplish that in one morning is beyond her. Asking just any question could be dangerous, exposing too much of her ignorance of what may be a mundane thing to them, like asking a Krogan, “What’s the Genophage?” She needs a solution, and fast. 

For a moment, she considers asking Solas, but decides against it, recalling the predatory feeling the other day when her words slipped. No, he had disarmed her easily and had been waiting for it to happen. Solas, however considerate, was also watchful, so it will be best to be wary. What she needed was an information center. A place she can go to find answers without raising suspicion. They could have a library in that Chantry. Now is a good time to find out. Closing the door behind her, she makes her way up the path, nodding silent greetings as she goes. 

As she passes the tavern, a loud, chuckling voice calls out to her. “If it isn’t my second favorite hero!”

“Hello, Varric.” 

“You know, Cassandra mentioned you could talk to us now. For a while there, I thought I was going to have to act as your sidekick interpreter.” He smiles up at her, not bothering to hide his curiosity behind the jovial statement. 

“Get hit on the head enough and sometimes things fall back into place, I suppose.” Shepard deadpans. 

Varric laughs, “Don’t tell Cassandra, she already likes hitting things, if she thinks she could actually make people remember things by doing it–well, let's just say I’m content with her sticking to stabbing books.” Suddenly, he drops his voice to a low, serious tone. “So, now that Cassandra’s out of earshot, are you holding up all right? I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day.”

Shepard is honestly moved by the question. In fact, it’s the first time someone has asked her. Maybe Varric is her best bet at finding her footing in this strange place. 

“Honestly, I thought I was dead–until I opened my eyes.” Again is the word she leaves out.

He snorts, “I still can’t believe you survived Cassandra. You’re lucky that you were out cold for most of her frothing rage.” 

“She seemed ready to throttle me to death when I first woke up.”

“Yeah, that’s Cassandra. Try not to take it too personally.”

“I don’t blame her. Whatever happened there took a lot of lives, and for all I know, I might be responsible for it.”

“A lot of good men and women didn’t make it out there,” he sighs. “But, if those voices at the temple mean anything, it seemed you were trying to help.”

“Maybe, guess I won’t know until I get my memories back.”

“Yeah, how is that going?”

Shepard snorts this time. “I have no idea what’s happening anymore.”

“Well, that makes two of us. For days now, we’ve been staring at the Breach, watching demons and Maker-knows-what fall out of it. ‘Bad for morale’ would be an understatement. I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

She raises an eyebrow at the mentions of demons, but dismisses them as a figure of speech. “Normally, I would say that I can’t believe it either, but at this point, I’m still considering if this is all just a bad dream or one hell of a hangover.

“If this is all just the Maker winding us up, I hope there is a damn good punchline coming. You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going. Heroes are everywhere. I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.”

“I’ve managed to order a couple of those before, don’t see why I can’t again.” 

“Good to hear you’re an experienced miracle worker. Though I’m not sure if that makes you incredibly gifted or incredibly cursed.”

“Some days I’m not sure myself,” she sighs. Suddenly, she is struck with an idea. “Hey, Varric, do you know where I might find some books?”

“Books?” he chuckles heartily, and a devilish grin stretches all the way up to his ears. “You’ve come to the right dwarf.

_____

The right dwarf indeed. 

Shepard’s arms are practically buckling from the weight of the heavy tomes of history, politics, and maps the dwarf helped her procure from the Chantry library, as well as several copies of some “essentials” by Varric Tethras…all signed, of course. One even had a suave drawing of him on the first page, chest hair proudly illustrated in luscious, curling lines. Though his gifts were not what she wanted, she had accepted them with a small smile. After all, he had to charm a particularly upset sister into letting her make off with her load back to her cabin. She has a feeling that man could charm a thresher maw into being as harmless as a kitten. 

When she reaches her door, she struggles to open the latch without toppling her leaning tower. Grunting in frustration, she huffs and kicks it with her boot. She missed doors that would just open. She missed a lot of things, really. 

“Blast!” she yells, kicking it again. This time, she manages to leave a dent in it and several large splinters of wood in her boot. “Damn it!” 

Her jolt from the sudden pain finally sends the books in her arms tumbling to the ground around her. Some land in the snow, while others find their way to the muddy ground. Frustration builds in her, and in a sudden blue flash, the door is ripped open by a biotic push. Letting out a deep huff, she closes her eyes and centers herself in a calm place once again. Upon opening her eyes, she startles at the sound of an amused voice behind her. 

“That is certainly a unique way of opening a door, though, not the most pragmatic.”

She doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is, but she does anyway. Solas stands, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted to one side, and a faint tug at the corner of his lips that tells of his effort to hold back a smile. 

“It would be practical if doors would just open automatically when you damn well need them to,” she mutters. 

That breaks his effort, and a smile forms fully on his face. “That would be helpful, and might save the doors from an early retirement–” his eyes flick down to her boot, still sporting the wooden splinters. “--and boots and flesh from needing mending.”

“My patience isn’t what it used to be these days.” Though she means for it to be a joke, she fails in keeping the note of levity required and frowns instead. “Sorry.”

Solas leans down and picks one of the books out of the snow. “No matter. We are all of us tired. You, more than most, and I suspect you have not been the only one to vent your frustration on something less destructive to your health than fighting. That being said, I would suggest stronger boots.”

“Or a stronger door,” she counters, bending down as well to pick up her things.

“There is that,” he chuckles, wiping the snow off the book with his hand. His eyes stop on the title and flick up at her. 

Damn it. There is that predatory gaze again.

“ Tales of the Destruction of Thedas ,” He says it as though he is just repeating the title, but she sees the question in his eyes. 

“Varric said it has a lot of history about the Chantry in it. I don’t really give much thought to religion, but if I’m going to stay and help, I thought it best if I understood the beliefs people are operating under.” She keeps her eyes on her task of cleaning the books and charts around her, though she can still feel his eyes on her, unwavering. 

“That is wise of you, though, I would have suggested a less colored interpretation of the text.” 

“You don’t approve of the author?”

“It is less about the author and more about his bias. Genitivi has a talent and passion for his research, which I respect, but all the talent and research are of little effect if he can not be trusted. One needs to be objective, to write with curiosity, rather than having a preset opinion. If the intent is more to enable yourself the expression of that opinion than to engage with research, then the wisdom and facts of that research are lost. It is best to relay simply the facts rather than presenting a personal preference.”

“You’ve given a lot of thought to this.” Finally, she meets his gaze and sees the predator has retreated to the thoughtfulness of a scholar instead. “I wasn’t aware you were a book lover.”

“I like the knowledge and wisdom they can impart, yes.”

“Isn’t that the same as liking books?”

“You can like the effects that drinking gives you without liking the taste of the brew you choose to drink. In such a way, I like the extension of my mind that takes place while I read, though I do not always particularly enjoy the material.”

Shepard laughs and picks up another book. “Alright, philosopher , who would you recommend?”

Solas’ lips twitch pleasingly at the title, and he takes a moment to consider. “Perhaps some works by Sister Petrine. While a follower of the Chantry, she does not actively seek to convey her opinions in her works. It should prove a more objective source of study.” 

“Let’s see… Petrine…” She starts scanning the books as she goes, searching for her name. “It seems Varric didn’t hand me any of hers. Maybe I can find some by her in the Chantry library? Although–” Shepard looks sheepishly at the now bedraggled, borrowed books in her hands. “-I’m not sure if the sisters will allow me to borrow any more after this.”

He shakes his head. “I doubt they would have them anyway. Her works are often considered controversial to most in the Chantry. In some places, they are even banned.”

“Really? What would cause them to ban books on history, if she is as objective as you say?”

“It is because of her objectiveness. She writes of the parts of history the Chantry would rather see forgotten or twisted to serve their own purpose. Rather than bend to popular opinion, or even her own, she lays bare the facts as they are. Such honest forms of language sound contemptuous to their frail ears. Thus, her works are forever censored and banned as something to be wary of or feared–like most who fail to see that knowledge is neither good nor evil, merely a tool. It is how you choose to wield it that matters, but fools always fall prey to the fear of what might be, rather than become wise to what is.”

As he speaks, Shepard is once again struck by the calm, yet passionate, cadence of his voice: the way it tilts up in anticipation, and then eases low in sorrow or disappointment. It is much like listening to the tossing waves of the ocean. His voice can be beautiful and serene, but also climb to high heights of quiet, passionate fury. She wonders how it would sound if he were to sing. The thought makes her smile slightly, but then she is brought back to the conversation. 

“People fear the unknown. They would much rather ignore something they can’t understand, even cover it up, than try to face it head on.” Her thoughts drift to the many, many times her pleas to the council were ignored. If only they hadn’t been so afraid, maybe they could have been ready before…before…

No tears, no fears.  

Shepard stands up quickly and shifts the books in her hands. 

“And at what cost?” Solas asks, shaking his head.

“Only the world, apparently,” she immediately regrets the dark turn in the previously pleasant conversation, and seeks to salvage it. Walking through the doorframe of her cabin, books in hand, she talks to him over her shoulder.  “So, I don’t suppose you know where I might get a copy of one?”

Solas, his own stack of books in his arms, stops just at the threshold. “I have several copies. If you like, I can let you borrow them. Although I must insist on the same immaculate condition you receive them in upon their return.”

Shepard looks over at him just in time to catch the same, slight tug at the corner of his mouth. Huffing, she lets her books drop with a satisfying thud on the table. “I don’t go around blasting through doors, you know.” She stops and actually considers that statement a moment before relenting. “Well, not always.” 

Then, walking over to him, she holds out her hands for the remainder of her books. “I didn’t take you for such a rebel, Solas.”

Suddenly, the predator flashes in his eyes again, watching her. Wary. 

Quickly, she adds, “Owning not one, but several copies of banned books? What will Cassandra say?” She offers him a teasing smile. 

The predator retreats again, and he returns the quip. “I think your concern should be less at what she will say, and more at what she will do.”

“According to Varric, she likes stabbing books.”

“Ah, then since I would like to preserve their condition, I shall request that you not tell her of my corrupting the Herald with their presence.”

Taking the books from his hands, she nods, “Request approved.”

He nods in return, “Herald.” 

“No,” she shakes her head firmly. “It’s Shepard.”

Solas opens his mouth, then closes it again, as though shutting a rebuke. “Shepard.”

“Solas.”

With that, he leaves her to her bedraggled books, her splintered boot, and an odd thought of how smooth his hands felt. 

_____

By afternoon, Shepard’s head is buzzing with a thousand questions that she doesn’t have the time to find the answers to. Instead of helping her feel more prepared to answer whatever questions they might throw at her concerning her origins, her brief studies leave her feeling at a complete and utter loss. Frustration and the knowledge that it was almost time for the meeting made her give up in despair. Leaning back in her chair, she rubs at the knots in her forehead. She needs to think of something. This is getting her nowhere. 

“Alright, let’s start with what we do know,” she says. 

The continent she is on is called Thedas, and most of the people here believe it to be their entire world, with no apparent, individual name for the world as a whole. Second, they believe in an energy source they call magic. It sounds a lot like biotic abilities in many ways, but so different in others. Especially since they think that mages, the ones born capable of wielding this energy, are capable of possession. 

Actual, physical possession. 

As in demons. 

Demons, which are apparently spirits from the world behind the Breach, called the Fade, seek to enter their world by possessing these mages. That is what those creatures had been. Demons. 

She had fought demons. 

Shepard really couldn’t make this crap up if she tried. Moving on, their main religion had a lot of similarities and parallels to Earth’s Christianity. Astounding, really. She wonders what Ashley would have thought of this. Also, there are several different known races in Thedas: Humans, Elves, Dwarfs, and Qunari. Oh, there are also dragons, apparently. 

Dragons. 

It’s as though she has entered one of Earth’s old fairy tales.

“And I thought fighting my clone was freaking weird.” Sighing, she moves on. “Alright, what don’t I know?” 

There were too many questions. How did she get here? How did humans get here? The odds of the same human life forms as Earth’s existing elsewhere in the universe are not impossible, but astronomical. How did she get this mark on her hand? How was she going to close the Breach? How was she going to get home? 

The last question stops her. She doesn’t have time to think about that now. She must stay focused. No tears, no fears. Focus. All that matters is her story. The rest, she can find out in time, hopefully. 

“Well, Shepard,” she says to herself, “you always were good at bluffing. Let’s see if you can bull crap your way out of this one.” 

_____

Shepard enters the Chantry right when Cassandra does. It’s a little strange, walking into the building with the same person who, only days before, had been chasing her out of it. Then again, she’d made friends with a geth that liked to wear her armor, so really, this wasn’t that strange, comparatively. What is strange is the pulsing energy inside her hand that apparently can close the rifts into the world of spirits and demons. That, she never saw coming. She can’t help lifting her hand to stare at it. 

Cassandra notices her attention to it. “Does it trouble you?”

“It’s stopped spreading, and it doesn’t hurt, at the moment. I just wish I knew what it was and how I got it. If it wasn’t enough to close the Breach, is it still even useful?”

“You did everything we asked of you,” she said with a surprisingly soft look in her eye.

“If it still doesn’t work, it won’t matter.”

“What’s important is that your mark is now stable, as is the Breach. You’ve given us time, and Solas believes a second attempt might succeed— provided the mark has more power. The same level of power used to open the Breach in the first place. That is not easy to come by.”

“Because that doesn’t sound dangerous.”

Cassandra snorts, “And people call me a pessimist.”

“I prefer realistic pragmatism. Doesn’t anyone else think powering up something we don’t understand sounds dangerous? Just me?”

“Hold on to that sense of humor.”

“I’ll try, but I’d have a better time doing so if you could give me something to work with besides potentially blowing myself up.”

“We do, actually. You will hear it soon enough.” 

Just then, they reach the end of the hallway and enter a large set of doors at the end. Inside, she sees that Leliana, the commander, and the ambassador are already there. 

“You’ve met Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces,” Cassandra says.

Commander Cullen inclines his head. “It was only for a moment on the field. I’m pleased to see you survived.”

“That makes two of us.”

Josephine waves at her with a quill still in her hand. “Hello again! I hope you had time to rest before our meeting.”

“Thank you,” she says, leaving out the fact that she hadn’t at all. Did she even eat this morning? Crap. She was going to have to hit the tavern after this. 

Cassandra moves on. “And of course you know sister Leliana.”

“My position here involves a degree of…”

Cassandra interrupts, “She is our spymaster.”

Leliana huffs, “Yes. Tactfully put, Cassandra.”

Ah. So Leliana must have put the spy on her. Good to know. 

“It’s good to meet you all again under less stressful circumstances.”

“Especially Cassandra, I imagine,” Varric says as he enters the room with Solas behind him. “Tell me, Seeker, do you always make your introductions to people with imprisonment and interrogation, or just the people you especially like?”

“I do not find this funny, Varric.”

“Come on, you have to admit that this is the second time since I’ve met you that this has happened. Perhaps you are suffering from an addiction to overly deadly and dramatic entrances.” Out of the corner of his eye, he flashes her a wink.

The cheeks on Cassandra’s face flush a brilliant red. Shepard has broken up enough fights between Jack and Miranda to know an oncoming hurricane when she sees one, so she intervenes. “I’d say falling out of the sky trumps that, wouldn’t you, Varric?”

The dwarf laughs good-naturedly. “Point taken. I take it back, Seeker. You don’t have the deadliest entrance, just the most violent introduction.”

“I also may have thrown her and Leliana across the room–twice.” Shepard turns to Cassandra and Leliana. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

“It’s quite all right. We were all confused and on edge.” Leliana says. 

“You threw Cassandra and Leliana?” Commander Cullen speaks this time, oblivious to the glare Cassandra is throwing at him. “How did you–weren’t you tied up? I mean–that’s not what--how I meant it.” He stumbles over his words like a nervous kid. “Maker’s breath. You threw Cassandra? Twice?”

“We are not talking about it. Ever.” 

“Later. Definitely later. Preferably over drinks,” Varric whispers loudly to Cullen, who smiles, but then awkwardly clears his throat. 

Cassandra makes a truly disgusted sound and flings her hands up. “This is why we shouldn't invite the dwarf.”

Shepard leans against the wall, arms crossed in front of her. “Let's get on with this if everyone’s ready.” 

After several confirmations, she nods and begins initiating her strategy. She feels everyone's eyes glued to hers, especially Solas’, who hasn't said a single word. He has stationed himself in the corner of the room, behind everyone. A perfect position for one who wants to observe without being so themselves. Her gut tells her it's a tactical remover and not just a coincidence. Solas strikes her as a man who is very intentional in everything he does. Behind the heart of the philosopher was the mind of a strategist. Not unlike her, really. 

“Alright, Josephine said this morning you had questions about my story, but before we get into that, I need to make something clear.” She steps from the wall and stops directly in front of Leliana's face. “Leliana?” 

She has to admit, she respects the spy master's nerves. Leliana doesn't blink or flinch an inch. “Yes, Herald?”

“You put a spy on me.” She uses the tone she learned to use with all her subordinates. It's the one that conveys to them without question she's in command. No lying. No excuses. 

“Yes.” It's a quick reply and honest. 

“Herald,” Cassandra says a bit hesitantly, “the reason you had a spy posted on you was to make sure no attempt was made on your life while you recovered. At the time, we all agreed it was the best course of action before you awoke.”

“I see. That, I understand. Tell me then, why was the spy still posted on me after I was already awake?” 

The room was deadly silent, and many eyes flashed from Leliana to her and back. Leliana, for her part, looked displeased but unfazed. 

“It was out of another concern.”

“And what concern was that, exactly?”

“You are an unknown in many ways, and until we have solid information on who you are, I thought it best to–”

“-to keep an eye on me,” Shepard finishes. “I am staying to help this Inquisition because I want to, and because I'm the only one who may be able to shut the Breach. That makes me a volunteer, not a prisoner. Correct?”

Leliana narrows her eyes. “Yes, but–”

“And as a volunteer and a member of this Inquisition, I deserve the respect you show every other member in this room. Or do you post spies on Solas and Varric too?” 

“No, but it is not the–”

Shepard cuts her off by taking one step forward. Leliana's breath blows on her skin. “Don't do it again. Understood?”

Leliana still narrows her eyes at her a moment longer before nodding. “Understood.”

“Good,” she steps back and resumes her previous reclined stance against the wall. “Then we don't have a problem.” 

All is quiet, and no one moves. The only sign of movement is the flicker of eyes in the light as they glance around at each other. Cullen shuffles on his feet, then stills at the sound of his armor groaning. Varric whispers something to Solas so soft she misses it. Shepard raises an eyebrow.

“I thought you had questions?”

The tension breaks. 

“Yes, of course,” Josephine flashes Leliana a stern look before devoting her whole attention to her. “Why don’t we start with the basics? You say your name is Shepard, and you are a commander, yes?”

Shepard nods. 

“A commander?” Cullen squints at her, taking her in, not in a lewd way, but one of a soldier recognizing another. She sees him notice her stance, though relaxed, is still firm and centered. His eyes roam across the muscles in her legs and arms. “Of an army or–”

“Navy.”

“A naval commander?” Josephine’s excitement ignites her in a flame of enthusiasm. “From Antiva, perhaps?”

“No.”

There is a slight pause as each one asks the question with their eyes but waits for one to voice it. Finally, one does, and when he speaks, all turn around to face him in surprise. They had forgotten he was there. 

“You are not from Thedas.” 

To everyone else, Solas had asked a question, but Shepard saw the hunter in his eyes and knew differently. He is telling her he knows. She meets his gaze and doesn’t look away as she answers.

“No. I’m not.” 

The cards were dealt. The stakes are high, and one player is already trying to eye her hand. It is time she put her bluff into play. 

“Listen carefully. I’m only going to say this once.” She breaks her eye contact with Solas to look at each of them firmly. “There was a war. I was fighting. I was injured and blacked out. When I woke up, I was here, in the cells. The rest, you know.” 

“So you don’t remember how you actually got here, to Thedas?” Cassandra asks. 

Shepherd shakes her head. 

Leliana asks a question of her own. “Is it possible your ship wrecked somewhere then, and you washed up here?”

That thought had occurred to her, just not in the way Leliana meant it. 

“That’s my best guess.”

“Hmmm…” Josephine brushes the feather of her quill on her chin. “Then you most likely came through the Waking Sea. It is the nearest source of water that a ship could drift in from. We could send out scouts to see if we can locate it. Some of your crew may still be–”

“No!” Her tone comes out sharp, and she clenches her hands so hard that some of her nails break the skin on her palms. No tears, no fears. She takes a breath. “There’s no need.”

“But if your crew is still there, shouldn’t we–”

“NO.” It is not a yell, but firm enough to cause Josephine’s jaw to snap shut. “As I said, there was a war.”

“Then, your men, your crew–” Cullen hesitates, unsure if she is going to snap at him too. There, he meets her eyes, and she sees no pity in them. Instead, she sees a sorrowful understanding that can only be born from empathy. He is a commander too. He has lost people, too. 

“I was alone, in the end,”  she confirms. His gaze softens, and he looks away. She sees his own painful ghosts shadow his eyes.

 “I am alone.” 

Just how alone, they could never truly know. 

“Is there any way we could get word to your people? Let them know you are alive?” Leliana’s tone is low and soft. It is unexpected coming from her. 

She shakes her head. “None that I know of, but thank you.” Leliana dips her head. Shepard chooses to shift the conversation back into focus. “For now, I’m stranded here, and as I said before, I’ll do what I can to help. So, any more questions?”

For a moment, the pause gives her the slightest hope that they will move on and not ask. But, of course, the scholarly hunter has not chosen to fold from the game yet. 

“The abilities you have displayed during battle are quite unique. Indeed, to the normal eye, one would think you use an unusual form of magic, but it is far from anything magical.”

He sees her bet, and Shepard raises it. 

“My abilities are not drawn from Fade.” Thank God she read up a little on this beforehand.

He sees the bluff. “That is as I said.” 

Carefully, she forms her words. “It is not magic in the way you would understand it, perhaps.” 

Solas calls it. “Then what do you understand it to be?’

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. 

“I’m just a soldier, Solas, not a scholar.” It’s a weak save, but it’s all she has. 

“Scholars often become soldiers when war proves necessary. Your occupation does not disrupt your ability to seek understanding. One who wields a sword knows at least the basic principles of how the sword is made.”

“Uhhh–the dwarf is lost here.” Varric loudly interrupts. 

“You’re not the only one,” Josephine replies.

Shepard is going to buy him a drink later for that timely save. “Look, all I can tell you is that I was born with these abilities, and to use them, I draw on something other than the Fade. Call it magic if you want, or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Solas lingers on her face. “What do your people call it?”

“Biotics.” A name shouldn’t hurt, and it will give him something to chew on for a while. She hopes so, at least. 

“These biotics of yours, they don’t require lyrium, do they?” 

Shepard is surprised by Cassandra’s question and is at a loss. She believes she read about lyrium somewhere, but what it is and what it does, she can’t recall. Playing it safe, she settles on something simple.

“No.”

“I thought not. I didn’t sense any in you. That’s why you were able to throw—” Cassandra stops, turns red, and corrects herself. “-to catch me off guard.”

“You’re blushing, Seeker,” Varric taunts. 

“I am not!” 

Solas ignores them, still focused on her. “And what of your other . . . capability? I can sense no magic, nor even the same energy as your biotics. The veil has no semblance of reaction to it, as though it does not exist. Yet, you were able to form a tangible blade with it when needed. ” 

“It isn’t biotics.”

“I believe I already drew that conclusion.” There is no amusement in his voice.

Damn him and his stubborn intellect. 

“It is a tool, and at times, a weapon, when necessary.”

“Its source of power is different from your biotics. What source does it use then?”

She was not going to win by bluffing. Guess it’s time to switch tactics. “No.”

Solas quirks an eyebrow.

“I’m not here to explain it to you. I told you what it and my biotics can do. You will have to be content with that.”

Before Solas can say anything more, Cullen intercedes. “This source you draw from, you say it’s not from the fade. Then does that mean you can’t be possessed?”

Shepard can’t stop herself from laughing. “Ha! By demons? No. That’s not a concern for biotics.”

Cullen seems impressed and excited by the idea. “To have magical abilities without fear of demons–”

“It is not magic.” Solas actually seems upset at the comparison. 

Cullen isn’t bothered by the interruption. “Could you show us how it works?”

“Commander, while I appreciate your enthusiasm, that is not why she’s here.” Cassandra steps closer to her and faces the room. “I think we have asked her enough. We wanted to know who she is, and now we know. She is here to help. That is all that matters.” Pointedly, she levels a hard look at Solas. “What she chooses to share with us is her own affair.” 

Shepard could almost hug her. Almost. 

Surprisingly, Solas looks properly chastised and instantly bows his head. “My apologies. My curiosity got away with me. Cassandra is right. You are here to help, and I can understand the value of privacy.”

Cullen also stammers one out. “I am as well. While I admit the implications of your mag–biotics are fascinating, I do not wish to impose on you.”

Relieved, Shepard nods at them in genuine gratitude. “So, Cassandra mentioned we might have a plan to close the Breach . . . without blowing me up, right?” 

“Yes,” Cullen chuckles softly. “That is our preference as well.”

“As I mentioned,” Cassandra begins, “Your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good.”

Leliana nods. “That means we must approach the rebel mages for help.”

Cullen shakes his head vehemently. “I still disagree. The Templars could serve just as well.”

Cassandra groans. “We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark—”

“Might destroy us all!” Gone is the sheepish awkwardness from before. Shepard sees the backbone of a soldier in him. “Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so—”

Leliana huffs. “Pure speculation!”

Cullen insists. “I was a templar. I know what they’re capable of.”

“Well, as lovely as this has been, whenever people start arguing about mages and templars, I know it’s time to leave.” Varric sighs and heads for the doors. “Coming, Chuckles?”

Solas seems startled out of his thoughts. “I… yes.” As he passes her, she is relieved to see the hunter gone, for now. Instead, he gazes at her with that same knowing look that leaves her baffled at what he sees in her. Without another word, he follows Varric out of the room.

Thankfully, the argument doesn’t resume with its previous friction. What follows is a long back and forth of the three explaining to her how she, a “strange barbarian,” is the “Herald of Andraste”, and why the Chantry doesn’t like it. It doesn’t take much explaining for her to realize that the Chantry is no better than the Council when it comes to paying attention to the real threat, until it’s too late, of course. As for her newest title, it reminds her of the stupid Hanar that insisted she was blessed by the Protheans because of the beacon on Eden Prime. It seems she is always cursed with being hailed as blessed by one deity or another. Too bad it never seemed to do her any damn good. 

 “It’s quite the title, isn’t it? How do you feel about that?” Cullen asks her. 

“If I’m a messenger of anything, it's of the world, asking everyone to help fix it again.” 

Cullen snorts. “If only the Chantry would agree.” 

“People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you’re that sign,” Leliana explains.

“And to others,” Josephine adds, “a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong.”

“Of course! I’m the problem. Let’s all ignore the giant tear in the sky!” she mocks.

“They do know that it is a threat,” Cullen says, “they just don’t think we can stop it.”

Josephine nods. “The Chantry is telling everyone that you’ll make it worse.”

“And what do they suggest? It never just goes away. What are they going to do better than me? Talk it to oblivion?”

“There is something you can do,” Leliana says as she comes to her side. “A Chantry Cleric by the name Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable.”

“Why would someone from the Chantry help a declared ‘barbarian’ heretic?”

“I understand she is a reasonable sort. Perhaps she doesn’t agree with her sisters?”

Shepard lets lose a long, exasperated sigh. “Just once when the world’s about to end, I wish people would let me shoot things and fix it instead of headbutting politicians.”

“Have you headbutted a politician?” Cullen asks, eyes wide in amazement. 

“No, wait … yes.” She did headbutt that ass of a Krogan. That counts, right? “I also may have killed one.” At the look of horror on Cullen’s face, she adds, “He was ass though. Sold out the rest of the council for his own hide.”

Leliana shakes her head, but Shepard swears she sees an amused smile tilt the corners of her lips. “You’ll find Mother Giselle tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands near Redcliffe.”

“Yes,” Cullen says, bringing himself back to the conversation. “Look for other opportunities to expand the Inquisition’s influence while you’re there.”

“What kind of influence?”

“We need agents to extend our reach beyond this valley,” Josephine explains, “and you’re better suited than anyone to recruit them.”

“Recruitment, got it.”

Cassandra sighs. “In the meantime, let’s think of other options. I won’t leave this all to the Herald.”

“Uh … the name’s Shepard, Cassandra.” 

The warrior gasps. “I couldn’t call you that!” 

“Why not?”

“Because … you’re the Herald.”

Shepard groans. 

_____

She is absolutely starving by the time she reaches the tavern. Unfortunately, because it is now so late in the evening, the place is packed, and though many scramble to offer her a seat, she longs for quiet solitude. Flissa comes to greet her, and all Shepard has to do is ask if she can carry the food out, and the woman scampers about, wrapping whatever food was portable into a large satchel. Soon, Shepard is out the door, the satchel wondrously heavy on her shoulder from all the fruits, potatoes, mushrooms, and freshly baked bread. Flissa even gave her a bottle of wine. 

Eager for her bountiful meal, she heads out for her cabin. Once she reaches it, however, she stops, struck by a sudden thought. She ducks inside briefly before coming out with a chart tucked under her arm. Continuing on, she passes through the gates and comes to a small footpath. She follows it to a pier overlooking the frozen lake. While she can still see Haven and the few people that are out still, no one else seems inclined to come out here late at night. Satisfied, she drops down onto the wooden planks, plucks an apple from the top of her stash, and begins to eat. 

Though cold, she has to admit that Haven has a beauty to it. Everywhere around her, she can see the hazy, majestic outline of the mountain range reaching to point high into the sky. Even though the Breach was still a threat, she had to admit in its own, chaotic way, it was beautiful. Now that she had calmed it, the green light floated out into the night like a giant beacon. Stormy clouds twisted around it, adding to the feeling of the sublime. Dangerous, yes, but still beautiful. It called to her, that chaotic blend of feelings. It always did. 

Shifting her gaze to the patches of clear sky that occasionally poke through the clouds, she searches for the glimmer of stars. Lost in her efforts to spot some, the apple is forgotten in her hand, mid-bite. Taking out the chart, she lays it out on the ground beside her and constantly shifts her gaze from it to the sky. She tries seeing if any of the patterns are familiar to her. That would mean she could maybe narrow down what system she might be in. For a moment, she allows the thoughts, even though she knows them to be hopeless. If she were in any known star system, people would already know of this world. There would have been a mention of it somewhere. In reality, she knows that wherever this world was, it had to be beyond any previous space exploration known to the Council races. How did she get here? Would she ever find her way back? She was beginning to doubt she would ever find the answers. 

Suddenly, there is the slight crushing of snow behind her. The apple goes flying from her hand as she jumps and spins in the direction of the sudden interruption. 

“Studying so late at night, Herald?”

“Damn it, Solas!” She lets her battle stance ease.

“I am sorry. I thought you heard me approach.”

“Your footsteps are so quiet I didn’t hear them until you were behind me.” She retrieves her apple from the snow and dusts it off. “Be a little louder next time. I wouldn’t want to accidentally throw you into a tree.”

“That would not be desirable.” He glances down at her bag of food and the chart on the ground. “If I am interrupting–”

“No, it’s fine. I just thought I would have a quiet dinner.” 

“I shall leave you to enjoy it then.” With a slight bow of his head, he makes to leave. 

“Solas, I said you could stay.” 

She knows she shouldn’t call him back, not after how doggedly he had hounded her with questions earlier. But she is suddenly aware of her utter loneliness, and some company would help distract her from her darker thoughts. Solas, meanwhile, hesitates. It is witnessed in the way his limbs stiffly come to a halt. So entirely different from his normal, light movements. Whatever conflicts him seem to pass, and he nods.

“Very well, if you so wish company, I will be glad to give it.” 

Shepard plops down at her previous spot and waves him to join her. “Good, help me decide what kind of wine this is.” 

The snow crunches quietly as he joins her on the pier. Soon, he, too, is sitting next to her on the ground. Somehow, he is still able to maintain his ever-so-poised posture. It does little to make her feel he is relaxed. Maybe the wine will help with that. Solas plucks the bottle from her sack and squints as he reads the label. 

“Ah! Amaranthine red. Not an uncommon Ferelden brew.”

“Is that good, or bad?” she asks as she finishes her apple. 

“That all depends. Do you like sweet wine?”

“If it’s anything like Asari honey mead, then stars, yes.”

Solas chuckles. “While I can not attest to that, I agree that there are less desirable drinks to be had in the tavern.”

“Don’t tell Flissa, but whatever beer she gave me yesterday was so flat I thought it was muddy water.”

“Ferelden beer is not known for its taste.”

“What is it known for?”

“Its lack of one.”

She shakes her head and motions to the bottle in his hand. “Let’s have it then.” He passes the bottle to her. 

“I do not see a corkscrew in the–”

With a quick tug with her biotics, the cork comes out. 

“Ah, yes, there is that.”

She quirks him a wry smile before she tilts her head back slightly and sips a taste. It is deliciously sweet, not on the same level as Asari honey mead, but just as good as a rich, Earth brew. With a hum of approval, she holds the bottle out to him. 

“Not bad. I’ll have to thank Flissa later.” The bottle hangs between, and he does not move to take it. “Don’t you like sweet wine?”

“There are no glasses.”

Shepard blinks at him once. Twice. “Solas?”

“Yes?”

“I’m not sick. Take a sip.”

A glint catches in his eye as he takes the bottle from her. He takes a quick sniff before following her example. For a moment, his eyes close as his tongue takes in the flavor. Opening his eyes again, he hums his approval as well. “What talents they lack in beer, Fereldens well make up for it with their wine.” 

Holding up the half-eaten loaf of bread she is in the process of consuming, she mocks a toast. “To the Fereldens and their wine then.” She takes a bite of her loaf, and he takes another sip of wine. 

After that, they sit together in contented silence. The breeze is cool on their faces, and the activity of the night has died to a hush whisper. Now, the only sounds to be heard were the muffled sounds of her chewing and the bleats of the occasional ram. She could almost forget he is even there, if it wasn’t for the glint of his eyes catching in the moonlight as he looks at her face. It doesn’t bother her, and she lets him stare for a while longer until her curiosity at his unwavering attention eats at her. 

“You’re staring, Solas.”

He blinks and averts his gaze, setting the bottle down between them. “I am sorry. I did not mean to.” 

“Do I look that strange to you?”

“No, not at all.” 

“What then?”

“I was just noticing the color of your eyes.”

“Oh,” is all she manages, suddenly confused by the admission.

“Is it a  common trait?”

“Of what?”

“Of your people?”

Ah. That was it then. She finishes the last of a potato before answering. “It’s not uncommon. I can think of a few people I’ve met who had similar hues. Why? Don’t people have some here?” 

“Not among humans, no.”

“But among elves?”

“No.” At least, not any more.” A far-off look is in his eyes as he continues, and his voice takes on again that strange, poetic tone. “Once, Elvhen in ages past used magic woven from wistful dreams to paint and mold the world around them. There was no earth, nor sky, nor beast that with their magic they could not reshape before them.” 

“They used their magic to remake things?”

“Yes, some spells would take years to cast. It was an art form, a dance, a song. Such things are now lost to the bitter ebb of time and twisted history.” 

The way he speaks of it, she can almost picture such a world. “That sounds beautiful, and sad.” 

“It is. Only the echoes of such artforms survive in the fade, or fractured remnants of them in perverted tales,” he answers grimly. 

“And you see all this when you dream? Aren’t there any elves alive who remember how to do these things?”

A short puff of air escapes his mouth. “The elves of today are like children compared to the Elvhen of old. Instead of seeking out the truth for themselves, they cling to their dead remains, all the while claiming they are the last, true elves.”

Shepard, now forgetting the food, stares up at the sky again. Above, the wind moves a cloud, and for a brief moment, she glimpses the light of a star. A memory stirs in her; her lips form the words before she is even conscious of it. 

Or I shall live your epitaph to make

Or you survive when I in earth am rotten.

From hence your memory death cannot take,

Although in me each part will be forgotten.

Your name from hence immortal life shall have,

Though I, once gone, to all the world must die.

The Earth can yield me but a common grave,

When you entombèd in men’s eyes shall lie.

Your monument shall be my gentle verse,

Which eyes not yet created shall o’erread;

And tongues to be your being shall rehearse

When all the breathers of this world are dead.

 You still shall live—such virtue hath my pen—

 Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.

When she reaches the end, she stops and whispers quietly, “Sometimes the only things that are remembered of the dead are what the dead leave behind.”

“That poem,” Solas’ voice is so quiet, she almost doesn’t hear him, “is it yours?”

“Hardly. It’s a sonnet by a man named Shakespeare.” Shepherd laughs bitterly. “I had a friend, a crew member–Ashley. She loved poetry and would quote the stuff to me almost every time I asked her a question. I guess I ended up reading a lot of poetry later, as a way to remember her.” 

Feeling an all too familiar lurch in her heart, she forces a smile and looks at him wryly. “Too bad you don’t know one of those spells for my eyes. You could have saved me from being teased as a kid.”

Solas tilts his head at her, his tone even. “How so? The hue is almost the perfect shade of deathroot when in bloom.”

A true, surprised laugh rolls out of her this time. “I’m not sure what deathroot is, but with a name like that, that would have hardly stopped the other kids from calling me an ugly witch.” 

“Children are cruel and ignorant,” he says, almost flippantly. “If they had but seen a deathroot blossom, they at least would have called you a beautiful witch.”

“Ha! You think I look like a witch?” 

She catches his eyes with hers, teasing him. Returning her gaze, he doesn’t even blink when he answers her. 

“No, but your eyes are beautiful.”

Heat stirs in her chest, and before it can make its way to her face, she ducks her head. What the hell is she doing? This isn’t what she wants or needs right now. Suddenly, she is very tired. 

“Perhaps that is enough wine for tonight.” Shepard tries to smile, but knows she doesn’t quite succeed. 

“Indeed. It is very late, and I fear I have intruded on you long enough.” He stands quickly. “Rest well, Herald.”

“Goodnight.” The sounds of his light footsteps in the snow are almost gone when she says, “Thank you.”

For a moment, the footsteps pause and then fade into the night. 

Chapter Text

Dark shadows form around her as she walks. The shadows twist into a dark forest of familiar whispers. In the distance, she sees him as she always does. A small boy, alone, looking at her with terror in his eyes. She knows he will run. He always does. Yet, she tries anyway, reaching out a hand for him to take. He flees, and she pursues. It is a familiar game these two play, and she knows how it ends: with her failure.  Just as her hand is close enough to touch him, he darts behind a tree, and though she is quick to follow, he is gone. Instead, Ashley lies on the ground, surrounded by corpses. Her face is bloodied, and her eyes are orbs of pitch black. 

Kneeling beside her, Shepard reaches out to touch her shoulder when an iron hand grips her wrist. The dark orbs of Ashley’s eyes flare out shadows around them. Shepard cannot move. The lips on Ashley's hollow face form words, and though she speaks, no breath escapes them.

“You abandoned me. You left us all to die.”

Suddenly, another cold, strong hand clamps down on her shoulder, tearing her from Ashley as she is spun around. Her breath catches in her throat as she sees Kaidan, eyes hollow and black, looking back at her. “You never gave us a chance. You took away what we could have had and left me with nothing. You left me to mourn. Again.”

Before she can speak, Kaidan throws her onto the ground. When she looks up, she is surrounded by three shadowy figures. 

“You taught me how to be human,” Edi says.

Legion steps forward, taking Edi’s side. “You said we were real.”

Then, in unison, they speak as one, their eyes glowing red. “And then you killed us all.”

Anderson stands, hand clutching uselessly at the bleeding hole in his side. “You could have found another way, but you didn’t. You gave up. I’m disappointed in you.” He turns his back on her. 

Shepard tries to call out to him, to beg him to stop, to not leave her alone, but her voice will not leave her throat. She tries to take a breath, but there is no air for her to breathe. Suddenly, the ground drops beneath her knees, and she is floating in empty blackness. There is no light, no sound, no air, only cold, eternal darkness. 

The blood pounds in her ears, screaming at her, demanding her need for oxygen. Her lungs are full and empty all at once, and she is caught between the need to scream and breathe simultaneously. Cold fingers grasp her throat as she tries to claw the air in. The sharpness of her own nails tears at her skin. Flesh, and blood, and muscle fling out in chunks of gore to float around her as she struggles. A large, gaping hole is now where her throat should be, but it still isn’t enough. 

There is no register of pain, only an all-encompassing fear that possesses her fingers to cut herself apart. They quickly free her head from her neck, and she floats in two places, separate, yet still connected, and her head watches her hands continue to shred the rest of her body. Her flesh is stripped from muscle, and muscle is chopped up into tiny, meaty chunks, and then all that remains are the bones. Her skeleton turns and reaches for her head. The finger bones are sharp and pointed like knives, and they plunge into her eyes, and with a tug, rip them free from her skull. 

Suddenly, a voice rings out through the pit of darkness, and a flash of blue light banishes the void of terror. 

She slips away. 

_____

Shepard jolts in bed.

She can’t breathe. Trying to stand, her muscles tense and tremble, and she falls to the ground. In her ears, her heartbeat pounds. With each shallow gasp, the sound gets louder, like distant drums. She isn’t breathing.  Why isn’t she breathing? This hasn’t happened since . . . no. 

No.

No tears. No fears. No tears. No fears. 

She takes a breath. Then another. Another. The drumming fades, slowly.  As she continues, she clenches and releases her fists, losing the tension within. Finally, the panic retreats. 

Shepard stays on the floor for the rest of the night, breathing. 

Chapter Text

Just then, the tavern door opens and Solas exits with a steaming cup in his hands. His eyes glance between her and Varric before dipping his head in greeting. 

“Hello.” His eyes take in her face and narrow slightly. “Sleep well?”

Shepard deflects with a slight laugh. “See, Varric? There’s a polite way of saying I look like crap.”

“I only asked if you were okay!”

“Yeah … right after screaming ‘Shit!’ “

Varric laughs heartily, but Solas remains in passive silence before muttering quietly, “One moment,” and ducking back into the tavern. 

“So, Varric, you like telling stories. Think you could tell me a few today so I don’t have to bull crap my way through fixing the world?”

“Hey! Bull crapping is an honest art form. I do it all the time,” He hums, “though, I suppose a lot of this is still new to you. Are those books helping you at all?’

“Some, but it’s not as easy to get through as, say, an eloquent writer such as yourself.”

“Oh ho! Is that flattery? Do you think you can seduce me into it?” He mocks her with a faint look of shock. “Well, I do like hearing my own voice. Let’s go!” 

They start meandering to find a secluded place when they hear the door to the tavern open again, and Solas calls out to them. “A moment!” They stop and wait for him to catch up. When he reaches them, she notices he now holds two steaming cups. He holds one out to her tentatively. “Try this, I can not attest to the taste, but it should prove to help restore some of your strength.”

Cautiously, she takes it from his hand and sniffs it. The aroma is something herbal with a fresh scent to it. She blows on it slowly before taking a small, testing sip. Its fresh sweetness is calming, and she lets out a relaxed sigh. “Normally I’m not a tea drinker, but this is good.” Her eyes find his. “Thank you.” 

“You are welcome.” 

There, again, she sees something reflected at her in him that she can’t pinpoint. For some reason, she gets the distinct feeling she reminds him of something, or someone. Perhaps that is it. A lost family member, a dead friend, or a lover. It doesn’t make her feel better. 

“What is it? Or should I ask?”

There is a slight lift in the corner of his mouth. “It is an assortment of Embrium and Elfroot.”

“I’ll have to remember that for next time.”

The glint of a hunter’s arrow flashes in his eyes. “Oh? Do you often find yourself so . . . fatigued?”

Damn his perceptiveness. She really needs to quit volunteering opportunities for him. “Not always. Just when the world is falling apart.”

“It’s always falling apart,” Varric points out. 

“And you’re going to help me figure out how to put it back together, so we'd better hurry.” She knows she’s being abrasive, but she is not letting Varric help Solas in squeezing more out of her. Raising her cup in a silent toast of gratitude, she gives Solas one final look before trudging off towards her cabin. 

Varric follows her, but not before shaking his head at Solas. “I thought sea captains were fun and carefree. This one is more like Cassandra, only with a better personality.”

_____

Her morning with Varric was fruitful. Though she hadn’t read his books, if they were in any way as colorful and informative as talking to him was, maybe she should make time to read them after all. When they got to her cabin, she immediately began questioning him about the conclave and who was there and why. Soon, he had told her the long story of the struggles between mages and templars, the claims of righteousness on each side, a terrorist attack, and the following war. Apparently, the Breach had destroyed everyone’s plans for peace. Stars, she really hopes this wasn’t her fault. Varric is patient with her as she interrupts him frequently to ask questions. He clarifies everything with precision and thoroughness. By the afternoon, she feels like she knows enough to understand the people in this strange world. 

“That’s about the gist of it. Honestly, you can glean a lot of this from my book, The Tale of the Champion . It shows how everything got to this mess.”

“You were friends with them both? Hawke and the terrorist?”

Varric sighs and looks down at his boot. “Yeah, Hawke and Blondie. Those two were tight, you know, before. But after what Blondie did, Hawke just couldn’t let it go.”
“So he killed him?”

“More like freed him, I think. I don’t think Blondie even knew what or who he was in the end. Demon or no demon, he was just–tired. He wanted Hawke to do it.”

“It isn’t easy,” she whispers. “Having to kill your friend.”

Varric looks up and curls an eyebrow at her. “Are we speaking from experience?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t have to, in the end. Almost did. Three times.”

“Yeah. Almost killed my brother once. It’s all shit.”

“It really is.”

After that, they let a moment of quiet slip between them. Each of them feels solace in the company of another who knows that friendships can end bitterly, even if you keep on caring. Varric soon leaves, and Shepard heads out on an errand once again.

 Following the path out to the stables, she finds the blacksmith, Harritt, hard at work. The man is obliging as he shows her around. When asked what kind of armor she normally wears, she says she will settle for something that can take heavy hits but let her move swiftly. For a moment, he stares at her, stroking his beard in contemplation, before telling her to follow him. Heading into the house adjoined to the smithy, he opens a large chest at the foot of the bed and pulls out a set of armor. 

It is nothing like her N7 armor, of course, but she has to admit that, for this world’s limitations, she is impressed. The craftsmanship behind it is clear, and the materials used look sturdy enough to deflect an arrow or a sword, just not any Krogan charge or Reaper beams. When she asks what kind of armor it is, he says it is a refined battle master mail that he had made during better times with his father. Some of the pieces are too large for her, but Harritt insists he can have the necessary alterations made by their leave tomorrow morning. She considers declining, but she sees the look of stubborn pride in him, and relents. These people of Thedas were proud, whatever else they were, and she will respect that. 

Next, he inquires after her fighting style and choice of weapon. Here, she pauses and considers with great care. Naturally, she couldn’t explain to him what a gun is, and though she had done pretty well with a short blade before, it is not what she is used to. Now is not the time to go charging into the unknown with a different fighting style if she can help it. Varric’s crossbow crosses her mind. Yes. Something like that would do quite nicely. In the end, Shepherd thanks Harritt and leaves with a whitewood crossbow in her hands and a quiver full of arrows flung over her shoulder. It isn’t a gun, but it is a ranged weapon, and with practice, she is sure her aim will be just as good…though she probably would actually lose to Garrus this time. 

After stashing her new weapon in her cabin and snatching a quick snack from the tavern, she follows the path back past the training grounds and into the wild wilderness beyond. It doesn’t take long before she spots a cabin standing alone amongst the snowdrifts and trees. Just like Adan had said, it is indeed abandoned. Inside, she snoops around until she finds the notes he’d mentioned. Soon, she is standing in front of the grumpy healer-that-isn't-really-a-healer with a smile on her face, holding out the notes. She swears the man forgets to frown for three whole seconds before growling out a thank you. In a way, his reluctant gratitude reminds her of Jack, but with fewer tattoos and cursing involved. The thought dampens her spirit, and she quickly pushes them back into their cage. 

When she passes by Solas’ cabin, she stops and hesitates at the door. He had offered those books to her, but she didn’t want to intrude upon him so late. Evening was starting to settle over the sky. No, it is best to leave him to his own preparations. She takes a step back from the door when it suddenly opens, and Solas looks at her with an oddly amusing gaze. 

“You needed something, Herald. Why do you not knock?”

Her brows come together as she scrutinizes his odd appearance and words. “I didn’t want to disturb you. But— you knew I was there.” It isn’t a question, and by the approving tilt of his mouth, he knows as well. 

“It is no disturbance if I can be of help.” 

There is silence. She expects him to explain how he knew she was there, but instead only stares at her expectantly. He wants her to suggest it. What game they are playing now, she is not sure of. But one thing is clear: he is the one setting the rules. That makes her intrigued, yes, but also uneasy. The last game they played ended with her dodging his cunning words clumsily. She is not about to be hunted so easily again. 

“The energy from my mark?”

Again, a slight approving twitch of the lips. “In close proximity, it is hard for a mage such as myself to ignore.”

“And what is a mage, ‘such as yourself’?” 

Ah. There. For one brief moment, she sees a slight uncertainty in his eyes. It is replaced with his usual confidence quickly, but she knows that for one brief moment, their roles of hunter and prey had been reversed. What a curious man he is. 

“One who knows how to look without looking. The fade makes it easy for any mage to see beyond with feeling, if one knows how.”

“So you feel it. What does it feel like?”

He smiles then. Actually smiles, not a slight turn at the corner, but one that reaches his eyes. Not everyone would think him attractive, for his face has so many angles, but to her, in that moment, she thinks many would find him so. He should smile like that more. Wait. What the hell is she thinking? Thankfully, his answer saves her from her wandering thoughts.

“Do you not feel your own energy? Your biotics? How does it feel?”

“Like a tingle or a hum? Sometimes, like a giant sneeze, but only when I’m angry.”

He barks out a short laugh. “Ha! It seems my magic and your biotics are not so dissimilar.” Then, his features are schooled once again. “Though I have never felt it as sneezing.”

The sudden shift in his behavior catches her off guard, and she feels she is missing something. Before she can say anything more, he throws a new question at her.

“So, how can I help you, Herald?’

“Shepard. We agreed on Shepard.”

“Apologies, but posturing is necessary for one in your position.”

“We’re alone, Solas.”

“Not yet, Herald.” 

With a step backward, he invites her into his cabin. Shaking her head, she walks in, and he shuts the door behind her. Gesturing to a chair by a small table, he invites her to sit, and she does. While she reclines backward into her chair, he remains straight and rigid in his. It makes her feel like she is a recruit back in training. She doesn’t mean to stare at him, but she finds she can’t look away. 

There is so much more to this man than most saw. That much is clear by the way her new companions had treated him during the meeting. Solas moves among them almost unseen, except maybe to Varric, at times, but Varric is a writer: he sees everything around him as material for his work. His clothes are plain and practical, nothing that will catch the eye. Well, aside from his bare feet, that don’t seem to get cold even in the snow. She wants to ask if he needs shoes, but doesn’t want to wound his pride. He does have pride. It is with him in his steps as he walks, even now as he sits tall in his chair. For a mage wandering the world alone, hiding his magical abilities, he does not attempt to hide his pride. Or his cunning. His mind is sharp and brilliant, and she knows that already, in only five days since meeting him. 

“You are staring, Shepard.”

Shepard stops staring at the whole of him and stares into his pale eyes. There is amusement and familiarity there. Suddenly, she thinks back to their moment last night, when he had stared at her in such a way. The thought makes her smile. 

“I know.”

If her boldness deters him, he doesn’t show it. With just as much boldness, he holds her gaze as he echoes her own question back. 

“Do I look that strange to you?”

A challenge.

“No, not at all,” she parrots back. 

“What then?” he reciprocates in kind. 

“I was just noticing your feet.”

He doesn’t even blink. 

“Oh?” It is not said in the tone she had said it, but she lets it pass.

“Is it a common trait?”

“Of what?”

“Of your people?”

Right there, his eyes glimmer. “It’s not uncommon. I can think of a few people I’ve met who have similar anatomical structures.” There, in the corner of his mouth, he smirks at her. “Why? Do not your people have some here as well?” 

She deviates from their script just a bit. “Not barefoot in the freezing snow, no.” 

Solas’ smirk turns into a smile, and with a laugh, she breaks free from their play. “So is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Is it an elven custom to freeze your feet in the snow?” 

“There are spells, when needed, and foot wrappings.”

“Hmph,” she crosses her arms and smirks at him. “Shoes don’t need spells, or expose one’s toes to the cold.”

“True, but there are advantages to going without.”

Shepard raises a brow. “Such as?”

“Feeling the vibrations of the world around you, moving swiftly without fear of detection,” he pauses briefly, eyes challenging hers. “and of course, the occasional, admiring stares.”

She doesn't miss a beat. “They are pretty.” 

It’s his own compliment thrown back at him, and for a moment, she swears the tips of his ears turn pink. “That is …” He breaks eye contact and stares at the floor, but upon landing on his feet, lifts his gaze to the wall behind her.  “...well.” 

Shepard can’t help but let a small laugh escape her. “Gotcha.” 

Solas tenses in his shoulders. 

Quickly, she works to smooth his ruffled pride. She shakes her head at him as she smiles, not mockingly, but in a way to show it is only a friendly tease. Thankfully, it works enough for his shoulders to ease a little, but his mouth is still firmly shut. Sighing, she works to bring her visit to its original purpose. 

“If I haven’t ruined my welcome, I was going to ask for those books you had recommended. That is, if the offer still stands.” 

It is an unspoken apology for any lingering resentment the tease might have earned her. Solas finally lets his gaze find her again. The intention is not missed, and he inclines his head. 

“It stands. What subjects are you most wanting in knowledge?”

“Anything you are willing to give me.”

He considers the matter quietly before rising from his chair and going to his pack by the door. It is the same one he had worn when she first met him at the rift, and it suddenly strikes her that it probably held all he truly owned. It doesn’t make her sad, no, really. She herself always had little. Her ship and her crew were her home. Her gun, her armor, and her dog tags were her only true possessions…well, until her space hamster and fish, of course. Never has she needed anything else.  Shepard wonders if it is so for him, and if that is why he seems so lonely. 

Absent-mindedly, her fingers search for the familiar chain of metal around her neck as she thinks. For a moment, they fumble around her neck until they freeze. Looking down at her empty fingers, she curses herself. How has she not noticed all this time? They are gone. Her dog tags are gone. She could die on this planet, and should by some miracle anyone finds her body, they may not even know it is her. 

“Damn it!” The curse hisses through her teeth. 

“I am sorry?”

Blinking out of her inward rage, she looks up at Solas standing in front of her with three books in his hands. 

“It’s nothing,” She sighs, and lets her empty, itching fingers fall to her lap. “I just realized I lost something.”

Solas hesitates stiffly. It is so unlike the gracefully fluid movements she is used to seeing in him.  His tongue licks his lips before speaking. “Is it important?”

“No, I guess not. At least, not anymore.”

He must sense the regret in her voice, for his voice is quiet, gentle, and intentional. “Is it important to you?”

“I–yes, it was.” The cage inside her rattles, but she refuses to acknowledge it. No tears. No fears. “It doesn’t matter. I can do without.” 

“I am sorry, my friend.” 

Heat rises in her chest, and she looks at him in surprise, caught off guard by the tenderness in his words. Friend. He is offering his friendship. It is not until that moment that she realizes how much she needs one. 

“I am sorry, Shepard,” he repeats, and there is sorrow in his eyes. 

“I–thank you. I appreciate the sentiment and for considering me a friend.” 

This time, it is Solas who looks at her in surprise. “You speak Elvhen?!”

“What?!” Confusion fills her, quickly replaced with panic. 

“You understood me, before, and answered back.” Something new replaces his surprise. Wonder, she thinks, and could that be … excitement? Surely not. “It is rare that a human comes to know our language, let alone speak it so well.”

Well . . . damn it. What trap has she stepped into now?  

“I hadn’t realized.” It is all she can think to say. 

Not at all helpful, of course, as his surprise and wonder give way to the hunter. “Have you met many of my kind before? I did not realize they had strayed so far.”

Suddenly, she wants to drown herself in the mud water they call beer at the tavern.

“I can speak many languages, in fact.” It’s not a lie. Not really. “Can’t you?”

“I can . . . and that isn’t quite an answer.”

“I look forward to speaking with you more, my friend.” She emphasizes the word deliberately. 

“That is …that would be…”

She smirks. “That isn’t quite an answer either.” Standing up, she gently takes the books from his hands. “Thank you, Solas. Goodnight.” 

He blinks at her several times before clasping his hands behind his back and stepping aside. “Rest well, Herald.”

“It’s Shepard,” she says as she walks past him to the door. As she opens it, she pauses to look back at him. “But I’ll settle for ‘friend’ as well.” With a smile, she leaves, not shutting the door behind her. 

An invitation to hunt her if he dares. 

_____

She doesn’t get far down the steps when she sees a familiar figure standing to the side, watching her. Instantly, she turns and walks to the elven woman. Standing tall, arms crossed over her chest, she stares back. 

“If you’re shadowing me again, you’ll be disappointed. Do I need to remind Leliana of our understanding?”

“No, Herald. She understands. I come only to introduce myself to you, so you may know me other than a shadow.” 

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Shepard says, and she uncrosses her arms. 

The elf mirrors her posture. Interesting. A tactic to make her feel at ease, she is certain. 

“Call me Charter, Lady Herald. I am sorry I couldn’t introduce myself sooner.”

“I’m sorry you got an earful for losing your target.” She smiles slightly at her. A tease to show there are no hard feelings. “You did get an earful, didn’t you?”

“Of course. I didn't do my job well. In our line of work, mistakes can mean lives.” 

“Well, thankfully, you won't have to get another reprimand on my account again.” 

Charter tilts her head ever so slightly to the side. “No, not unless there is something important you forgot to tell us.”

Shepard’s heart skips, but gives nothing away. “I’m afraid my memories aren’t complete. It may be possible. If so, when the time comes, I will tell Leliana not to fault you.” 

Charter bowed her head slowly, but didn’t break her gaze. “I hope that time does not come.” Shepard sees in her eyes that she had not failed to catch the double meaning in her words. “Enjoy your evening, Lady Herald.” She leaves as swiftly as she appeared.

Back inside her cabin, she does not fail to see that the sack her armor is in under her bed has been moved. At first glance, she wouldn’t have been able to tell, but when she sees there is no dust around the bag, she knows. 

It seems there is more than one hunter in her midst.

_____

“You not sleeping, Shepard?”

She looks up at Kaiden, sitting across from her with the gentlest concern in his eyes. 

“No,” she answers honestly. 

“Bad dreams?”

“Yes.” 

“I get that. This war is making everyone restless.”

“How about you?” 

“Not bad dreams, but I worry.” Kaiden shifts in his seat, leaning closer to her. “Honestly, the war isn’t the only thing keeping me up at night …”

Her breath chokes in her throat. No. Don’t say it. “Kaiden…”

“...I wonder about us.”

Kaiden meets her eyes. Nervous, yet hopeful. 

“Kaiden…” she starts to warn him. 

He either doesn’t hear her or doesn’t care. “I…I have feelings for you, Shepard. Always have. And I want more. I want to acknowledge the feelings I’ve had for you all this time…and make it real.”

Shepard feels her heart lurch with a sudden pain. 

The uncertainty makes him look away from her, but only for a moment. “That’s what I want. What do you want?”

All the pain, heartache, and despair return to her in greater intensity than they had on that day. She knows the answer she must give him. She knows the answer she had given him. But here, lost in his hopeful eyes, she wishes she can stay in this moment a little while longer, where everything is possible. Just for a moment. In his eyes, she sees that is how he feels: she could retreat, but she could also finally give words to the truth she never allowed herself to voice. For one moment, everything is possible for them both. 

For one moment. 

But she can’t. She couldn’t. She never could. 

“I’m so sorry, Kaiden, but my priority is my duty. It always has been, and it always will be. We should just keep it professional.”

No tears. No tears. No tears.

She knows what will come: the disappointment, the pain, the truth. Words she wants to say leap to her lips, but she swallows them down. If she couldn’t say them to his face, she would not be a coward and say them to him in a dream. It isn’t fair to him. She owes him that much. So, once again resolved to silence, she steels herself for his disappointment.

But it doesn’t come. 

“Right.” Kaiden looks away, just as before. “Just the answer I was hoping for.” 

Shepard frowns. This isn’t right. He didn’t say that. 

Suddenly, his mouth twists into a cruel smile, and his eyes blacken into empty shadows. Fear seizes her heart, and she backs away from him. Not quick enough. Strong hands grasp her throat and squeeze the air out of her. Wheezing, she struggles, trying to kick him, pull away, tell him to stop, anything to find release. Nothing works. Once again, she can’t breathe. 

With one strong push of will, her biotics flare as she releases them. Kaiden laughs. It is loud and deep and everything Kaidan is not. Worst of all, it is cruel. 

No. No. No. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. 

“You will not wake up, Shepard. Not unless I want you to.” 

“No, unless we want you to,” say two other voices. Suddenly, standing beside her, Kaiden are two others. All with the same black eyes. 

Her Kaiden leans forward and kisses her hard and sharply. Lips burn with a scream she can’t scream. Again, she tries to push away, but his grip only tightens. Finally, he releases her with another dark laugh. “That is what you always wanted? Is it not?” 

She chokes, but manages a soft and broken, “No.”

“Liar, liar, lips on fire,” one besides them taunts. 

“Kaiden, let me go.”

“No,” they all say.

“Kaiden, please,” her voice cracks.

“What will you give me?” Her Kaiden sneers, then licks his lips as if tasting where hers had been. “I have tasted your regret, so sweet it is. Will you give me more, I wonder?”

His grip tightness. She gags.

“I feel you fear, will you give me that?” The one on the right asks.

“And what of your despair?” The one on the left interrupts. “It is so beautiful. There is so much of it, and so deep it runs.” 

Coming closer to her, he trails a hand along her cheek. She knows Kaiden’s hands. They are warm and rough, strong and gentle. These are not Kaiden’s hands. It is cold and smooth like ice. It burns. Shepard tries to move her head, but the other one still holds her throat. 

“I can take it from you,” he whispers, and lets his cold hand fall. 

“We can all take these from you,” her Kaiden says. 

“Just let them go, and you can forget it all.” The one on the right finally steps forward and touches her, too. One single finger on her forehead. Pain shoots through her. He lifts his finger, and it subsides. “You want to forget it. Your pain. Your fear. Let us help.”

Anger surges through her. “No.” Even though she can’t breathe, she somehow speaks the word. “Never.”

One after the other, they speak, taunting her. Angering her more. They are not Kaiden. 

“Why hold on to so much pain?”

“We can help.”

“You can forget.”

Kaiden knows never to make her angry. 

Ever. 

“Because it is mine. Mine to remember, and mine to bear. I will not forget them.” 

“Then we will take them,” her Kaiden snarls. He isn’t laughing anymore. 

“No, you won’t!” Air is inside her. She feels strength return to her limbs. The hand on her throat doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s just a dream. She can control her dreams. “I’m waking up now.” 

And she does.

Once again, a bright light guides her through. 

_____

She has not been asleep for long. Three hours, at most. Sighing, she flips down her blanket and leaves her bed. Sleep is once again not in her plans for the night. It’s for the best, as everyone is in their beds, she could do one final mission before leaving in the morning. Pulling on her hooded cape, she grabs the sack with her armor in it and goes to the door. She cracks the door open and looks out into the night. The only sound is the whistling wind kicking up snow. Reassured, she steps out and makes her way through the gates. 

There are a few soldiers standing guard for the night by the fire near the tents. Not wanting to be questioned about why she is out so late carrying a heavy bag, she decides to take the long way round. Thankfully, no one is near the stables, so she trudges along the path until she reaches the edges of the frozen lake. Carefully, she steps on the ice, testing it. It is thick and holds. Confident she won’t drown, she starts her journey around the lake, following the bank. The ice is slippery, and she has to take it slow. Stars, she hates the cold, but at least it isn’t Thessia: that had freezing cold with corrupt politics. 

Finally, after a good fifteen minutes of slow and slippery maneuvering, she makes it to the other side and happily sets her feet on solid earth. She takes a moment to get her bearings before spotting an old gate entrance and heads for it. This should lead her straight behind the abandoned healer’s cabin. Of course, she is right, and finds herself inside it once again. 

Looking around, she spots the old chest she had seen earlier and opens it. There are a few old books, loose papers, and … is that a cheese wheel?  Yes. Yes, it is. A moldy one. Huffing in disgust, she throws it outside for the birds to pick at it. Now satisfied her armor won’t be smelling of moldy cheese, she places her armor in the chest and closes it. Thankfully, she found the key to the lock on the floor by the uh … chamber pot. Yeah, for a healer, the previous owner was apparently not tidy. After making sure the lock is secure, she exits the cabin. Leaning over the stack of firewood by the door, she places the key underneath one. That should keep it safe for now. 

Suddenly, there is a loud snorting sound followed by trampling hooves. Spinning around, she sees a group of rams galloping away in fright. There is an awful lot of wildlife here. No sooner does she ease her defensive stance than the light from the moon glints off a pair of yellow eyes not twenty paces from her. Slowly, her eyes adjust and follow the eyes to a nose, long jaw, white fur, and four big paws. A white wolf stares back at her. 

Oddly enough, she has never seen a wolf in person. Only in vids and pics. Apparently, they used to be quite numerous in her world, once. They had been hunted almost to extinction, and the few remaining were in limited habitats. Looking at the wolf before her now, she is saddened by the thought.  Though wary of her attention, it stands tall and strong. Majestic, even proud. 

“You’re beautiful.” The words come out before she even realizes she is saying them. 

The white wolf startles a bit, but remains where it is, eyes never leaving hers. Shepard doesn’t know if staring at it will make it feel threatened, but she is not afraid. It is too beautiful to look away from. 

“Sorry if I scared your dinner. Here!” Slowly, she reaches into her pants pocket and pulls out some chunks of salted jerky she had stashed away for snacking. She isn’t sure what kind of meat it is, but she hopes it's ram, since that is most likely what the wolf had been after. “Dinner’s on me.” 

Carefully, she tosses the jerky in its direction. It lands in the snow, right in between them. The wolf stares down at where it has fallen and sniffs the air. Then it looks up at her. Cautious. Calculating. Curious too, if that’s what its twitching ears meant. She eases herself onto the ground and leans against the cabin door. 

“Go ahead, I’ll stay right here.” 

Its ears twitched in her direction, and a puff of air left its nose. 

“I won’t hurt you.” 

The wolf sniffs again, but does not move. 

“Come on, girl,” she coaxes. 

At that, the lips of the wolf drew back in a sneer, showing a flash of long, sharp teeth. A low growl rumbles in its throat. 

“Whoa, easy girl.”

It growls again, louder this time. 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Do as you will, my friend.”

The growling stops, and its lips close. The white wolf tilts its head at her. Almost like an unspoken question. She doesn’t know how to answer, so instead, she starts to recite a poem.

Shepard can’t sing. Or dance. Or do anything remotely creative, but she has an excellent memory…until recent events. She is grateful to Ashley for passing on to her the art of putting to words music she doesn’t have to sing. Nearby, the wolf listens. 

The snowy ground shines with the white moon

My silent paws are the only mark in the wilderness

The pines tower over the sky further than I can reach

In the distance my pack lie together

But I am alone

I howl to the moon

Letting the anger out of me

All the past I leave behind

And I will go now

Like the silver phantom

I will run with the song of the wind

Leave my pack

For I am the white wolf           

When she finishes, she eyes her own white wolf. A long, drawn-out breath leaves its nose. It almost sounds like a sigh. It makes her laugh. 

“Liked that one, did you? I know one more. Would you like me to recite it for you, too?”

The wolf sits. 

She laughs again. “Well, then, here it goes.”

Roaming hill or wood 

He looked a wolf was striving to do good. 

Bound up in duty, he of naught complained, 

The cry for help his aid at once obtained. 

Only he mourned the baseness of mankind, 

And—that the beds too short he still doth find. 

When people suffer under cruel kings, 

With pity moved, he to them succor brings.

This time, when she looks up, the wolf is in front of her. Right where she had thrown the jerky. Slowly, it picks the jerky up in its jaws and steps toward her. She gasps. Not with fright, but anticipation. The wolf freezes mid-step. For a moment, she is afraid to breathe. 

“It’s alright,” her quiet whisper floats into icy mist. “I’m not afraid of you.”

It waits. 

Very slowly, she holds out an upturned hand. 

The wolf steps again, more slowly than the last time, and pauses. 

She does not flinch. 

Encouraged, the wolf takes another step, then another, until it stops right at her feet. 

“See. Neither of us is so scary after all, are we?” 

Lowering its head, the wolf drops the jerky at her feet. 

“No, that is for you. I scared your dinner. The entertainment is also free.”

With another long huff through its nose, it paws the jerky toward her. It lands next to her hand. 

“I see. A picky eater are we? Well, princess, what shall it be? Ram? Deer? Oooh! Perhaps a dragon?”

The wolf curls its lips up in a snarl again, but stops halfway. 

“Easy, I do not mean to mock, just friendly banter, pretty girl.”

It snarls again. 

“What? I called you pretty! What’s so bad about…” 

She pauses, a thought suddenly dawning on her. Ever so slowly, but not so subtly, Shepard twists her head downward towards the ground and looks under the wolf. Once her suspicions are confirmed, she raises her head with a smile. 

“My humblest apologies, your highness,” She bows her head in reverence. “I mean to say you are a handsome prince. Do forgive this blundering peasant.” 

A slight rumble leaves the wolf’s throat. It is not a growl like before. It almost sounds . . . amused? Can wolves be amused?

“I’ll take that as a maybe. Tell you what, if you come back next time I’m here, I’ll hunt something just for you. I could use the practice anyway.” 

The white wolf lets out one last puff of air through its nose, dips its head, and leaps off into the snowy drifts and shadows. 

“Happy hunting,” she whispers after him. Standing up, she picks up the wet jerky and heads home. 

She will not eat the jerky that has been in the wolf’s drooling mouth. 

Yet.

Maybe. 

If she’s hungry enough. 

Chapter Text

Shepard decides she actually misses the Mako, hell, even the M-44 Hammerhead. At least they got her to her destination faster. It’s not that she minds walking, but when the fate of the world is at stake, she would like her time to be more productive than climbing up rocky terrain and avoiding piles of ram dung. There are so many piles of ram dung. Something which Varric happily points out every time they come across one. 

“You know, maybe you tall people can float over these shit piles, but to me, they are literally mountains of shit.”

“Then you should undoubtedly get along,” Cassandra scoffs, “seeing that is all that comes out of your mouth.” 

“Seeker, if you really thought that, then why drag me all the way here to meet the Divine?”

“I thought she had to see the chest hair for herself,” she deadpans. 

Shepard has been listening to their banter and jabs for a while now, but at Cassandra’s last comment, a new thought strikes her. Remembering how Joker and Edi’s relationship first began, she thinks it’s not too far-fetched. 

“Are you two together or . . . ?”

Cassandra stops mid-step in her shock, slipping on the loose rocks below her, and in her attempt to steady herself, lands her foot straight in one of the piles of dung. Horrified, she flails backward, only to hear the sickening squish of her other foot making contact with a second hidden pile. A roar explodes from Varric so strong, he has to bend over with his hands on his knees to breathe. 

Solas actually chuckles at her and shakes his head. “Was that a serious question?”

“Clearly not as logical of one as I’d thought,” she answers, both equally amused at the reaction and curious by the violence of it.

Cassandra makes a truly disgusted noise as she hopelessly tries to fling the dung off her boots. Shepard isn’t sure if the disgust is pointed more at her question or the dung. “What in Andraste’s name would make you think that?” 

“Oh, this I have to hear! Do tell us!” Varric manages to say between fits of merry wheezing. 

She shrugs. “You two are always going at each other, and in my experience, that usually means you’re rivals, or this is just pent-up tension.”

“Tension? Why would you–” Suddenly, Cassandra’s cheeks flame red, and she chokes on her gasp, which soon leads into a strong fit of coughing. “I–” Cough. “-would never–” Cough. Cough. “-no–” Cough. “-absolutely not!”

“Come now, Seeker, you did bring up my chest hair. That is rather forward of you.” 

At Varric’s taunt, all of her embarrassment is instantly replaced with seething rage. “Maybe I should forward you into this dung pile.”

Varric seems unconcerned with her threat. “I’m afraid I must decline your delicate attention. Alas, Bianca here doesn’t like to share. She can be a bit possessive.” With a smirk, he fondles the arm of his crossbow like he would a lover’s hand. 

Before Cassandra has a chance to lunge at him, Shepard steps in between them. “Alright, alright! Clearly, I was wrong. Let’s not get on each other’s nerves so soon. We have a long trip ahead of us.”

“Too long,” Cassandra grumbles. 

“I hear time helps ease the pain of rejection. Though I can understand how it can be hard to let go of my charm and chest hair.”

“Varric,” Shepard warns with a stern glance. 

He throws his hands up. “I’m just trying to console a broken heart.”

“The only thing broken will be your jaw if you don’t shut it.” Cassandra clenches the hilt of her sword. 

“Are they always like this?” she asks Solas, who has been watching in quiet amusement. 

“Worse.”

“Great,” she groans. “Looks like I’ll be playing peacemaker again.”

Varric chuckles and then casts her a mischievous grin. “So, you said in your ‘experience’. Was it in the form of a rival or pent-up tension?”

Shepard huffs and pins him with a look. “I meant my experience on my ship. As commander, I saw and knew almost everything.” 

“What? Am I to understand there was no ‘pent-up tension’ for you?”

“I was their commander, Varric. That would be fraternizing and inappropriate.”

“Surely it's happened, though? Put people together in life-threatening situations, and it’ll happen sooner or later.”

“It has, on occasion.” 

Varric perks up at that. “And? What happened?”

“They would be tried and court martialed.”

He sighs, “That’s not very romantic, but it could have a tragic quality to it. Star-crossed lovers doomed to be torn apart? People eat that shit up.”

Solas actually chimes in. “Looking for more writing material, Master Tethras?” 

“Maybe, if our Herald here has any good stories to share.”

Shepard sets her jaw. “No.”

“I thought you said–”

“NO,” she interrupts more firmly. “None that I’d be willing to share.”

Varric sighs. “That’s a shame. Could have used it for my romance series. It didn’t do as good as my other books. If you ever change your mind–”

“No.”

He sighs again. “Isabella was a sea captain. She always had entertaining stories…though most of them involved a level of smut I would never write.” 

Bitterness bleeds into her words. “I won’t use the memories of my crew as entertainment.”

“Oh, shit. I didn’t mean it like that. Look, we all have a story we won’t tell. I’m just saying, if you ever want to share some, I’d be willing to listen. Sometimes stories are all we have to help keep what’s lost alive.”

She swallows and keeps her eyes on the horizon. They should reach the scout camp by midday. After that, they should have a better idea of where to find this mother. The quicker she can get this over with, the better. While traveling like this, it will be near impossible to work on finding a way home–if there was a way, or a home to go back to. She doesn’t even know for sure if the Normandy made it out. Her fingers reach for her throat, only to clasp at empty air where her dog tags should be. Just like them, she is probably lost forever, but she needs to try. She will try. 

“Herald?” 

Her eyes snap to Solas, whose brows are pinched together with concern. 

“Just thinking of what’s ahead,” she says dismissively. 

The increased pinch on his face tells her he sees past her bluff. 

In order to avoid any comment from him, she addresses Varric. “Thank you, but we won’t have time for stories if we want to close the Breach soon.” 

“Hopefully Mother Giselle will be able to help us do that,” Cassandra says, pointing in the far distance. “There, up that hill. I see the scout’s camp.” 

“Good, if we pick up our pace, we can make it before noon.” Shepard hastens her speed, leaving the others no choice but to do the same. 

Varric protests. “Picking up pace for you people is sprinting to me.” 

“We could always kick you downhill,” Cassandra offers. 

“No thanks. I’ve seen enough of your graceful footwork landing in piles of shit.”

For the rest of the way, Varric and Cassandra bicker, and Shepard’s thoughts drift to similar arguments voiced by different faces. Faces she might never see again, but as always, she pushes the thoughts back into their cage, takes a breath, and moves on. 

_____ 

They reach the camp by noon and are greeted by an eager and curious dwarven scout named Harding.  After a brief exchange of pleasantries and answering her curious questions, Harding informs them of the dire situation the people in the Hinterlands are in and points them in the direction of Mother Giselle. They follow a rocky dirt path down towards the crossroads, where they join up with Inquisition soldiers. It is a battleground. Dead bodies and burning carts litter the ground around them. 

“Inquisition forces! They’re trying to protect the refugees!” Cassandra calls. 

Varric pulls out Bianca. “Looks like they could use a hand.”

Shepard doesn’t have time to pull out her own crossbow before a templar charges directly at her. Cassandra calls out to him to stop, but he doesn’t listen. Without further time for thought, she sends a warp field through him, sending him flailing a good twenty feet away. The other templars freeze and turn to look at her. 

“Apostate!” one calls. 

The templar she had sent flying gets to his feet and calls out, “No! Abomination! Get the abomination!”

“Well, shit,” Varric mutters. “I think they mean you.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she answers. “They were going to kill us anyway.”

All the templars charge in her direction. 

“Protect the Her–” Cassandra starts to order. 

“No!” she demands, flaring her biotics. “Stay back.” 

Without giving her crew time to argue, she charges straight at the templar horde. She waits, gathering energy around her, building it up. Once she is ten paces away from their charge, she slams a fist into the ground and releases. The shockwave rips through her foes and sends them flying. She doesn’t give them a chance to breathe. 

“Now! Take them now!” she orders her crew, and pulling out her crossbow, she starts shooting them where they lie. Varric’s arrows soon follow hers, and she feels the tingle of Solas’ frost as it covers the templar struggling to stand near her. Cassandra shatters him into pieces with the bash of her shield. Her crossbow is not as fast or efficient as a gun, but it works well enough. Suddenly, Solas calls out a warning. Twisting around, she has just enough time to register a templar kneeling and plunging his sword into the ground before a wave of light and energy sweeps over her. 

The sensation catches her off guard, and she staggers. The templar stands and raises his sword. “Now let's see you fight without magic, abomination.”  

“The Herald!” Solas shouts, and she feels his barrier cover her instantly.

But Shepard doesn’t need help. Her skin tingles. Her blood sings. Squaring her shoulders, she meets the templar’s gaze. “I don’t need magic.” 

The templar never sees the biotic throw, and he never gets up again.

“More coming our way!” Solas says, coming to her side. 

His eyes scan her briefly, and she feels a strange push in the atmosphere around her as he does. It is not like being shrouded in his barrier, but before she can say anything about it, the next wave comes. This time, it is templars and mages alike. Solas casts her a strange glance before running near the oncoming mages. He tries to reason with them, just as Cassandra had with the templars, but no one listens. They only want blood. 

“Everyone, get behind me!” she yells. They do so quickly, and soon, they are all standing back to back in a circle, right in the middle of a charge between mages and templars. “Solas, as soon as I release my shield, keep anyone from getting too close. Cassandra and Varric take out the mages first. Soldiers, provide support and cover.” 

“What about you?” Cassandra asks, breathing heavily. 

“I’ll take the templars. Just worry about the mages. Ready?” They shuffle to their positions, and Shepard pulls on her energy. 

A shield forms around them. Small, at first, but slowly, Shepard feeds more of her energy into it, and it expands, forming a protective dome around them. Cassandra gasps, but says nothing. A few arrows ping against her barrier, as well as several blasts of magical energy, but her shield holds. Taking a deep breath, she grits her teeth and smashes her shield. “Now!” 

The blast from her shattered shield rips through the mages just as easily as it does the templars. She had been worried about that, seeing as her biotics were not as effective on demons. Quickly, her crew and Inquisition soldiers do as she ordered. What follows is a massacre. The mages are quickly taken out by Cassandra and Varric, especially after Cassandra does her own weird Templar magic. Shepard will ask her about that later. At first, she thinks she will have to work to draw the templars away from Solas, but apparently, thinking her an abomination has its benefits. With the support of the foot soldiers and a few more arrows and biotic warps, she stands alone. Bodies surround her once again. 

Cassandra is the first to break the silence. She jogs over to her, followed by Varric and Solas. Her words come out in breathless pants. “That’s the end of it.”

Shepard doesn’t look at them. Her eyes are on a pair of brown ones that stare eternally upward. Unseeing. “No,” she whispers, “it never is.” 

“You okay?” asks Varric. 

As Shepard turns her head, so does the world. She falters just a minute before steadying herself. Her head is pounding in pain, and she feels her energy draining out of her limbs. Damn. When was the last time she ate? 

“Herald!” Cassandra leaps forward and takes her arm, offering her support. 

Shepard waves her off. “I’m alright. That took more out of me than I thought. Once I get something to eat, I’ll be fine.” 

“Are you sure? You look . . .” 

“Hungry,” Shepard interrupts her. “I’m just hungry.”

Varric laughs. “ You take out wave after wave of templars on your own, and the first thing you want is a sandwich?”

“A girl needs her strength,” she shrugs. 

“If that was you on an empty stomach, remind me not to bet against you on a full one.” 

She feels cold glass on her fingertips as Solas presses a flask of an orange potion into her hand. “Here, this may help restore some of your energy until we reach camp. It should not be long now.” 

Lifting it to her nose, she sniffs it and then hastily moves it away. “This isn’t going to be like your tea, is it?’

A light smile tugs on his lips. “No.”

“Oh well. Bottom’s up!” In one long gulp, she drinks it. She shivers as a tingling sensation travels down her spine. The effect is almost instantaneous. It by no means makes her feel ready to fight, but the world stops spinning, and she feels steadier. “I’ve had worse.” 

Solas watches her keenly. “Do you feel better?”

She nods. “Enough. Let’s go find the mother.” 

Once Cassandra sees that she won’t fall over, she has the soldiers lead them to Mother Giselle. With their guidance, they make it through the Crossroads without any further trouble. When they reach a small village, Shepard sees the signs of war everywhere. Half-burned-down huts and ransacked belongings litter the paths. The smell of ash and decaying flesh permeates the air. Wounded soldiers and refugees alike mill around them with eyes glassy from pain and sorrow. 

“These people never stood a chance,” Varric says. 

“Why?” Cassandra shakes her head. “Why do they insist on continuing a war when the Breach will doom us all? We should be uniting, not fighting.”

“Seeker! Is that a note of optimistic thinking?” 

“Is common sense so optimistic?”

“It is in my experience,” he answers glumly.  

“Mine too,” Shepard agrees. “People will always ignore the bigger problem as long as possible. They can’t control it, so they latch on to the things they think they can.”

“Maybe they can be reasoned with. If we could find the Templars and explain to them–”

“You saw them, Seeker,” Solas interrupts. “They are beyond reason. All that is left is a single will to fight.”

“Surely not all!”

“Why not? They think their cause is just. Why should they abandon it now?”

“Even if the world around them burns?” Cassandra asks in bewilderment. 

“Especially then.” 

Before Shepard can question him on his remark, one of the soldiers points to a dark skinned woman in a Chantry robe. “There is Mother Giselle. She has been tending the wounded for many days now. If that is all, Herald, we should report back to Corporal Vale.” With a salute to their chest, they leave. 

“You go ahead and speak to her. I should check in with Corporal Vale myself and see what needs to be done.” Cassandra heads off, following the soldiers.

Varric winks at her. “I’ll see about getting us something to eat.”

“Thank you, Varric.” 

The rogue gives her a devilish smile and wanders off. She looks around for Solas and sees that he has already situated himself by the wounded. His magic hums in the air as he carefully tends to a woman’s burns. With such a skilled and tender bedside manner, she wonders where he has learned such skills. Shaking her head, she looks back to the mother, who is kneeling beside a soldier with a badly cut leg. Shepard ascends the stairs to her and watches as the mother attempts to calm the soldier, who is sending distressed glances at the mage behind her. 

“ There are mages here who can heal your wounds,” Mother Giselle speaks in a calm, melodic voice. “Lie still.”

“Don’t… let them touch me, Mother,” he says, lifting himself up. “Their magic…”

She shakes her head and smiles at him motherly. “Turned to noble purpose, their magic is surely no more evil than your blade.”

“But…”

“Hush, dear boy. Allow them to ease your suffering.” With gentle hands, she guides the soldier back down, and the mage steps forward and begins treating him without any struggle. 

Just then, Mother Giselle turns around and eyes her. “Ah. You must be the one they’re calling the Herald of Andraste.”

Shepard raises an eyebrow. “What gives it away?”

“Sister Nightingale was kind enough to send me a message about your coming.”

“Oh? And what did she tell you?”

The mother smiles mischievously at her, “Besides your mark and strange magic, she mentioned your eyes.”

“Ah,” she shifts uncomfortably, remembering Solas’ comment. 

The mother chuckles softly at her and motions for her to follow. “Come, we have much to discuss.”

_____ 

Despite the mother’s gracefulness, her talk with Mother Giselle leaves Shepard only frustrated and drained more than before. Irritation quickly finds its way to the surface due to her hunger and the feeling of having wasted her time. She is stomping her way over to find Cassandra when Varric appears by her. 

“So, it looks like there may be a problem with the food.”

“What’s wrong with their food?”

“There isn’t any,” he sighs. “Whatever food they had was taken or burned, and the wildlife has been scared off by the constant fighting. Without food, these people won’t be able to survive, let alone travel to someplace safer.”

“Just how much food are we talking here?”

“For now, I would say at least enough to last them the week. If we could find where the game has fled to, we can send their hunters in that direction.”

“I’m afraid that is not all,” Solas says as he joins them. “The people here are in dire need of supplies: blankets and healing herbs, to be precise. Without proper shelter, they must have a means to keep warm through the cold nights.”

“And the healing herbs?” Her headache is starting to come back.

Solas shakes his head. “It would be better if there were an actual healer here. Apparently, the only ones who are assisting are the average kind soul and basic mage. Without any proper medical knowledge, any aid will be limited, but we can at least give them as many resources to ease the suffering as we are able.”

“That is not all we must do,” Cassandra says as she completes their circle.

Shepard can’t help but let out a heavy sigh. “Let’s have it.”

“Corporal Vale says that Master Dennet is not far from where the main fighting has broken out. There has been no contact or sightings of him in weeks. He could very well be dead, but we must find out. His horses will be invaluable to the Inquisition.” Cassandra takes a breath and hesitates. 

“What else?” 

“We should stop this fighting. We must clear the area of all rebel mages and templars who continue such needless slaughter and destruction.”

Shepard sighs again and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Why am I always stopping everyone’s private wars just to do my damn job?” 

“You did say you are a miracle worker,” chimes Varric. 

“I lied. I just get lucky or headbutt my way through things.”

He laughs. “Now you sound like a certain guard captain I know.” 

“What did Mother Giselle say?” Cassandra looks at her hopefully. “Is she able to help us?”

“Of a sort,” she answers, her tone hinting at her frustration. “She brought us all the way here just to tell us to speak with members of the Chantry directly.”

“Then, she wants us to go to Val Royeaux?” 

She nods. 

“For what good that will do us,” Varric mutters. “All those politicians and fancy manners make me think of Orzammar. All talk, and little action…except for the occasional assassination or two.” 

“We must try,” insists Cassandra. “If she thinks there may be those who will listen, their support could help sway the Chantry’s favor our way.”

“It is something worth considering,” Solas agrees. 

“Honestly, she could have sent us a raven and saved us the trip, and our time,”  Shepard huffs, but then looks around at the destruction around them. “But, since we’re here, we can help.” 

Swallowing her frustration, she lets the soldier in her take control. “Alright, let’s divide and conquer. First, we need to help these people for the night. Cassandra, work with the people here to get some sort of shelter made. Recruit some of Vale’s men if you have to. Varric, you’re a people person. Know of any way to get these people some blankets and warm clothes?”

“Hmmm…I may know a few contacts that might be here. I’ll see what I can swindle.” 

“Dwarf,” Cassandra warns. 

“Did I say swindle? I meant ‘secure unmissed or unclaimed goods.’ “

“You mean stealing,” she growls.

“Cassandra! Varric! Enough!’ Shepard swipes the air with her hand. “We don’t have the time to bicker. It will be dark soon. “Cassandra, leave Varric alone.”

“Ha!” Varric taunts.

“Varric, there will be no stealing or smuggling.”

Cassandra snorts. 

“Solas?”

“Herald?”

“How good are you at hunting?”

“Adequate.” 

“Good. You’ll come with me. While we hunt, we can gather any herbs you think they need.” Turning back to the others, she says, “We’ll meet back here by dark. Everyone got that?”

Cassandra and Varric nod. 

“Good. Let’s get moving.” With that, she spins on her heel and marches off. Solas follows quietly in her footsteps. 

Varric looks at Cassandra. 

“What?” she snaps at him.

“You know, she said she was a commander, but I didn’t really see it until just now.” 

Cassandra forgets her irritation and looks at the retreating figures in the distance. “She is quite formidable. I believe she was an excellent commander.”

“Yeah, but you got to wonder…” 

Her eyes snap to him. “Wonder what?” 

“What kind of war sent her all the way here? Alone?”

“She did say she was the only survivor.” 

“No, she didn’t.”

Cassandra cocks her head. “Speak plainly, Varric.”

“That’s the problem with you, Seeker. You speak so plainly that you miss the subtleties. She said she was alone, that doesn’t mean her crew is dead.”

“You think the Herald is lying to us?” she gapes at him. 

“I wouldn’t say lying, more like omitting the whole of the truth.” 

“And why would she do that?” 

“A painful story, perhaps? Or guilt. Take your pick.” 

“While I admit there are many unusual things about her, I don’t think that is a reason to suspect her of anything wrong. The Maker sent her to us. He had to! How else could she shipwreck here, fall through the Fade, and secure the Breach? No. It had to be providence.” 

Varric eyes her mischievously. “You really believe He sent her, huh?”

“I do.”

“Well, then you’re twice as lucky then.”

“Twice?”

“Of course! The Maker knows how much of a crush you had on Hawke after hearing his story. How could you not? I wrote it after all. However, Hawke is far out of reach, and so the Maker, and his great sense of humor, has gifted you the opportunity of meeting another hero of your dreams!”

Cassandra stutters and flushes crimson. “I do not have a crush on Hawke! I respect him, that is all. And the Herald?! I would never!”
“No! No!” Varric waves her off. “Not the Herald. I know she isn’t your type.” 

“Then who–?”

Varric wiggles his eyebrows at her. “Why me, of course! He sent me, dashing rogue, charming storyteller, fabulous chest hair and all, to save you a dull life lacking in a passionate love affair.” 

Cassandra turns redder. “Varric?”

He grins and flutters his eyelashes up at her. “Yes, dear, Seeker?”

“I’m going to kill you.” 

Chapter Text

His agents still have nothing to report on the orb or the darkspawn who opened it. With every passing day, Solas feels a growing anxiety. Without his orb, everything he has worked for will be lost. Even worse, his miscalculation could destroy the world. For now, he must place his hope in the hands of a strange human woman. While she has proved herself a competent and resilient warrior, he is hesitant to let that hope turn to trust. 

Though she has agreed to help, she is also willfully hiding secrets. Solas made traces of the markings on the necklace she had dropped and sent his agents out to search for their possible meaning. He doubts they will find anything. If only the Breach had not scared away the more benign spirits, he could seek out their extended insight. Alas, for now, even Wisdom is beyond his reach here, and what spirits still linger are not ones to bargain with easily. 

Sighing, Solas rubs his thumb across the surface of the metal plates. He wonders about their significance and if knowing what they said will reveal anything meaningful about her. Last night, when she had uncovered that strange helmet from the rocks, it shook something within her. It is important to her. How so, he is unsure. What he does know is that it had been hidden, and she had known where to find it. She is hiding something, and it is of no small matter. He must uncover it and determine her motivations for doing so. 

Suddenly, a light tapping on the door startles him out of his contemplation. Pocketing the necklace, he goes to the door. The Antivan ambassador greets him with a warm, bright smile. 

“Master Solas, good morning! I hope I am not disturbing you?”

“Not at all. What can I do for you, Lady Ambassador?” 

Josephine flushes slightly and smiles at his polite address. “You are invited to a meeting this afternoon in the Chantry. Our Herald will be answering some questions about her origins, and she requested that you and Master Varric be included.” 

This is certainly unexpected. “Truly? She requested this?”

“Indeed. I suspect she wishes it so to lessen the repetition of questions.”

“Of course. I shall attend come noon. Thank you, Lady Ambassador.”

She dips her head. “We shall see you then.”

The ambassador retreats, leaving him to contemplate this unusual turn of events. This is perhaps the perfect opportunity to get some answers to the many mysteries surrounding this woman. However, he must approach this with care and caution. Their last conversation showed her to be most perceptive and aware of verbal traps. Even so, he has always been adept at harvesting seeds of truth from the heady forest of lies and omissions. After all, when a wolf catches its prey, it always bites the neck. 

He will get his answers. 

_____

It is quite by accident that he sees her in the mid-morning. Having just sequestered a light breakfast from the tavern, he is on his way to speak to Cassandra of their next possible steps when he hears her voice ring through the cool morning air. Instantly, his eyes find her at the door of her cabin, arms precariously balancing a stack of books and charts while attempting to lift the latch. Attempting, rather poorly, by kicking the foot of the door hard with her boot. Shaking his head, he redirects his course to assist her. 

“Blast!” she yells, kicking it again. This time, she kicks it with such force that he hears the crack of wood and her gasp of pain as splinters embed themselves in her boot. All her carefulness shatters when her jolt from the pain sends her books tumbling to the ground. She curses, and Solas reaches her just in time to feel the hum of her energy explode in a quick blast of blue light as it shoots out like a great wind, forcing the door open. Once again, he is curious about the nature of her power. The veil reacts to it like oil in water. 

Amused by her impatience, he tries to hold back a smile as he announces his presence. “That is certainly a unique way of opening a door, though, not the most pragmatic.”

She startles at his voice and turns around slowly.  “It would be practical if doors would just open automatically when you damn well need them to.” 

At this, Solas could no longer keep the smile from his face. “That would be helpful, and might save the doors from an early retirement–” he eyes her injured boot intentionally, “-and boots and flesh from needing mending.”

“My patience isn’t what it used to be these days.” Her voice is somber, and a frown overtakes her lips. “Sorry.”

  He wonders at this admission and the sudden melancholy that has claimed her. Though they have known each other for only a few days, she strikes him as one accustomed to taking charge of her emotions. A true trait in a leader. Leaning down, he helps pick one of her books out of the snow. “No matter. We are all of us tired. You, more than most, and I suspect you have not been the only one to vent your frustration on something less destructive to your health than fighting. That being said, I would suggest stronger boots.”

“Or a stronger door,” she counters, bending down as well to pick up her things.

He chuckles at her quip, “There is that.” 

As he wipes the snow off the book in his hand, he notices the title. Immediately, his eyes seek out hers. “ Tales of the Destruction of Thedas ,” he says carefully, as though just repeating the title, but he watches her face keenly.  

She shrugs and averts his gaze as she attempts to clean the remaining books in the snow. “Varric said it has a lot of history about the Chantry in it. I don’t really give much thought to religion, but if I’m going to stay and help, I thought it best if I understood the beliefs people are operating under.” 

There is a casualness to her voice and demeanor, and her explanation is not without its merit. The suspicion in him eases. “That is wise of you, though, I would have suggested a less colored interpretation of text.” 

“You don’t approve of the author?”

The pure inquisitiveness of her question stirs him to easy conversation. “It is less about the author and more about his bias. Genitivi has a talent and passion for his research, for which I respect, but all the talent and research is of little effect if he can not be trusted. One needs to be objective, to write with curiosity, rather than having a preset opinion. If the intent is more to enable yourself the expression of that opinion than to engage with research, then the wisdom and facts of that research are lost. It is best to relay simply the facts rather than presenting a personal preference.”

Something in his speech catches her attention, for she meets his gaze once again, studying him. “You’ve given a lot of thought to this. I wasn’t aware you were a book lover.”

A slight barb catches in his tone. “I like the knowledge and wisdom they can impart, yes.”

“Isn’t that the same as liking books?”

“You can like the effects that drinking gives you without liking the taste of the brew you choose to drink. In such a way, I like the extension of my mind that takes place while I read, though I do not always particularly enjoy the material.” 

He waits, expecting the usual scoff or flippantness that his inner contemplations are met with. Instead, he is answered with a laugh. Not cruel or mocking, but bright with unexpected acceptance. 

“Alright, philosopher , who would you recommend?”

The title she dubs him is done so in earnest, and he feels a warmth in his chest and a twitch of a smile on his lips. She is so unsuspecting, so curious, and open to his insight. After a brief moment of contemplation, he decides to test her acceptance further. 

“Perhaps some works by Sister Petrine. While a follower of the Chantry, she does not actively seek to convey her opinions in her works. It should prove a more objective source of study.” 

“Let’s see…Petrine…” she murmurs to herself as she scans the books around her. “It seems Varric didn’t hand me any of hers. Maybe I can find some by her in the Chantry library? Although I’m not sure if the sisters will allow me to borrow any more after this.” 

There is a sudden shyness to her as she looks down at the muddy and wet books. The look amuses him. It is so unlike her usual confidence.

“I doubt they would have them anyway. Her works are often considered controversial to most in the Chantry. In some places, they are even banned.” There, will she still be curious, or will she shy away out of misguided fear like so many others?

“Really? What would cause them to ban books on history, if she is as objective as you say?”

Of course. She is unafraid. Unbound from the usual trepidations of this world. Is her land so different from Thedas? He wonders…

“It is because of her objectiveness. She writes of the parts of history the Chantry would rather see forgotten or twisted to serve their own purpose. Rather than bend to popular opinion, or even her own, she lays bare the facts as they are. Such honest forms of language sound contemptuous to their frail ears.” 

Sorrow and anger mixed within him to form bitterness. Bitterness at the Dalish, who insisted they sought to preserve the old ways, yet ran him off out of fear and pride. Fear of the simple truth he presented them with, and all because it was contrary to what they believed. As well as the fact that it came from a flat ear. 

“Thus, her works are forever censored and banned as something to be wary of or feared–like most who fail to see that knowledge is neither good nor evil, merely a tool. It is how you choose to wield it that matters, but fools always fall prey to the fear of what might be, rather than become wise to what is.”

After he speaks, he looks to see what she might say to this. Again, she surprises him with a strange, slight smile. It is fleeting and soon gives way to somberness once again. 

“People fear the unknown. They would much rather ignore something they can’t understand, even cover it up, than try to face it head on.” A far-off look is in her eye, as though she, too, is seeing into past experiences. Perhaps she is doing so at that. He wonders at it, but before he can ask, she stands quickly and busies herself with her books. Evidently, it is not something she wishes to dwell on, whatever it is. 

“And at what cost?” he asks, though he knows the answer all too well.

“Only the world, apparently.” 

There it is again. That dark tone that speaks of experience. She walks into her cabin, and he follows her. 

“So, I don’t suppose you know where I might get a copy of one?”

He stops just at the threshold of her door. It would not do to cross this boundary. “I have several copies. If you like, I can let you borrow them.” Once again, he can not help but tease. “Although I must insist on the same immaculate condition you receive them in upon their return.” 

At that, she drops her books unceremoniously on the table and spins around. Catching his jest,  she huffs. “I don’t go around blasting through doors, you know.” For an amusing moment, she stops as if to think on it before adding, “Well, not always.” 

Solas manages to restrain a laugh. But then, she walks to him, and her next words bring all his suspicions to the surface once again. 

“I didn’t take you for such a rebel, Solas.”

Rebel. The Rebel Wolf, now called the Dreadwolf. Another misrepresentation of Dalish tales. But she can not know, and yet, he wonders at what she sees when she looks at him. 

“Owning not one, but several copies of banned books? What will Cassandra say?” Her lips lift into a smirk. 

Abashed at his needless suspicion, he obliges her in return. “I think your concern should be less at what she will say, and more at what she will do.”

“According to Varric, she likes stabbing books.”

“Ah, then since I would like to preserve their condition, I shall request that you not tell her of my corrupting the Herald with their presence.”

“Request approved.”

Suddenly, her fingers brush against his. They are cool and rough. Calluses on her fingertips rub across the back of his hand. Hers are the hands of work and dedication. It is not until he feels the books in his arms being lifted that he realizes he has been holding his breath. The suddenness of the contact, though innocent, has caught him off guard. Simple touch has not been something he has indulged in on his return, nor is it wise of him to do so. 

“Herald,” he nods, seeking release from the moment.  

“No, it’s Shepard.”

The sudden firmness of her voice takes him off guard. He opens his mouth to remind her of her position and the roles they must play, when he remembers his promise. Just four days ago in the valley, he had promised to remember her name. After all, she may yet still perish.

“Shepard.” The name escapes his lips, strange and foreign. 

“Solas.” 

Nodding, he leaves hastily and traces his steps back to his cabin, forgetting his previous goal of speaking to the Seeker. Instead, surrounded by the solitude of the walls, he finds himself wondering about the human woman, the soldier, the survivor of his orb, the Herald, the secrets she keeps, and why such a simple touch of her fingers and the sound of his name would leave him longing for her trust and friendship. 

_____

Noon comes quickly, and Solas is walking up the steps towards the Chantry when a now familiar voice calls out to him. 

“Chuckles! Wait up, will you?”

Sighing, he pauses at the top until the sounds of the dwarf’s panting are so close he can feel the mist from his breath. Once Varric catches him, they continue on together. 

“So, want to wager on where our Herald is from? My bet is on some mercenary group that travels around. Maybe as far as Seheron? Or do you think she really just popped out of the Fade?”

“That would make her more of a spirit, which she is not.”

Varric shrugs. “I’ve seen and heard weirder shit. So, what’s your bet?”

“Why make a wager when we are so soon to have our answers?”

“Uh . . . for the fun of it? To see who’s right?”

“I do not require others to know that I am right to be so. Regardless, I gave up gambling long ago.” 

They reach the Chantry doors, and they enter. The dwarf, however, is far from through with their conversation. “Wait. You gambled?”

“Is that really so surprising?”

“Given your whole ‘wise elder’ bit, a little, yeah.”

“We were all young once.”

“Why didn’t you mention it before?”

“I try not to remember that time.”

“Were you really that wild?” Varric prods. 

“Wine is best when aged. Just so are people, if they learn.”

“True, but you're forgetting something.”

Solas eyes him curiously. 

“Fun. Wine is meant for fun. So, what’s your bet, Chuckles?”

Relenting, he simply says, “Soldier,” and then opens the war room door. 

It appears that they are the last to arrive, but are not late, considering the Herald is finishing accepting their introductions. 

“It’s good to meet you all again under less stressful circumstances.”

“Especially Cassandra, I imagine,” Varric butts in. 

Solas does not miss the mischievous glint in his eye. One thing he does know about the dwarf, he gets a never-ending joy out of causing the Seeker trouble. He quietly sweeps past them and settles in the corner at the back of the room. There is a small crate there, and he sits on it. From here, he is free to observe quietly. By this time, Varric’s relentless teasing has succeeded in provoking the Seeker. Evidently, he is not the only one to notice an oncoming storm, for the Herald timely intervenes. 

“I’d say falling out of the sky trumps that, wouldn’t you, Varric?”

The dwarf laughs good-naturedly. “Point taken. I take it back, Seeker. You don’t have the deadliest entrance, just the most violent introduction.”

“I also may have thrown her and Leliana across the room–twice. Sorry about that, by the way.”

“It’s quite all right. We were all confused and on edge.” Leliana answers. 

Commander Cullen is absolutely astonished. “You threw Cassandra and Leliana? How did you–weren’t you tied up? I mean–that’s not what–how I meant it. Maker’s breath. You threw Cassandra? Twice?”

“We are not talking about it. Ever.” Cassandra insists. 

“Later. Definitely later. Preferably over drinks,” Varric whispers loudly to Cullen. 

Solas has to admit that he finds himself quite curious as to this achievement as well. The Seeker is a formidable warrior, and Leliana is not one to be so easily thrown off guard. Perhaps a slight diversion to the tavern later is not such a horrible idea. 

The Herald brings the focus of the room back on topic. “Let's get on with this if everyone’s ready.” 

The room quiets. All of their attention is now on her. She is leaning against the wall casually, but not as carelessly as one might think. He notices that her position beside the door is an advantageous one. Should the need arise, she will have the advantage of a swift retreat or a surprise attack, depending on the situation. If his instincts and observations are as well-trained as he believes, he may very well win Varric’s bet. 

“Alright, Josephine said this morning you had questions about my story, but before we get into that, I need to make something clear.” Leaving her post by the door, she steps a foot away from the spymaster’s face. “Leliana?” 

Immediately, her tone shifts into one of stern authority. She is not pleased. Solas suspects he may know why, remembering the peculiar start to their adventure last night. 

“Yes, Herald?”

“You put a spy on me.” 

It is not a question, and the spymaster knows it. “Yes.” 

Seeker Cassandra witnesses the tense interaction and seeks to calm it. “Herald, the reason you had a spy posted on you was to make sure no attempt was made on your life while you recovered. At the time, we all agreed it was the best course of action before you awoke.”

All true, of course, but beside the point, as the Herald soon reveals.  

“I see. That, I understand. Tell me then, why was the spy still posted on me after I was already awake?”

The tension in the room is so taught that all in the room freeze. All, except the two women.  

“It was out of another concern.”

“And what concern was that, exactly?”

“You are an unknown in many ways, and until we have solid information on who you are, I thought it best to–”

“-to keep an eye on me. I am staying to help this Inquisition because I want to, and because I'm the only one who may be able to shut the Breach. That makes me a volunteer, not a prisoner. Correct?”

“Yes, but–”

“And as a volunteer and a member of this Inquisition, I deserve the respect you show every other member in this room. Or do you post spies on Solas and Varric, too?” 

At this, Solas stiffens. He highly doubts the spymaster has done so, but the thought is not a far-fetched one, all things considered. 

“No, but it is not the–”

The Herald closes the gap between them until their noses are practically touching.  “Don't do it again. Understood?”

The spymaster is quiet, but then gives a quiet, yet hard, “Understood.”

Apparently, that is all the Herald needed to hear, for she immediately stepped back and resumed her previous relaxed position. “Good. Then we don't have a problem.” 

For a long moment, everyone is quiet. Everyone, but Varric, who turns around to whisper to him. 

“Shit! For a moment there, I thought we would be betting on who could win in a brawl. My money would be on the Herald. Nightingale is tough, but I’ve never seen anyone make her stand down.” 

Though he does not answer, Solas is inclined to agree. 

“I thought you had questions?” The Herald asks, breaking the quiet tension in the room. 

The lady ambassador begins in earnest. “Yes, of course. Why don’t we start with the basics? You say your name is Shepard, and you are a commander, yes?”

Shepard nods. 

“Shit,” Varric mutters. “Guess you win this one, Chuckles.”

Solas does not stop the smirk from showing on his face. 

“A commander?” Commander Cullen asks in surprise. “Of an army or–”

“Navy.”

Varric perks up. “Or not. Sailors don’t count as soldiers, do they?”

This is certainly unexpected, and yet, it may explain a great many things. 

“A naval commander? From Antiva, perhaps?”

“No,” she answers simply. Too simply. It is intentional. There is no elaboration, no further explanation. She will not willingly give one. They must ask the right question. 

All grow quiet, and Solas sees the collective realization dawn in their eyes, but none voice it. None, save him.

“You are not from Thedas.” 

Her eyes land on his. In her eyes, he finds a glimmer of recognition. She sees the statement for what it is. Just like with the spymaster, she does not back down. “No. I’m not.” It is not an answer; it is confirmation. 

With this, her gaze breaks away to sweep across the room.  “Listen carefully. I’m only going to say this once. There was a war. I was fighting. I was injured and blacked out. When I woke up, I was here, in the cells. The rest, you know.” 

Her story, however brief and lacking in finer details, still manages to bombard him with questions. A stranded naval commander, fighting a war, is shipwrecked close enough to stumble into the most pivotal point in Thedas’ early history, and she can not recall how. He does not believe in divine fate or fate of any kind. Coincidence? Probable, yes, but rather timely. So much would have to depend on it. The only other option would be deceit and secrecy, and if last night proved anything, it is that she has her secrets. As does he, and that is what unsettles him far beyond any other concern. His secrets are great, how much greater can hers be? 

Quietly, he listens as the others ask their own questions, as he watches her every flick of her eyes and subtle movement. She has her tells, and he will know them. 

“So you don’t remember how you actually got here, to Thedas?” 

A shake of the head. 

“Is it possible your ship wrecked somewhere then, and you washed up here?” 

“That’s my best guess.”

“Hmmm…Then you most likely came through the Waking Sea. It is the nearest source of water that a ship could drift in from. We could send out scouts to see if we can locate it. Some of your crew may still be–”

“No! There’s no need.” Her voice is stern, final. A hardness is in her eyes, and the muscles in her arm tighten as she clenches her fists. 

“But if your crew is still there, shouldn’t we–”

Her control cracks just a little. “NO.’ An intake of breath, and she regains control. “As I said, there was a war.”

“Then, your men, your crew–” 

Commander and Commander link eyes, and Solas watches as the two mirror each other. In experience, in pain, in sorrow, in loss, and in grief. He looks away briefly as his stomach twists from old, ancient pains. Once again, he is reminded that though this world should never be, the people here do feel. For that, he is truly sorry. 

“I was alone, in the end. I am alone.” 

The pain twists sharper, and his breath catches in his lungs. Her words are a knife to a wound he thought had healed. It cuts deep, and he swallows back the pain as well as the regret. Just as Commander Cullen saw a piece of himself in her, in that moment, so does he. Perhaps even more so. Far from the world they know, due to situations beyond their control? Doomed to travel onward alone? Yes, more alike than he wishes to be. 

“Is there any way we could get word to your people? Let them know you are alive?” 

“None that I know of, but thank you. For now, I’m stranded here, and as I said before, I’ll do what I can to help.” 

Her words draw his eyes back from his pain to her. Even now, she stands resolute and immovable. Determined to stay and fix a broken world she had no part in. Why? A sense of duty? She owes them nothing, and yet, she remains. That is, unless she lies. Unless behind that indomitable determination is a cause kept secret from them. No, he will not waver. He can not trust her. 

“So, any more questions?”

None pursues, and so the wolf stalks its prey. 

“The abilities you have displayed during battle are quite unique. Indeed, to the normal eye, one would think you use an unusual form of magic, but it is far from anything magical.”

Violet eyes snap to his and narrow ever so slightly. She is not pleased with his question.  “My abilities are not drawn from Fade.” 

The wolf circles. “That is as I said.” 

“It is not magic in the way you would understand it, perhaps.” A deflection, a trick to throw him off her scent. 

“Then what do you understand it to be?”

It is a desperate run for shelter as prey runs from a predator. “I’m just a soldier, Solas, not a scholar.” 

Wolves do not tire easily. “Scholars often become soldiers when war proves necessary. Your occupation does not disrupt your ability to seek understanding. One who wields a sword knows at least the basic principles of how the sword is made.”

“Uhhh- the dwarf is lost here,” Varric interjects with a note of frustration. 

“You’re not the only one,” agrees the lady ambassador. 

The distraction gives her time to regroup. “Look, all I can tell you is that I was born with these abilities, and to use them, I draw on something other than the Fade. Call it magic if you want, or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Wolves also do not give up their hunt easily. “What do your people call it?”

“Biotics.” It is a small victory, one given to him as an offering to distract and flee. Not unlike a lizard that leaves behind its tail as it runs to safety. 

Cassandra interjects just then, leaving him to ponder his next move. “These biotics of yours, they don’t require lyrium, do they?” 

“No.”

“I thought not. I didn’t sense any in you. That’s why you were able to throw–to catch me off guard.”

It is then that Varric’s tendency to annoy works in his favor. While Cassandra is distracted, he resumes his questioning. “And what of your other . . . capability? I can sense no magic, nor even the same energy as your biotics. The veil has no semblance of reaction to it, as though it does not exist. Yet, you were able to form a tangible blade with it when needed.” 

“It isn’t biotics.” Again, another deflection. 

Frustration begins to gnaw at him. This has become more of a dance than a hunt. He persists with a stronger zeal. “I believe I already drew that conclusion.” 

“It is a tool, and at times, a weapon, when necessary.”

“Its source of power is different from your biotics. What source does it use then?”

There, a flash in her deep eyes. She knows he will not relent, and knows she can not evade him tirelessly. Anticipation starts to build as he senses his prey is cornered. 

“No.” 

Of course. What he fails to take into account is her indomitable force of will. The same will that kept her alive despite certain death. Sometimes even prey have teeth. 

“I’m not here to explain it to you. I told you what it and my biotics can do. You will have to be content with that.”

Before Solas can say anything more, Cullen intercedes. “This source you draw from, you say it’s not from the fade. Then does that mean you can’t be possessed?”

She laughs abruptly, as though the idea is so absurd it should not need to be asked. “Ha! By demons? No. That’s not a concern for biotics.”

“To have magical abilities without fear of demons–”

“It is not magic,” Solas interjects. He can not keep the frustration out of his voice completely. The people of this world used the term far too broadly.

“Could you show us how it works?”

It is the Seeker that brings the hunt to an abrupt halt. 

“Commander, while I appreciate your enthusiasm, that is not why she’s here. I think we have asked her enough. We wanted to know who she is, and now we know.” Suddenly, for the first time, Cassandra singles him out, her intention quite clear. “She is here to help. That is all that matters. What she chooses to share with us is her own affair.” 

The Seeker’s words admonish him, and he pauses. A new perspective shines through. He feels threatened by her. Not directly, but by the many mysteries surrounding her and her unwillingness to reveal them. While she very well may have her own secret motivations, there has been nothing to suggest them to be of malicious intent. To treat her so as he has is unworthy of him.  

“My apologies. My curiosity got away with me. Cassandra is right. You are here to help, and I can understand the value of privacy.”

Their eyes once again lock, but this time, he offers her sincere regret. She recognizes it silently with a nod and then turns her attention back to the others. They begin to argue over who will be the best group to approach in concern to closing the Breach, but Solas does not listen. A thousand conflicting thoughts whisper inside him. Before, he had been certain on the best course of action to take in regards to her. Discovering she has something to hide made that decision easy for him. Now, however, he is stranded in the middle, wavering between caution and fairness. Indecision is not a comfortable state of being. He must decide how to handle this. How to handle her. 

It is the dwarf that brings him out of his inner struggle. “Coming, Chuckles?”

“I... yes.” 

He stands and heads towards Varric, who is already by the door. As he passes her, he suddenly notices the dark circles under her eyes and the way in which she cradles her marked hand out of sight. She has been through so much in mere days, and most because of him. Despite all his trepidations concerning her, he is still at fault for her current burden and pain. Shame makes him tear his eyes away from her, and he follows Varric out of the room.

 Once the door shuts behind them, Solas strides past Varric without glancing his way. 

“What’s twisting your ears?” 

He swings his head back to glare at Varric. “That is a colorful turn of phrase, but I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you do. You look more grim and glum than usual. Something’s eating at you.”

“It is nothing. I was merely thinking.”

“Thinking or gnawing at the bit?”

“And what would I have to be impatient about?”

“Look, I don’t know you well, but I know people, and I know the look of someone who has a lot on their mind and is going crazy from running in circles. So, want to talk about it?”

They make it to the Chantry doors, but Solas stops, hesitating to open it. While the dwarf can test his patience, he does not deserve to be the victim of his frustrations. Perhaps he could even provide him with a different perspective. 

“It is only . . .” he pauses, considering and crafting his words and intent carefully. “I do not know what to make of her. She has defied all odds and lived. She has fought admirably for a cause that has been thrust upon her and does so willingly without complaint. And yet, there is much she is willfully holding back.”

“And that makes you nervous?”

“It makes me hesitant to trust her.” 

“You seem hesitant to trust anyone, Chuckles. Not that I hold that against you. You are, after all, an apostate among a bunch of frantic humans looking for someone to swing their swords at. You have to admit that has made you suspicious by nature.” 

Solas hums softly. “A fair assessment, but you will also have to admit that there is a great deal she is hiding. Far more than any normal person should have to conceal.” He himself would know, after all.

“That may be true, but anyone who fell from the fade with a magic glowing hand, even without any extra frills of weird shit, was bound not to be normal.”

“That is . . . perhaps, true.” 

“Trust me on this, Chuckles. I have an unfortunate amount of experience with the people closest to me becoming betrayers: Bartrand, Ravanni, that nug bastard Gascard DuPuis, and Blondie, of course.” The dwarf shakes his head and lets out a humorless laugh. “I think I have enough to wager this: she’s no backstabber. Wherever she comes from, whatever she may be hiding, she will never stab you in the back. If she is going to betray you, she will do it while looking you straight in the eyes.” 

Solas is unsure if he should find that comforting. 

_____

It is late in the evening, and though he normally greets the end of the day with eagerness as he lays down his head, tonight he can not do so. Too many thoughts run through his mind. He attempts to quiet them through meditation, but is too distracted. It is then that he realizes he does not want sleep; he wants peace. Peace to know where to go from here. Drifting in indecision will not help him. He must decide on how to act. 

Pulling his tunic back over his shoulders, he wanders out into the night. At first, he follows the path around the Chantry and back through to the gate. It is then that his feet take over and lead him to the lake, where the light of the Breach reflects off the smooth ice. Strange, he thinks, how different everything he intends to happen does, but never in the way he means it to. 

He had wanted the Evanuris to pay, and they had, but he had not foreseen the Blights. He had sought to free and protect the Elvhen people, and he had, but he had not foreseen the devastating destruction that the Veil caused. He had sought to correct his mistakes by tearing the veil and allowing the darkspawn to open his orb, and he had, but he had not foreseen the creature surviving and taking his orb. And now, he yet again seeks to correct his mistake by helping this human woman in wielding his power, but he had not foreseen her becoming the center of his confusion. 

As he continues down the path, a shadowy form catches his attention. There, just ahead, sitting on the pier with a sack full of food, an apple in her hand, and her eyes on the night sky, is the very woman who has vexed his thoughts. He pauses abruptly and considers turning back around to give them both some peace, but then he sees her gaze flitting back and forth from the sky to a chart spread out on the ground beside her. Curiosity propels his feet forward before he can think better of it. When he is but five feet behind her, she starts to her feet and spins around to face him, her hands poised for combat. 

“Studying so late at night, Herald?” 

Realization settles over her, and she retracts her battle stance. “Damn it, Solas!” 

“I am sorry. I thought you heard me approach.”

“Your footsteps are so quiet I didn’t hear them until you were behind me.” She retrieves her apple from the snow and dusts it off. “Be a little louder next time. I wouldn’t want to accidentally throw you into a tree.”

The image would be amusing if he did not know her to be capable of it. “That would not be desirable,” He agrees, and glances down at her bag of food and the chart on the ground. The chart, he notices, is a star chart. Of course, any sailor would know how to pinpoint their location. It suddenly strikes him that she may be trying to plan her way home when the time comes. 

 “If I am interrupting–”

“No, it’s fine. I just thought I would have a quiet dinner.” 

He should not be here. Already, he has seen too much of her in one day. Besides, had not his intention been to clear his mind of her?  “I shall leave you to enjoy it then,” he excuses himself and turns to leave. 

Her voice beckons him back. “Solas, I said you could stay.” 

Solas freezes in his retreat. Again, all the reasons he should walk away come to his lips, but when he hears the quiet, subtle plea in her voice, they evaporate into a breath of mist. “Very well, if you so wish company, I will be glad to give it.” 

“Good,” she says, and smiles warmly at him before she plops back down and waves him to join her. “Help me decide what kind of wine this is.” 

Once again, his feet carry him before his mind has time to stop them, and he is soon sitting beside her on the pier. The bottle she mentioned protrudes from her abundant sack of food, and he lifts it out to read the label. “Ah! Amaranthine red. Not an uncommon Ferelden brew.”

“Is that good, or bad?” she inquires in between munching her apple. 

“That all depends. Do you like sweet wine?”

“If it’s anything like Asari honey mead, then stars, yes.”

Solas chuckles at her enthusiasm while wondering at the foreign term. “While I can not attest to that, I agree that there are less desirable drinks to be had in the tavern.”

“Don’t tell Flissa, but whatever beer she gave me yesterday was so flat I thought it was muddy water.”

“Ferelden beer is not known for its taste.”

“What is it known for?”

“Its lack of one.” His honest jest earns him a wry smile and a shake of her head. 

“Let’s have it then,” she says, motioning for the bottle.  

He passes it to her, mindful that their fingers do not happen upon each other again. Then, he peers into her sack. “I do not see a corkscrew in the–”

With a smirk, she flares her energy, or rather, her biotics, and the cork is pushed upward into her other hand.  

“Ah, yes, there is that.”

With a shrug of her shoulders, she tilts her head back and sips lightly. A hum that almost turns into a moan vibrates in her throat.  “Not bad. I’ll have to thank Flissa later.” 

She holds the bottle out, inviting him to take it. He does not. Suddenly, he is struck by the potential rashness of the situation, as well as her relaxed state of being. This is the first time he has seen her truly unguarded. The sight is . . . intriguing. 

“Don’t you like sweet wine?” 

Her question draws him back to the present. “There are no glasses.” It is a terribly weak excuse, but he does not wish to offend her. 

Shepard blinks at him slowly. “Solas,”

“Yes?”

“I’m not sick. Take a sip.”

The command surprises him. Though he knows that she is unaware of it being so, the soldier in her bleeds through her words and actions at the most unexpected times. A small sip will not undo his senses. Taking the bottle, he brings it to his nose and sniffs the sweet aroma before indulging. It has been quite a while since he has had the opportunity to enjoy such a simple pleasure, and he closes his eyes to savor it. 

“What talents they lack in beer, Fereldens well make up for it with their wine.” When he opens his eyes again, she is lifting her half-eaten loaf of bread in a mock toast. 

“To the Fereldens and their wine then.” She takes a bite of her loaf. 

Amused at her carefree behavior, he allows himself another sip of wine. 

A content silence follows, and neither of them seeks to break it. In the slight glow of moonlight and the flickering of the Breach, he studies her. Her face is small and round with full lips, and her pale skin contrasts with her long, black hair. But, as always, it is the dark color of her violet eyes that draws his attention most. It has been some time since he has seen such a color, let alone without the aid of magic. He wonders at this when her eyes wander back to his.

“You’re staring, Solas.”

He blinks and averts his gaze, setting the bottle down between them. “I am sorry. I did not mean to.” 

“Do I look that strange to you?”

“No, not at all.” 

“What then?”

“I was just noticing the color of your eyes.”  The words come out easily,  and he does not miss the effect they have on her. 

“Oh,” she whispers, and ducks her head, hiding her eyes from him. 

The reaction intrigues him, so he presses forward. “Is it a  common trait?”

“Of what?”

“Of your people?”

She takes her time answering him.

“It’s not uncommon. I can think of a few people I’ve met who had similar hues. Why? Don’t people have some here?” 

“Not among humans, no.”

“But among elves?”

“No. At least, not any more.” Regret twists within him. It is becoming such a familiar pain as he remembers the world he unwittingly tore asunder. “Once, Elvhen in ages past used magic woven from wistful dreams to paint and mold the world around them. There was no earth, nor sky, nor beast that with their magic they could not reshape before them.” 

“They used their magic to remake things?”

“Yes, some spells would take years to cast. It was an art form, a dance, a song. Such things are now lost to the bitter ebb of time and twisted history.” 

“That sounds beautiful, and sad.” 

“It is.” He agrees bitterly. “Only the echoes of such artforms survive in the fade, or fractured remnants of them in perverted tales. ” 

“And you see all this when you dream? Aren’t there any elves alive who remember how to do these things?”

A frustrated sigh escapes him at her loose term to describe a race he is not a part of. “The elves of today are like children compared to the Elvhen of old. Instead of seeking out the truth for themselves, they cling to their dead remains, all the while claiming they are the last, true elves.”

If she notices the bitter anger in his words, she does not show it.  He waits for her questions, her demands to know why he speaks with such contempt, but she says nothing. Instead, she looks up at the sky once again, as though searching for something. Just when he thinks her lost in her own thoughts, she speaks. The words are spoken in the old rhythm of his people, and it stills him. It is a poem, unlike anything he has heard. She speaks of a lover jealous that when they perish and are forgotten, their beloved will be forever immortal. When she finishes, his heart stutters. In such a broken world, he had not thought to hear such beauty again, and especially not from her. 

“That poem,” he whispers breathlessly, “ is it yours?”

The question makes her laugh heartily. “Hardly. It’s a sonnet by a man named Shakespeare. I had a friend, a crew member–Ashley. She loved poetry and would quote the stuff to me almost every time I asked her a question. I guess I ended up reading a lot of poetry later, as a way to remember her.” 

Sorrow and grief cast a shadow over her, and sympathy tugs at his heart. He wonders how many she has lost, and whether any remain who will mourn for her. For a moment, he thinks about how to console her when she pushes through the shadows and gives him a half smile. 

“Too bad you don’t know one of those spells for my eyes. You could have saved me from being teased as a kid.”

This is unexpected, for he can not fathom how anyone could find fault with those eyes. “How so? The hue is almost the perfect shade of deathroot when in bloom.” 

This time her laugh is bright and true, and he finds it very pleasing to hear. “I’m not sure what deathroot is, but with a name like that, that would have hardly stopped the other kids from calling me an ugly witch.” 

Ah, of course. “Children are cruel and ignorant. If they had but seen a deathroot blossom, they at least would have called you a beautiful witch.”

“Ha! You think I look like a witch?” 

Her smile is teasing, but he can not return it. The way in which she easily self-deprecates herself disturbs him. Perhaps that is why his answer comes out so boldly honest.  

“No, but your eyes are beautiful.”

Surprise lights those beautiful eyes, and she ducks her head yet again. The shyness she portrays is at odds with her normal bold confidence, and he marvels at it. It is then that he notices the slight flush on her cheeks, and the realization of his words strikes him with a force. He had meant what he said, but not in the way she had interpreted it. Fenedhis . The words had slipped from him without proper thought. 

“Perhaps that is enough wine for tonight,” she says and tries to give him a reassuring smile, but instead flashes one of embarrassment. 

“Indeed. It is very late, and I fear I have intruded on you long enough.” He stands quickly, all too ready to free them both from the uncomfortable moment. “Rest well, Herald.”

“Goodnight,” she answers.

Hastily, he retraces his footprints back towards the safety of his cabin, but before he gets too far, he hears the slightest whisper of her voice say, “Thank you.” 

It makes him pause. Such a simple phrase held a wealth of meaning. Not wishing to dwell on it, he continues on and does not stop again until he is safely in his bed. 

_____

Solas wishes he could seek out Wisdom, but with the Breach so near, such an attempt would be ill for them both. Instead, he contents himself with exploring what spirits may yet linger. Since the Breach has been stabilized, a few have returned, but they are ones drawn upon the emotions of Haven. Demons seeking to feast, and there is a plentiful abundance of negative emotions that Haven has to offer. There are few mages in Haven, but their fears are great, and draw the attention of many demons to them. He intercedes on their dreams only when he senses one rather powerful. Though he normally would leave them to their free will and judgment, it will do no one any good if the Chantry’s fears come true. The Inquisition is already lacking favor with many. 

As he patrols this small area of the fade, he feels a sudden stir of power. Shifting his focus, he extends his aura, feeling out the direction from which it came. A familiar hum of magic touches him, and he gasps. This should not be possible. She is no mage. Her powers are not drawn from the fade. He pushes his aura against it again. No. It is not her, but his power within her. The anchor has drawn her to this place. A rope dangled for one to climb. 

For a long while, Solas considers his options. It would be an easy thing to enter her dreams, and she would not necessarily sense him, he thinks. Perhaps they will give him the truth and insight into her that he has been seeking. Yet, to do so will be a greater betrayal on his part. While he is aware of where he is, she is not. No. He has time. With patience and persistence, he may yet find his answers. 

He turns away, intending to seek out more memories of Haven, when he feels them. They are strong. Very strong, for they are feeding their gluttony. Feeding on her. Quickly, he turns back and seeks out the borders of her dream. She had laughed at the idea of possession, so she would have no means or knowledge to know that her dreams could be very real. When he reaches the edge of her mind, he stops. Taking a deep breath, he eases his mana through gently. To enter one’s dreams is to enter their innermost mind. Such a thing should not be done hastily. Finally, he slips through. 

Darkness surrounds him. He is weightless and floating. The air is cold around him, and yet he can not breathe. His body begins to panic, insisting that he is in danger, but he ignores it. Solas pictures his room and the way in which he fell asleep. Reminding his mind that his body can breathe, he takes a breath. Then another and another. Soon, with mind and body joined together, he presses on. 

It does not take long to find her, but what he sees shakes him to the core. She, too, is floating in the endless darkness, or rather, what is left of her. Her head is severed from her body, watching in terror as her severed skeleton tears itself apart. Instincts tell him to hasten her awake, but unless he knows what nature of demons are at play, he worries about causing a far greater harm. 

Once again, he pushes out his aura as he scans the dark void around them. It is not difficult to find them. The one controlling her skeleton is Fear, he thinks, while Despair maintains the cold void around them. It is the other one he can not identify, but something about it is very old and strangely familiar.  Unfortunately, he does not have the time to puzzle it out.

Suddenly, her skeleton turns and reaches for her, the head. Fear uses the sharp fingerbones to plunge into her skull and pluck out her eyes. Rage fills him. No. They will not grow fat on her darker mind this night. 

“Begone!” he cries out. 

Summoning all his will, Solas fills the void with light. The skeleton and head vanish. She has awakened and is safe. For now. Without her mind to sustain them, the fade flickers and shifts around him. Suddenly, he is alone with the three demons. Fear and Despair hiss their displeasure at him while the other remains silent, its black, flaming eyes of shadow bore into him. 

“Your presence here is a danger to you. Come here no more.”

“And what danger should we fear?” Fear mocks. 

“Me.”

With the remainder of his will, he throws them through the fade.

_____

Solas pays for his rashness in the fade the next morning. In his anger, he had banished the demons from the area, albeit only temporarily. He does not doubt that they will return. Meanwhile, he has awoken drained of mana and with a powerful headache. They had been more powerful than he originally thought. It was foolishness, and yet, he can not fully regret it. What they had twisted her spirit to endure was agony. With a small groan, he downs a lyrium potion. Soon, he feels the tingle of mana returning to him. His headache, however, still persists. 

Reluctantly, Solas grabs his sack of herbs and heads to the tavern. Tea, though abominable in taste, has properties that can not be replicated elsewhere. The tavern is quiet this early, and Flissa greets him immediately. She happily allows him to use her fire and kettle, and Solas begins working on brewing a batch to ease his discomfort and restore some of his energy.  It does not take him long, and after downing a small mug, the pain already begins to recede. He pours himself one last cup, leaving the rest in the kettle, and heads out the door to return to his cabin. When he opens the door, however, the Herald blinks at him, and Varric flashes him a grin. 

“Hello,” he says, dipping his head in greeting. The Herald returns the gesture, and he notices the dark circles under her eyes and the even paler complexion of her skin. “Sleep well?” He knows, of course, that she had not, but wonders if there are any adverse effects from her nightmare.

The Herald laughs lightly and averts her gaze to Varric, ignoring him. “See, Varric? There’s a polite way of saying I look like crap.”

“I only asked if you were okay!”

“Yeah … right after screaming ‘Shit!’ ”

The flippant use of humor confirms what he suspects. 

“One moment,” he says, and goes back through the tavern door.  He is to pour her a cup of the remaining tea, but thinks better of it. The taste is a tad bitter. Reaching into his sack, he takes out a flower and crushes the petals, and then adds it to the brew. Letting the added flavor settle into the brew, he waits a few minutes more before sampling a taste. A hint of sweetness is now there. Satisfied, he carefully pours another mug and returns to them. They, however, have already started walking away. 

“A moment!” he calls to them, and they halt, allowing him to catch up to them. “Try this, I can not attest to the taste, but it should prove to help restore some of your strength.” 

Cautiously, she takes the mug from his hand. To do so, her fingers once again brush his, and he has to willfully restrain himself from startling at the sensation. He watches as she sniffs the mug experimentally before finally taking a tentative sip.  Her eyes flutter shut, and she lets out a relaxed sigh. 

“Normally, I’m not a tea drinker, but this is good. Thank you.” 

Beautiful eyes look into his, filled with gratitude. 

“You are welcome,” he manages to say, unable to look away–or rather, not wanting to.

Despite her controlled demeanor, he knows there is within her an abundance of feeling. Hurt, pain, grief . . . even fear, as her nightmare has proven. But there is also her resilience, her sense of duty, and that open-minded inquisitiveness that he finds himself taking pleasure in. Last night, sharing wine under the night sky, he also sensed something he, too, had longed for. Companionship.  

“What is it? Or should I ask?”

“It is an assortment of Embrium and Elfroot,” he says, and smiles to himself with contentment, knowing the added flower had added to her relief. 

“I’ll have to remember that for next time.”

Next time. Perhaps nightmares are not something that has plagued her too recently. “Oh? Do you often find yourself so . . . fatigued?”

Her eyes flicker away. “Not always. Just when the world is falling apart.”

“It’s always falling apart,” adds Varric.  

“And you’re going to help me figure out how to put it back together, so we'd better hurry,” she says hastily.

He does not miss the urgent way in which she moves purposefully away from him. It is apparent she finds others knowing of her inner struggles uncomfortable. Before she leaves, however, she raises her cup to him in a final thanks.

Solas watches them go. By the time his thoughts clear of her, his tea is cold. 

_____

For the rest of the day, he strategizes and prepares for their journey. Come tomorrow, they will at last be setting out in the Hinterlands, and with any luck, the Chantry mother will provide them a solid direction from which to go. It will also provide him a means to seek out Wisdom more safely, being further from the Breach. He hopes her to be well. With her help, he may perhaps find guidance on how to approach the Herald and her secrets. 

A hum faintly approaches and grows stronger until it stops outside his door. Solas waits expectantly for her knock, but it does not come. He rises and opens the door for her, just in time to see her step back to retreat. Her eyes widen at his timely intervention. 

“You needed something, Herald. Why do you not knock?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you. But you… you knew I was there.” 

Pleased with her observation, he nods. “It is no disturbance if I can be of help.” 

A silence falls.  He does not offer an explanation on how he knew. Instead, he waits to see how keen her skills of deduction are. The scar on her left brow deepens, and she considers him. 

“The energy from my mark?”

Very good. “In close proximity, it is hard for a mage such as myself to ignore.”

“And what is a mage, ‘such as yourself’?” 

Her catch at his deliberate phrasing stills him to caution. It is a good reminder that she is just as capable as he in discerning hidden truths in words. But she can not possibly know, let alone guess at his secrets, so he aptly answers with a form of truth.

“One who knows how to look without looking. The fade makes it easy for any mage to see beyond with feeling, if one knows how.”

“So you feel it. What does it feel like?”

Ah. There it is again. That inquisitive mind that always surprises him. His pleasure is so great, he smiles broadly without hesitation. What he fails to see is the slight flush that starts to spread on her cheeks. 

“Do you not feel your own energy? Your biotics? How does it feel?”

“Like a tingle or a hum? Sometimes, like a giant sneeze, but only when I’m angry.”

The colorful description stirs his humor. “Ha! It seems my magic and your biotics are not so dissimilar, though I have never felt it as sneezing.” 

He works to rein in his emotions and replaces his smile with a mask of stoicism. Last night, he had become too relaxed with her and unwittingly let slip something he should never have said. What is more, is the realization he had discovered this very morning: his loneliness and want for companionship. Something he can not indulge in. Ever. The way ahead would not allow it. The lines between him and everyone else must remain clear. Especially with her. 

“So, how can I help you, Herald?’

The crease on her forehead deepens. “Shepard. We agreed on Shepard.”

“Apologies, but posturing is necessary for one in your position.”

Agitation is now present in her voice. “We’re alone, Solas.”

“Not yet, Herald.” 

He invites her into his cabin, and she follows. Once the door is shut, they sit themselves at his small table. While she relaxes into her chair, he maintains his upright posture, physically reminding himself not to let his guard down again. However, it soon proves to be more difficult when he sees her eyes roam over him in quiet study. Not unlike how he had studied her last eve. The humor of their switched roles makes him relax ever so slightly. 

“You are staring, Shepard.”

Her eyes stop roaming to stare at him. A smile tugs at her lips, and he knows she too it thinking of the previous night. “I know.”

Ah. So she will play along with his tease so boldly? Very well. It is a game he has not played in a long, long time, and he can not help the slight thrill it gives him. 

“Do I look that strange to you?”

The challenge is accepted without hesitation. “No, not at all.” 

“What then?” 

“I was just noticing your feet.”

It is a slight deviation–a liberty he allows her, for he is curious about where she will lead it. 

“Oh?” He encourages her to follow through. 

“Is it a common trait?”

“Of what?”

“Of your people?”

Oh, she is very clever. She has used the slight change of script to ask him a genuine question. Admiration for her wit emboldens him. 

He smirks at her. “It’s not uncommon. I can think of a few people I’ve met who have similar anatomical structures. Why? Do not people have some here as well?” 

“Not barefoot in the freezing snow, no.” 

At that moment, they both break: he, in a smile, and she into a merry laugh. 

“So is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Is it an elven custom to freeze your feet in the snow?” 

If it were any other human who asked such a thing, he would not answer. But with her, he knows it to be only a question born of honest curiosity. “There are spells, when needed, and footwrappings.”

She smirks and crosses her arms. “Hmph. Shoes don’t need spells, or expose one’s toes to the cold.”

“True, but there are advantages to going without.”

Her boldness does not waver. “Such as?” 

“Feeling the vibrations of the world around you, moving swiftly without fear of detection.” 

Solas pauses briefly, considering his next words. It has been such a long time since he could cross witticisms with a spirit such as hers, and their game draws out his prideful competitiveness. He wants to break that boldness of hers and turn it into that unusual shyness she“ so rarely exhibits. 

“And of course, the occasional, admiring stares.”

The boldness in her eyes does not break, and she does not blush in embarrassment. It will take more than that to do so, it seems. 

“They are pretty.” 

It is his boldness that breaks. 

Heat rises in his chest, as well as the tips of his ears. He pulls his eyes from hers to the floor, but when they land on the very object of her flattery, he quickly stares at the wall instead.

“That is … well.” All his wry quips and barbs abandon him. For a rare moment, he finds himself completely flustered.  

“Gotcha,” she laughs. 

Solas tenses. So that was it. It had been intentional. A flattery born from a means to leave him as flustered as his comment about her eyes had made her. The difference, however, is that he had meant it. Not in terms of flattery, but an honest observation to quell the self-deprecation she had cast upon herself. A twinge of resentment overcomes his embarrassment. Of course. He should not have given her so much credit. It appears she could be cruel and petty after all. How typical.

She must have noticed the effect of her word, for the laugh dies instantly. Leaning forward, she draws his gaze back to her and offers him a half smile. It is gentle, and there is no cruel mockery in it. The tenseness in his shoulders softens. Perhaps he had been mistaken in terms of her intent. However, he can not help the resentment that still lingers. 

A weary sigh escapes her. “If I haven’t ruined my welcome, I was going to ask for those books you had recommended. That is, if the offer still stands.” 

It is an apology, of a sort. He sees it in her eyes and the way they look back at him, devoid of confidence. Unsure of her welcome in his presence. She has even offered him the means to withdraw his offer of help without malice. The resentment leaves him. No, she is not cruel. Too easily drawn to masking truth in a garb of humor, perhaps, but she is not intentionally cruel. 

“It stands. What subjects are you most wanting in knowledge?”

Her shoulders ease at his words of acceptance. “Anything you are willing to give me.”

Considering what matters she is most likely to be lacking in, given her far-off homeland, he settles on Sister Petrine’s works that would be the most beneficial to her new position as Herald. Rising from his chair, he goes to his pack he always has stationed by the door, should he need to flee in haste. The first book he chooses is Ferelden Folklore and History , both for their current location and the added insight into the workings of the Chantry. Next, he picks one that has been banned in many a Chantry throughout Thedas, Of Fires, Circles, and Templars: A History of Magic in the Chantry. The last he hesitates at: Dalish Myth and Collected Truths Against . It is not immediate in terms of topics she should familiarize herself with, but he wonders what she will think of it. He adds it to the pile. 

Just then, he turns and approaches her just in time to see her absent-mindedly clutch for something at her neck. Something that is not there. 

Noticing this herself, she hisses. “Damn it!” 

“I’m sorry?”

Startled by his voice, her anger evaporates into a sudden sorrow, and her hand falls to her lap, empty. “It’s nothing. I just realized I lost something.”

The pieces fall into place, and the metal necklace all but burns in his pocket. Hesitantly, cautiously, he prods for more. “Is it important?”

“No, I guess not. At least, not anymore.”

The regret at its loss is laid bare by her vacant stare at nothing. Solas asks the question he fears he already knows the answer to. “Is it important to you?”

“I–yes, it was. It doesn’t matter. I can do without.” 

The response is hasty and dismissive, as though not wanting him to know how much she mourns its loss. But he sees her sorrow, and he regrets his possession of the item in his pocket. 

“ Ir abelas, ma falon. ” 

The admission comes out in Elvhen, which surprises him, but not as much as his admission of what she has become. Her own surprise is evident, but most likely at his lapse into Elvhen. He translates for her, “I am sorry, Shepard.” What he omits is that one crucial word. Falon . Friend.  Though he wishes it could be, it can not. 

“I–thank you.” Warm replaces her sorrow. “I appreciate the sentiment and for considering me a friend.” 

Solas can not hide his shock. “You speak Elvhen?!”

“What?!”  

“You understood me, before, and answered back,” he points out. Her jaw tenses, and he sees her swallow. She is nervous. There is something she does not wish for him to know. “It is rare that a human comes to know our language, let alone speak it so well.”

“I hadn’t realized.” 

The vagueness of her reply increases his suspicion. “Have you met many of my kind before? I did not realize they had strayed so far.” 

The only others he knows of across the seas that speak Elvhen are the Executors, and he doubts she is one of them. And yet…perhaps she knows them, or is one of their agents. The thought does little to calm him. It does, in fact, make him fear it to be so. 

“I can speak many languages, in fact. Can’t you?”

“I can . . . and that isn’t quite an answer.” Solas persists. 

“I look forward to speaking with you more, ma falon .” 

Hearing Elvhen come from her lips, let alone her acceptance of his offered friendship, leaves him at a loss for words. “That is …that would be…”

“That isn’t quite an answer either,” she smirks at him. 

Standing up, she takes the books that he forgot are in his hands. For the second time that day, her fingers brush across his. Instantly, he removes them from her vicinity, placing them safely behind his back. 

“Rest well, Herald.” Once again, he draws a line between them. 

“It’s Shepard,” she retorts as she opens the door. “But I’ll settle for ‘ falon’ as well.” 

With a knowing smile, she exits, leaving the door wide open. An invitation to follow her, if he wishes–or a dare to. He will not, for now. Instead, he closes the door and hastens into the fade. Tonight, he will hunt for willing spirits or demons to guide him. 

He will find answers. 

_____

The hunt is a fruitless one. There are many demons of fear, despair, and rage, but none are ones that could provide him aid, even if they desired to. Once again, he longs for Wisdom, and once again, he is left frustrated at his lack of power to fix things. Just when he is about to relent to dreamless sleep, the fade stirs, giving way to an approaching presence. An old and powerful one. Alert and wary, he gathers his will around him as a shield and waits. When no attack comes, he takes the first step. 

“What manner of spirit are you? If you seek no harm, I will cause you none.” 

The fade stirs again, stronger now. 

“How interesting,” a deep, husky voice chuckles, “most would greet me as a demon, yet you do not.”   

That voice. It is so familiar. So very familiar. Solas frowns. “I am not most. Spirit or demon, if you do not seek harm, you will not receive it from me.” 

Another dark laugh rolls around him. “What I seek is not harmful, though what I offer often is twisted for such a purpose. What purpose will you wield it for, I wonder . . .”

“You have not offered anything.”

“No, not yet. But I know you seek what I can give. Is that not what has led you here, so tirelessly stalking about after demons in hopes you find one such as me?”

“You are a demon then?”

“I have what you seek. Is that not enough?”

Solas considers the question in earnest. Despite his desperation, he should not give way to carelessness. Spirit or demon, it is an old and powerful thing. Whatever has drawn its attention here must have been great indeed. Caution is wise, but there is no harm in questioning it further. 

“That depends on two things.”

A laugh echoes around him. “What strings do you imagine are attached to my offer?”

“One, depends on your purpose, and the other on what you think it is I seek.”

“My purpose is what you seek.” 

Interesting. “And what, I pray, is that?”

“Knowledge.”

The light fog around him clears, and before him saunters forward a figure he had not expected to see. The old, human woman stares at him through yellow eyes. Her white hair is twisted upward like four long dragon horns. Flemeth. The Witch of the Wilds. Asha'bellanar . The keeper of the remaining fragments of Mythal’s soul. But this is not Flemeth. Not really. Still, the spirit’s imitation of her throws him. 

“Do you not like this form? It was the only one in your mind that best reflects me.” 

“One whose purpose is clear needs no other form to portray it. Unless it is a means to hide something more.” 

“Ah! A wise one you are. So rare to find. What say you then? Will you accept knowledge or spurn it?” 

It is not a demon. At least, not yet. While its main purpose still guides it to seek out all things unknown, he can sense its pride and hunger. The two are so great, he knows that it may be only a matter of time before the spirit falls prey to itself. Knowing this, whatever accord they strike will not be easily balanced. It will seek to receive more than it gives. 

“Do you have any knowledge of the woman… the proclaimed Herald of Andraste?”

Knowledge considers him through Flemeth’s eyes. He wishes it would cease portraying her, but does not voice so. 

“Yes.”

“Do you know where she is from?”

“Yes.” A smile, slow and smug, taunts him. “Shall I show you then? Your knowledge for her origins?” She approaches him then and reaches for him with greedy fingers. 

He deflects her with a shake of his head. “What part of my knowledge?”

“The parts I lack.” 

It is being evasive and vague. Too vague. “Which are what, exactly?”

Flemeth drops her hands in disappointment. “ She did not ask such trivial questions.” 

“She?” Alarm shoots through him. “Do you mean… have you spoken with her? Did she–?

“-make a deal with me?” The face of Flemeth smirks at him. “Do you wish to know?”

His mouth slams shut, and her laughter taunts him. Just as he can sense her hunger, she can sense his. He knows every answer she can give will require a surrender of his own. This must be considered carefully. 

“I... yes. What do you wish to know in return? And do be specific.” 

Flemeth hums in approval. “A dance of wits, then? Very well.” All mirth leaves her as her yellow eyes narrow in a predatory gaze. “The name of the one whose power is in her hand.” 

The beat of his heart increases. “And why would I know that?”

The eyes dance in amusement. Of course. She can feel the similarities between his aura and the anchor. And the way in which she worded the question will not allow him to give his current name. It will require the name he carried then. Revealing that would be unwise. 

“Ask something else,” he decides. 

“A pity,” she sighs. “The power in her hand, what can it do?” 

For a long while, he considers the harm in telling her, but finds none. He nods. 

“Good! Good!” Once again, she reaches for him with her hands, and he does not evade her. Her palms rest on his temples, and in an instant, the knowledge is burned into him, and his into her. With a pleasant sigh, she releases him. “Interesting. Very interesting. A worthy bargain.” 

Anger and contempt leap to his lips. “She did not know what you asked. You willfully deceived her and took more than what you gave.”

Flemeth shrugs dismissively, unconcerned. “You saw. She was eager for my aid and gave it willingly. I did not take it by force. I am no demon.”

“No,” he snaps. “Not yet.” That earns him a glare, which he ignores. His anger aside, she was able to reveal the mystery behind her sudden mastery of the common tongue, as well as Elvhen. He wonders if she herself knows how she does. It is doubtful, he thinks. 

“What else can I give you?”

Taking out the necklace, he holds it out to her. “Do you know what these say?”

“Yes.” 

“Well?” he snaps in irritation. 

“Are you Elvhen?”

He stiffens, but relents. “Yes.” 

A twitch of a smile. “The first one: Shepard, Raven Commander 0511215418 Group O. The second: Alenko, Kaiden Major 0713215119 A Neg.” 

The numbers are significant, but how, he does not know. “And their meaning?”

“The orb, is it yours?”

Again, he hesitates. It seeks knowledge, but it holds allegiance to no one. That makes whatever information he feeds it a liability should another deal with it. One such as the Herald. And yet, refusing to answer is an admission alone. He had told Varric he did not gamble, but he does when the game demands it. 

“Yes.” 

“They are a means of identification. Should a soldier fall in battle, one is taken and the other is left on the body until a suitable burial can be given. It has their names, rank, serial number, and blood type.” 

“Then, the other one, it belongs to–” 

He does not complete the thought, for he feels a powerful surge in the fade. 

“They were not happy you cut them from their meal so soon,” Flemeth’s voice says. 

Instantly, Solas is moving towards the pull of the anchor, urgent to reach her before the demons damage her spirit through more nightmares. “We will speak another time,” he says over his shoulder. 

“Yes, we will.” Knowledge vanishes. 

_____

 When he arrives, he is already too late. They once again have invaded her mind, and through their combined power, it is harder for him to enter. When he does, he sees them standing around her. One grasps her firmly by the throat, while the others stand next to him, taunting her. Their form is of a strong, dark-haired man.

“Kaiden, let me go,” she pleads, her voice hoarse from the effort. 

His ears prick at the name. It is the same one Knowledge had said was on the other plate. He is someone important to her. Someone special. A fellow comrade, perhaps? A friend? Maybe even a lover. Shame swells in him at the knowledge that in his suspicions of her, in his search for answers, he stole something that is innocent and of worth only to her. 

“No,” they all say.

“Kaiden, please”. 

For the first time, he sees her strong will almost crack. It angers him, and though he wishes to banish them again, it will only be temporarily. Besides, he can not guard her dreams forever. At least, not with his limited power. For now, all he can do is watch, and should the need arise, step in. 

“What will you give me? I have tasted your regret, so sweet it is. Will you give me more, I wonder?”

Regret. That is the third demon, and the most powerful one. He had not realized it before, but it is evident now. A soldier would have much to regret. There is much he does. So very much. 

Fear approaches. “I feel your fear. Will you give me that?” 

And then, Despair, “And what of your despair? It is so beautiful. There is so much of it, and so deep it runs.” 

“We can all take these from you,” Regret tempts her. 

“Just let them go, and you can forget it all,” adds Fear, and causes her pain. “You want to forget it. Your pain. Your fear. Let us help.”

Solas gathers his will, prepared to strike them with all he has. Her will was on the verge of cracking, and he did not have faith she could resist any longer. He should have known better. That same force of will and spirit had proven resilient before, and now, it flares brightly in determined anger. 

“No. Never.” There is no struggle in her voice. Her will reminds her body that she is in control.

Enraptured by the sight, Solas holds his breath. 

“Why hold on to so much pain?”

“We can help.”

“You can forget.”

She is beautiful in her anger, her force of will. Gloriously beautiful. Her voice is a roar. “Because it is mine. Mine to remember, and mine to bear. I will not forget them.” 

Regret does not like that. “Then we will take them.” 

“No, you won’t! I’m waking up now.” 

Pride and admiration surge through him, empowering him even more. With her indomitable will and his power aiding her, she takes control and breaks free. The demons roar in outrage and turn to him. 

“You!” They accuse him. 

“Yes, me. I have warned you not to return. A pity you did not heed it.” 

“You may have banished us once, but you can not do so forever!” Fear spits. 

“No,” he agrees. “But I don’t need to.” 

“You seek to challenge us then?” Despair asks. 

“I would have before, but that is no longer necessary. After all,’’ he pauses and gives them a wide, wolfish grin. “ I am not the only one you need to fear. She broke free from you herself. You should fear her .” 

They snarl at him, but do not attack. 

“Now, go. Unless you insist I banish you again?”  He flicks a taste of his power at them. 

They disappear. 

“Good,” he says, pleased, and wakes. 

_____

Knowing she is likely still awake, recovering from her nightmare, Solas hastens to put on his garb and walks into the night to her cabin. In his pocket is her necklace. What, exactly, he will say, he does not know. One thing he knows for certain: he will return it to her. It is only right. 

When he reaches the door to her cabin, however, he frowns. He does not feel the hum of her biotics, nor the familiar pull of his anchor. She is not there. That is when he notices the footprints leading away from her door. Perhaps she went for a walk to clear her head. Following them, they led him out of the gates and to the very pier they had sat in together in fellowship. There, they disappear. Frowning, he looks around, but finds no sign of her. Did she cross the ice? Why? 

The thought crosses him that she has once again ventured out to take care of something in private. Sighing, he double-checks his surroundings, and then he shifts. The wolf’s nose flares at the cold flakes of snow that land on his nose. He sniffs the air and catches the faint remnants of her scent. She has indeed crossed the ice. Though his paws offer him the benefit of swiftness, they are useless on such a surface. Instead, he chooses to stick to the edge of the bank. It is a long process, and several times he has to double track to pick up her scent again, but soon he needs it no more. It is quite clear that she had chosen to go along the lake’s perimeter to the left side of Haven. Most likely to avoid the curiosity of any soldiers standing guard. 

His deduction proves correct when his nose tells him she is very near. In front of him is an abandoned cabin. As he approaches its rear window, it opens suddenly, and a giant cheese wheel flies through the air. The wolf’s quick instincts propel him to the side, just in time to dodge impact as it lands in the snow with a thud. The window bangs shut. Startled, but curious, he advances towards the cheese, but whines and hastily retreats. It is moldy and pungent. No wonder she tossed it out the window. He resists the instinct to bury it. 

Quietly, the wolf’s paws pad through the snow until he comes into view of the cabin’s front door. Before he can shift out of his wolf’s form, the door opens, and the Herald steps out. Unaware of his presence, she leans down and lifts one of the logs of firewood stacked by the door. Underneath, she places a key. Curious. 

Suddenly, his ears twitch and he turns his head. A loud snort of alarm breaks the silence as a herd of rams startles at the pair of yellow glowing eyes from a large, white wolf. They stutter on the hooves and trample in fear through the snow. Fenhedis . Twice now these rams have blown his cover. The wolf has a sudden urge to tear their throats out. 

The rams, however, are not the only ones startled. There, still standing in front of the door, is the Herald. A pair of beautiful eyes glint in the moonlight. His haunches tense, ready to flee should she attack out of mistaken fear, but no attack comes. 

“You’re beautiful,” she whispers. 

He jumps in place. How many times will she surprise him? 

“Sorry if I scared your dinner,” she apologizes.   Not breaking from his gaze, she reaches into her pocket and pulls something out. “Here! Dinner’s on me.” 

It lands in the snow between them. 

He sniffs the air and looks back at her. She is trying to feed him. A wolf. She is feeding a wolf. Of course she is. That inquisitive spirit and resilient, indomitable will overshadow whatever fears she should have. 

When he does not move to take it, she sits down on the ground by the door. A show of goodwill. “Go ahead, I’ll stay right here.” 

The wolf’s ears twitch in contemplation. 

“I won’t hurt you.” 

The smell of the salted jerky wafts in the air and tickles his nose. 

“Come on, girl,” she coaxes. 

He does not intend to, but in his wolf’s form, there is always a level of animal instinct that resides in him, and at her blatant mistake, the wolf takes offense. Growling, he flashes his long canines at her. 

“Whoa, easy girl.”

A louder, longer growl rumbles through his chest. 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Do as you will, my friend.”

At this sudden turn of address, he overcomes the wolf. Tilting his head, he studies her. Twice today, she has accepted his friendship. Twice, she has given it freely to one who is dangerous and undeserving of it. Is her loneliness so great that she offers it so readily without care? 

The calm, melodic sound of her voice permeates the air as she recites a poem about a wolf who leaves his pack to wander the wild alone. She finishes, and he sighs contentedly. Wherever she is from, the poets of her land are talented indeed, and her serine voice adds to its beauty. 

Still sitting at the door, the Herald laughs. “Liked that one, did you? I know one more. Would you like me to recite it for you, too?”

He finds that he does, and rests on his haunches, encouraging her to continue. 

“Well, then, here it goes,” she chuckles, and starts anew. 

This one speaks to him more than the last. It is of a man who, in seeking to do good in his land, becomes as loyal and vicious as a wolf. Without complaint, he follows his duty to aid those hurt by the cruelty of the world, even if it comes from those as mighty as kings. As she speaks, he gently approaches her. Her eyes are closed as she recites the words, and her serenity gives her an unearthly glow. 

Solas was wrong.

It is more than her eyes that are beautiful. 

Upon reaching the end of her poem, her eyes open and widen at the sight of his closeness. The wolf halts, right in front of the offered piece of meat. Now that he is close to it, he can better tell what it is. Nug. Though the wolf is not picky, Solas can not claim the same. Slowly, as not to cause her fear, he clutches it in between his teeth, careful not to graze his tongue on it. He has had nug before once, and he does not wish to remember the taste ever again. 

He takes a step towards her. 

She gasps.

He freezes before he can complete his other one. 

“It’s alright,” she reassures him gently. “I’m not afraid of you.”

The wolf waits, just to make sure.

Sensing his hesitation, she holds out her hand. 

At her courage, he continues his approach until he is at her feet. 

“See. Neither of us is so scary after all, are we?” 

Does she think he is afraid of her? He huffs at the idea and drops the jerky at her feet. 

“No, that is for you. I scared your dinner. The entertainment is also free.”

Sighing, he paws the offensive meat toward her until it lands on her hand.

“I see. A picky eater are we? Well, princess, what shall it be? Ram? Deer? Oooh! Perhaps a dragon?”

Fenhedis . The wolf snarls in offense, but Solas is able to regain control. 

“Easy, I do not mean to mock, just friendly banter, pretty girl.”

Fenhedis. Can she not guess?

“What? I called you pretty! What’s so bad about…” 

She pauses, as if hearing his thoughts. What he fails to expect is for her to twist her head downward, look underneath at his... well, the wolf’s… Fenhedis.  

Grinning at him mercilessly, she bows her head in mock reverence.  “My humblest apologies, your highness. I mean to say you are a handsome prince. Do forgive this blundering peasant.” 

Solas laughs, or rather, as much as he can in wolf form. Later, he will not think it is so funny, but here, in the moment, the situation is so absurd that he can not help it. 

“I’ll take that as a maybe. Tell you what, if you come back next time I’m here, I’ll hunt something just for you. I could use the practice anyway.” 

A hunt with her? Little does she know she is the one he has been hunting. But now, he no longer wishes to do so. Yes, they will hunt together. Tomorrow, and in the many days to come. Bowing his head, he leaps away across the snow back the way he came.

“Happy hunting,” she whispers to him. 

It isn’t until he lays his head back on his pillow that he remembers the necklace. Solas takes it out of his pocket and traces the symbols that Knowledge said read her name. What had her first name been?

“Raven,” he whispers. 

Clever, beautiful creatures that are always so inquisitive. 

It suits her. 

Solas drifts to sleep, and in the fade, he watches over her. 

Chapter Text

They have to go quite a ways out of the crossroads before they see signs of wildlife. The dung piles come in handy when tracking them. Along the way, they spot several groups of bandits. Shepard wants to rip them apart, but in her current weakened state, she knows she will likely be the one ripped in two. Instead, she marks down their locations on the map Scout Harding had given her to show to Corporal Vale. Though they are not close to the refugees, she knows it is only a matter of time before they will think to raid them. It will be better to wipe them out first. 

As they continue following the trail of dung, Solas occasionally stops to fill his pack with the many herbs growing along the mountainsides and streams. They have not talked much since last night, and right now that is fine with her. Her slip in understanding a language she should not know has made her tense around him. She doubts he believed her evasive response. That aside, her nightmares and the wariness of the trip have grated on her, and she finds herself withdrawing into her reclusive shell.  If Solas notices this, he does not let on. Instead, they both remain focused on the task at hand. 

By nightfall, they have procured a relatively large portion of ram meat. Unable to carry a carcass back to the crossroads, they instead gut them and wrap the best portions in large leaves to carry with them in their packs. When they make it back, Shepard is utterly spent. Without a word, she gives her pack of meat to a soldier and goes off to find Cassandra. Several makeshift lean-tos have been erected in her absence, allowing for more shelter for the night. Cassandra stands with Corporal Vale and several of his soldiers, overlooking their handiwork. 

“It is not much, but it will do to protect these people until better materials can be acquired,” Cassandra determines. 

Corporal Vale nods and looks pleased. “We could not have done it so quickly without you, Seeker. Thank you.” 

“Thank the Herald, it was her idea.” She frowns. “She should be here by now. It is dark already. 

“And here I am,” Shepard says, stopping behind her. “I came for a progress report, but I see you’ve done a good job.” 

“Without Corporal Vale and his men, it would have taken much longer.”

She nods and turns to the man. “Corporal, well done. I may have another job for your men, if you think they're up for it?”

The Corporal thumps his chest in an eager salute. “My men can handle almost anything, Herald.”

“Can they handle three groups of bandits?”

His eyes widen. “Three?”

“Not all at once, of course, but you should hit them before they get it into their heads to come here first. Take this,” she says, handing him her map. 

He studies it for a moment before giving her another salute. “I will prepare some men to go in teams. We will not fail you, Herald.” Bowing, he marches off. 

“I really wish they would stop calling me that.”

“But, you are the Herald,” Cassandra says. 

“No, I’m a Commander,” she stops, and then mumbles, “or I was.” Sighing, she rubs her temple, trying to alleviate the headache that has come back with vengeance. “How did Varric do?”

“Rather well, actually,” Cassandra grumbles, reluctant to give the dwarf any kind of praise. “His ‘contacts’ came with a large wagon full of blankets and warm clothing.” Her forehead creases deeply as her brows pull together in a scowl. “Although I do wonder where they got them.”

“Have faith, Seeker,” the dwarf’s jovial voice replies as he joins them. “They weren’t stolen or smuggled, just as the Herald ordered.”

“Then how– where did they get them?”  Cassandra demands.

Varric pretends to clean his fingernails. “Oh, you know, places.”

“Dwarf!”

A sharp, sudden pain shoots through her, and Shepard grits back a scream, consequently biting her tongue in the process. To make matters worse, the anchor flares in her head, as though in response. She quickly tucks it into the crook of her arm, hiding its glow from view. Finally, it subsides. 

“Shit,” curses Varric. 

“Herald?” Cassandra touches her elbow gently. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” 

She steps out of Cassandra’s touch, causing the Seeker’s frown to deepen. 

Varric eyes her suspiciously. “Have you eaten yet?” 

Shepard ignores him. “We’ll leave at dawn to scout the way towards the housemaster’s farm. If what we witnessed today is a sample of the fighting going on here, we need to know what we’re up against. Be ready for anything, and get some rest.” 

Without giving them time to argue with her, she turns and leaves, looking for a quiet place to lay her bedroll. It isn’t an easy task, given how many people are already crowded together. Soon, she finds herself at the infirmary. The very place she had spoken with Mother Giselle that very afternoon. Thankfully, she does not see the mother, or anyone else, for that matter. Going inside the building, she sees the injured spread out on cots and makeshift beds. Only a young girl stands amongst them, checking on their condition. When she sees her enter, her eyes grow wide. 

Shepard holds a finger up to her lips. 

The girl instantly shuts her mouth, swallowing the loud greeting she almost squealed. 

Smiling softly, Shepard approaches her and whispers, “Is there room enough for me to sleep here till morning?” 

The girl nods, never blinking once, as if afraid she would disappear. 

“Thank you,” she pats her on the shoulder. “You’re a good girl. Goodnight.” 

Shepard finds an empty space on the floor in the corner of the room. Taking off her pack, she slides down the wall. As soon as she reaches the floor, her eyes close, and she is fast asleep. 

_____

She doesn't know how long she slept, but it is not long enough. All too soon, a voice calls to her, trying to draw her from her sleep. Stubbornly, she ignores it, hoping it will go away. The voice does not.

“Shepard,” it whispers loudly, and a warm hand gently shakes her shoulder. 

Instantly, her eyes fly open in alarm. 

The hand falls away. 

“All is well,” the voice reassures her quietly. 

Blinking through the dark, she catches his silhouette from the slight glow of candlelight in the room. “Solas?” Her voice comes out hoarsely. 

“Hush,” he says. “Take this.” A hot bowl of steaming food is in his hand. 

Food. Yes. That is what she needed. After their battle, she had not had the chance to eat, thus the headaches and fatigue. But she is so tired. So very tired. Her eyes must have drifted closed again, for she feels another shake of her shoulder. 

“Shepard, you must eat. You can rest after, my friend.” 

Warmth flutters through her like a swarm of butterflies. Smiling sleepily, she opens her eyes. 

Solas looks at her, making sure she’s really awake this time, before holding out the bowl once more. “Here, eat.”

Still smiling, she reaches out and places her hand over his, as if to take the bowl, but she doesn’t. Her hand lingers on his. It is just as warm and smooth as she remembered from their occasional brushes. “So,” her voice is raw and husky, “am I really your friend?”

She hears his sharp intake of breath and then his slow release of it. “Do you doubt it?”

“I’m not sure,” she answers honestly. “I know you don’t trust me.” 

Another sharp intake. “I–it is not–”

“Solas,” she interrupts him hastily. “It’s alright. I wouldn’t trust me either, in your shoes.” She removes her hand from his and brings the bowl to her.

“I don’t wear shoes.”

His unexpected response makes her spurt out a hoarse laugh. 

“It’s a figure of speech.” 

“I am aware,” he says, then motions to her food. “Please, eat.” 

“Will you stay?’ He stiffens, so she can’t help but add, “I might fall asleep again. Talking will keep me awake.” 

“Very well.” Relenting, Solas shifts beside her on the wall, but leaves plenty of space between them.

“Thank you,” she says, and turns her attention to the bowl. It is meat stewed in a hot broth. “Is this the ram we hunted?” 

“While it was enough to go around, there was not much left by the time the villagers were through.”

“Is it better if I don’t know?”

“It is Fennec.”

“Those small, fox-looking animals with the big ears?”

“Yes.” 

“A shame. They’re kind of cute.” 

Solas looks at her warily. “Will that keep you from eating?”

“Nope!” 

With eagerness, she inhales the soup. Normally, she would pay more attention to her manners, but true hunger does not stop for such things. Raising the bowl to her lips. She slurps down the last bit of broth. Wiping her mouth with her sleeve, she sighs and sets the bowl on the floor. 

“Thank you. It was good.” One eyebrow raises itself at her. She can’t tell whether or not it's in amusement or judgment. Suddenly, she finds herself a tad self-conscious. “What?”

“You are always this hungry.” 

There it is again. His statements that masquerade as questions. 

“What makes you say that?” 

He chuckles. “Besides your recent display? Varric mentioned it.” 

“And how would he know?”

“Flissa.”

“Oh.” Realization hits her, and she feels the heat rise to her cheeks. She hopes he can’t notice it in the dim light. “It’s normal, at least, for biotics.” 

 “Truly?” Even in the dim flicker of candlelight, she can see the spark of interest in his eyes. Ever the passionate scholar. “Does it concern how you draw your energy? For mages, we either draw from the fade or lyrium, but you do neither.”

“No, we don’t.”

Solas stares at her in silence. Obviously, he is waiting for her to explain. 

Shepard sighs and considers her words carefully. “We generate a unique energy within ourselves that helps us create the power to manipulate an unseen element in the world around us.”

“I see, so it is much like a mage’s mana then. We can not go beyond what our mana allows, once our limit is reached.” 

“Close enough,” she agrees. “It also causes our body to burn energy faster.”

“Thus, your seemingly constant state of hunger?”

“It’s been more difficult to maintain here. There are certain foods that give me more of the energy I need, and unfortunately, Haven doesn’t have much of them.”

“What kinds of food?”

“Very specific meats and vegetables. Some I haven’t seen here yet.” 

“You should make a list. I am sure Cassandra and Leliana can help get what you need.”

She shakes her head. “It’s fine. They don’t need to worry about me.”

Solas narrows his eyes at her. “It is not fine if you are left so weak after one battle. Nor is it fine if everyone hears how the Herald of Andraste practically collapses from exhaustion. Like it or not, these people look up to you, and if you run yourself into the ground due to misplaced pride, you will help no one.” 

“Don’t lecture me, Solas.” Shepard doesn’t yell, but her tone is dark and clipped. “I don’t need you to remind me of my position. I’m a Commander. I know what it means to lead, and I don’t take that lightly. As for my pride, I have none. At least, not in myself, but I don’t let anything come between me and the mission.” 

“And yet you collapsed here without eating,” he snaps. 

“I was tired. I was going to eat in the morning.”

“When? Before or after we fight the mages and templars?”

“Stow it, Solas! I know myself and my limitations better than you . I never jeopardize the mission.” 

Their eyes are locked and heated. Neither look away. For a long moment, she fears a barrier has sprung between their already tentative friendship. But then, he bows his head. 

“I–forgive me. You are right. I do not know you as well as yourself. As long as you take care not to let this become an obstacle, I will submit to your judgment.”

She huffs in disappointment. “If you truly want to be my friend, I need you to trust me.” At her words, he looks back at her. His eyes are sharp and flicker darkly in the candlelight. “There are things I won’t... can’t be able to explain to you, but I always stand by my crew. Always. So, can you do that, Solas? Will you trust me?” 

His silence is deafening. 

Shepard sighs, closes her eyes, and leans her head back on the wall. “Goodnight, Solas.

The sounds of his limbs shuffling as he stands make a pang of sorrow shoot through her. For a moment, she had hoped she was no longer alone in this strange world. Now, her hope has been dashed to pieces. Oh well. It may be better this way. No hopes. No tears. No fears. 

“Goodnight,” he says, and she hears his footsteps retreat to the door. 

Exhaustion once again seizes her, and her mind is already drifting into a heavy sleep when Solas whispers a broken, “ Ir abelas. ”

Chapter Text

An hour before dawn, Shepard wakes, somewhat more rested than before, and heads out to find breakfast before gathering her team. Making sure not to wander far, she hunts some more fennec, rabbits, and a few squirrel-like creatures. When she comes back with her kill, she sees Cassandra by the infirmary. Spotting her, the warrior tries to intercept her. 

“Morning,” Shepard greets her, and holds up her kill. “Caught breakfast. Afterwards, we will head out. Varric and Solas still asleep?”

Cassandra shakes her head. “Solas has been up for a while now, and Varric went to make sure everything is set for our departure.” 

“Good. Want to help?” 

She holds out a few carcasses to her. Cassandra scrunches her nose, but takes them, and soon both women are skinning and preparing the meat to cook. As they work, she sees her cast several glances, but says nothing. On the eighth one, she sighs and faces her. 

“If you have something on your mind, Cassandra, just say it.”

“Oh! I didn’t mean to stare, it’s just . . . I hope you know that whatever you need to make your transition here easier, you have but to ask. While I know we are strangers and didn’t get off on the right foot, you are helping us, and if I can do the same, I will.”

Shepard clenches her jaw. “Did Solas talk to you?”

She blinks back at her in confusion. “About what?”

“About my eating habits?”

“No,” she responds slowly, “But Varric may have mentioned the idea, and you were... you looked exhausted last night. I do not wish to pry, but if you need help, we will give it to you.” 

They finish and skewer the meat on large sticks and begin roasting it over the fire. Silently, Shepard retreats into herself. Cassandra isn’t wrong. She had nearly collapsed twice yesterday, and Solas... Solas had been trying to help. Guilt itches at her. These people don’t know her, but they are only trying to help. She shouldn’t brush aside their concern. Though what she had told Solas last night was true, he had not been completely wrong either. 

It isn’t pride that makes her hesitant to seek their help. It’s simply that she’s never been in the position where it was necessary, and honestly, she isn’t sure how to do it. As Commander, she was always the one helping. It was her duty, and who she is. Even though she and her Normandy crew were close, she never asked them for anything. This—this was new territory for her. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

“Herald? If I have offended you–”

“No,” she stops her. “You haven’t.” The flames flicker with heat, and she inhales the scent of smoke and wood. “I appreciate it, Cassandra.” Again, she pauses, trying to get the right words to form in her head. “I’ll try to remember.”

“Of course.” The woman hesitates, but then lays an arm on her shoulder. “You are not in this alone, Herald.”

A surge of gratitude overwhelms her. Maybe she can find trust and friendship here after all. “Thank you.”

“My, my! What’s this? No locking her up? No interrogation? What will people say about you, Seeker?” 

At the sound of Varric’s jeering, Cassandra drops her hand from her shoulder. Without looking at him, she grabs a stick of cooked meat and begins to eat. “They will say I should have left you in Kirkwall.” 

“If you’d left me at Kirkwall, you'd be dead by now.”

“At least then I would have some peace.” She grumbles. 

Shepard shakes her head at them and takes her own portion of food. 

“So, Snacks, how are you feeling?”

“Snacks?” 

Varric sighs. “Yeah, thought I’d try it out. Not sure if it’s completely you, though. May have to work on it a bit more.” 

Cassandra grunts and rolls her eyes. 

“As long as it isn’t Lola,” she says. 

“Lola? Andraste’s sacred knickers! Whoever named you that?”

Shepard takes a moment to chew before answering. “A man on my crew. He liked giving people nicknames, too. He wasn’t any good at it, though. Besides, it was a breach in protocol, so I made him stop.”

“Are you going to ruin my artistic liberties?” 

“Only if it’s terrible.” 

“Everyone’s a critic,” he huffs, “but for you, I’ll do my best.” 

“Why don’t I have a nickname?” Cassandra asks between chews. 

“You do, Seeker. You do.”

“But that’s just my title!” she insists indignantly. 

He shrugs. “I give people names that reflect what they are, and you are a Seeker.”

“But, it’s so–so obvious.”

A mischievous glimmer twinkles in his eyes. “Aw, feeling left out? Don’t worry, you’ll always have a special place in my heart. After Bianca, of course.” 

Just then, Solas kneels next to them by the fire. He doesn’t even look at her. “Why my nickname?” 

“Chuckles?” Varric smirks. “For your bright and shining optimism, of course!” 

“Ah, irony then.”

“I’d think that was obvious.”

Purposefully, she takes another stick of meat and holds it out to him. 

“No, thank you,” Solas says, still not meeting her gaze. 

A wall is there then. Blinking away her disappointment, she shrugs and wraps up the meat instead. After putting it in her pack, she looks up at the sky. The first rays of sunlight were rising through the peaks of the surrounding hills. The rays cast a hazy glow through the morning mist. It is beautiful here. Too bad she isn’t here to sightsee. 

“If everyone’s done, we should head out.” 

Everyone agrees, and soon they are traipsing out of the Crossroads and into the fog. 

_____

It doesn’t take them long to find where the main fighting has been. As they reach a clearing in a large valley, they come across a sea of bodies. Templars, mages, and many, many villagers. Huts and fields are scorched and sit in ash, and in some places, large spikes of ice protrude from the ground with bodies impaled in them. Carefully, cautiously, they approach, scanning around them for signs of a waiting ambush, but see no one. At least, no one living. 

“Maker’s breath,” Cassandra whispers in disdain. 

“So much destruction... so much waste,” agrees Solas with equal quiet, soberness. 

Varric curses and shakes his head. “Blondie couldn’t have wanted this.” 

“And why not?” Cassandra whirls and points a finger accusingly at him. “He blew up a chantry! He already deemed innocent lives meaningless to his cause!” 

“You don’t understand. It wasn’t him. Not really. Whatever he was before was lost when he merged with that spirit–demon–thing.”

“He was an abomination!” Cassandra is screaming now, and several birds call out in fright and scatter overhead.

“Enough! Stow it! Both of you!” Shepard says sharply. “Show some respect, and be mindful of your surroundings. If there are any rogue stragglers, they know we’re here now.” 

Cassandra snaps her mouth shut and looks down at the ground. “I’m sorry, Herald. You are right, of course.”

“Not always,” she grumbles to herself. 

Solas must have heard it, however, for he snaps his head in her direction before quickly glancing away again. This is going to be a long, long day. Wonderful. 

“Do we have any idea how many numbers we might be dealing with on either side?”

Cassandra answers for her. “It is difficult to say, exactly. In so much chaos, there were many on each side that disappeared after the explosion. At first, we thought they were all dead until, well, this...” 

They all look around at the gory graveyard in this once peaceful valley. 

“Let’s continue then. We’ll find out the old-fashioned way.” 

“Which is?” Varric prompts. 

“Follow the trail of bodies.”

He sighs heavily. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

And so they do. By mid-morning, the trail leads them right into a group of mages. They seem to have just won a surprise attack on a group of Templars who had been breaking camp. Now, they are ransacking the campsite, and one mage in particular leers down at a templar corpse, and with the flick of his fingers, begins to melt its face with a blaze of heat. 

“Bastards!” Cassandra hisses angrily. 

“There are six of them. That’s twice as much as us,” says Varric, glancing at her. “Surprise attack?” 

She hums and studies their surroundings. “If we can make it to that rim of tall brush without being seen, it’s not a bad idea. I can take out the two closest. Solas? Think you can handle the two on the far right?”

“Possibly, if we strike together before they can register the attack.”

“Good. Varric, Cassandra? That leaves the other two to you. At my signal, we attack together. With any luck, Cassandra won’t even have to draw her sword.”

The warrior sneers. “For them, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Alright, quickly and quietly. Let’s move!” 

Together, they crouch down low and begin circling towards the rim of tall brushes. Eventually, they crawl on their bellies until they reach their mark. The mages begin to drift together. They will have to act quickly. Shepard digs her fingers into the dirt, preparing to heave herself forward. Quietly, she begins to count down to her team. 

“Three . . . two . . . one. Go! Go! Go!”

As one, they leap up and attack. 

Varric lets loose a volley of arrows, while Cassandra charges forward with her sword in the air. Meanwhile, Solas has frozen one target and then throws a fireball at the other before they can even take a step. Shepard lets loose a warp that plows the ground between her targets. The force sends them flying in opposite directions. Quickly, she unholsters her crossbow and shoots an arrow through one and moves to take down the other. The mage’s hand glows and flares in her direction. Instinctively, she raises her barrier, but nothing happens. Whatever the mage has done, it is not visible to her. Wary, she moves to use her biotics to throw him.

“Herald!” Solas calls in warning. “Behind you!”

But she had already taken a step back. 

The pain is instant and familiar. Flames lick up her legs, burning away her cloth leggings and melting the metal of her armor into hot liquid that begins to coat her skin. With a roar, she leaps from the flames, her biotics lifting her into the air. For a moment, she feels like she is suspended in time as she drifts over the battle in a cloud of flames. But then, her pain jolts her back again, and she is angry. With another guttural battle cry, she throws herself down to the earth, right on top of the mage. The force of her impact and her biotics squashes him helplessly beneath her. 

Shepard activates her omni blade. 

The whites of his eyes flicker in fear, and his hand begins to glow. 

“Go to hell!”  she spits. 

With a swift sweep of her arm, his head topples to the ground. 

Shepard kneels beside the severed body, now coated in flames and blood. Oh yes. She is still burning. She should probably do something about that. Why doesn’t she feel the pain anymore? 

A blast of cold tingles her undamaged skin. The rest of her goes numb. Looking down, she sees that she has been coated in a skin of ice. The fire is now gone. Heavy footsteps pound towards her. And all of them scream, “Herald!” 

“Still alive,” she informs them calmly. “How are the other mages? Dead, I hope.”

“Alive? You were on fire!” Cassandra screeches. Yes, screeches–as though unsure if she should be amazed or horrified. 

“And now I’m not.”

“I have to admit that was equal parts terrifying and impressive,” Varric says, standing beside her. “I know they call you the Herald of Andraste, but I would prefer you didn’t repeat her gruesome death. No offense.”

“None taken,” she quips, and looks up at Solas, who has stopped in front of her. “Thank you, Solas. Now, please release me.”

His eyes are hard, but not totally unkind. Just under the surface, she sees a hint of concern. “It will hurt, most likely worse than the flames.” 

He is trying to prepare her. There’s no need. 

Without blinking, she answers, “It’s not my first time, Solas.” There, at her admission, the hardness melts away to reveal pity. She hates that. Angrily, she huffs and closes her eyes. Taking a cleansing, deep breath, she gives the command. “Do it.” 

The ice shatters, and so does every nerve in her body, but she doesn’t scream. Instead, her tongue suffers under her efforts not to. The taste of her own blood is in her mouth, but she refuses to scream. Her knees give way, and she is falling to the ground when firm arms envelope her. Instantly, she jerks away from the touch, her body screaming even more at the contact, but the arms continue to hold her more firmly. 

“Be still,” Solas’ breath blows in her ear. “I have you. Be still.” 

She tries. She really does, but between trying to control her impulse to scream and her jerking limbs, it proves more difficult to do both. 

“Seeker, if you would hold her legs?” Silently, Cassandra complies, and practically has to sit on her feet to keep them from kicking. “Keep her as still as you can. This might take a while.” 

“I have something that might help,” Varric says, and pulls out a flask of yellow liquid. “A pretty potent healing potion. I’ve seen it work miracles.”

Solas nods. “Give it to her. She will need it.”

Varric approaches cautiously and kneels beside her. “Here, Fireball, take a shot of this. It’ll help.”

Shepard chokes between a strangled laugh and a scream, consequently coughing up blood. At the opening, however, Varric places the glass under her lips, and a hand firmly but gently tilts her head back. The liquid is forced to go down, and she swallows. It tastes almost as bad as Batarian shard wine, but she downs it all. 

“There we go! Not so bad, is it? Now, just relax, Fireball, and let Chuckles do what he does.”

With great effort, Shepard manages to wheeze out the last word. “Call me that again and I’ll shoot your ass.”

Varric snorts as she slips into darkness. 

_____

It’s the music that wakes her. It is a gentle, dainty tingling sound. Almost like a choir of bells in the distance. Then, she feels the music under her skin, singing within her. Breathing for her. Its humming vibrates, scratching at her skin, and she feels the urge to twitch and move with it. When she stirs, a hand falls to her chest, right over her heart. It’s calming warmth stills her. The music, too, responds. It grows louder, tingling stronger at its touch. 

No. That’s wrong. It is coming from the hand, not responding to it. Slowly, her eyes drift open, and light blinds her. As her eyes adjust, she focuses on the feeling of that hand, and the music it’s sending into her. Finally, she sees the silhouette of someone she should have guessed. 

Solas meets her eyes, and the music fades. His hand withdraws. Instantly, she feels empty. Alone. As if a part of her has been removed and has left her hollowed out. The sudden sensation makes her gasp. 

“What?! What was that?”

“Magic,” he answers simply. A smile twitches his lips, but instantly fades into a stern frown. “It is good that you are awake. I was unsure if you would so soon.” 

“How long have I been out?”

“Three hours, practically. It is noon.”

Groaning, she slowly starts to sit up. Once again, his hand falls to her chest, pressing on her to stop her attempt. “I’m okay. I’ll take it slow.” 

Those cool eyes lock on her. The hardness in them is so sharp that she feels it cut into her soul. “You could have died.”

“Yes.”

“You have only just recovered from attempting to close the Breach. Having such extensive damage like this so soon could have killed you, and I would have been unable to save you.”

“Yes,” she confirms. “But it didn’t.”

“This time.”

“Solas,” she uses her dark, even tone again. “I know. I wasn’t trying to be careless. I was unprepared. I’ve never fought a mage before. He caught me by surprise, but it won’t happen again.”

“And how will you be sure of that? Will you fly through the air like a ball of fire?”

Condescension is in his tone, making anger flare in her, but then she feels it. It is so fleeting, she almost escapes her notice. A faint, but evident surge of magic shoots from his touch. The music flares loudly before dying out instantly. It is frantic. He is concerned. Maybe even scared. It calms her anger, and she lets it go.

“Because you are going to fight me.”

Surprise washes over his face before it wipes clean. “I am?” Ah. The careful hunter. She’d almost forgotten how untrusting he is of her. 

“Yes,” she says confidently. “Every day until I can know what to expect. Not only because you are a mage, but also because I need your help.”

At this, his hand falls from her chest. 

“Solas,” she hesitates for a moment before taking a risk. “My friend–”

He swallows. Interesting. 

“-Last night you said I was prideful, but I’m not. I just never… I’ve never had to ask for help before. I don’t know how. I’ve always been the one giving it.” She takes a breath, stilling her pounding heart. “You were right last night. Just because I don’t think I need help doesn’t mean I shouldn’t ask for it. So, I’m asking you. Please, help me with this.”

Solas looks away to the ground beneath them. At first, she takes this as him being uncomfortable, or a sign he has no wish to, perhaps due to his lack of trust in her.

“Never mind, I can find another mage to–”

“No,” his voice cuts in, and he looks up again. “I’m sorry. I will help you. I will teach you how to fight a mage. That is,” his body stiffens, “unless you would prefer another.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “There’s no one else I would trust.”

Again, he averts his eyes, but in doing so, she sees the tips of his ears turn pink. Is he–? Is that a–? Do elves blush through their ears? Huh. It’s kind of cute. At this thought, her own face warms. 

Oh no. Stay far away from that thought, Commander.

“Why do you? You hardly know me,” Solas points out. 

Shepard is surprised at how quickly her answer comes to her. “Because what I’ve seen tells me you are a good man, and you have gone out of your way to help me.” Playfully, she arches an eyebrow at him. “Why do you? You don’t even trust me.”

Just like last night, he inhales sharply at the point. “Because you are the Herald of Andraste: the only one who can close the Breach.”

“Ah.” 

Disappointment swallows her. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Of course. It’s logical, and he is a logical person. What did she expect? 

Perhaps sensing the disappointment behind her simple exclamation, he stares at her. “Shepard, that is why I offered, not why I continue to do so.” 

She can’t help it. She grins at him. 

More surprisingly, he grins back.

Finally, she looks down and instantly stiffens. 

“Uh . . . Solas?’ 

“Yes?”

“Where are my pants?”

_____

One hour and one new pair of pants later, Shepard finally convinces her team she is perfectly fine to continue making their way to the horse master’s farm. That is, she convinces them by ignoring their arguments for her to have more time to recover, and marches in the nearest direction. Having no other alternative, they soon follow behind her. 

“Uh, Fireball? Hate to douse your fire, but Dennet is this way.” 

She pivots on her heel and changes course, casting him a dirty glare. “I thought I told you if you called me that again, I’d shoot you?”

“Snacks?”

“No.” 

“Pft. Why are people so picky?” 

Thanks to Varric's potion and Solas’ magic, the burns are practically non-existent. All she could see while changing was a few faint scars around her thighs. Oh well. She never did like her thighs. What is more important is that she can still fight, and by the appearance of more bodies on the path ahead, she just might have to. This time, she will be careful of strategically placed fire mines. 

Besides, these are her last pair of pants. 

They hear the loud echoes of battle before they even see it. By the intervals of sounds, these are no stragglers. It is not a skirmish. This is a full-on battlefield. Motioning for them to move quietly, they carefully follow the echoes through to a clearing. The sight they are greeted with is almost as devastating as the village they had passed through. 

Hundreds of mages and templars are clashing together. The bulk of the forces are further in, nearer to a pass winding between two large hills. The rest had splintered off into five subgroups. Each waning and waxing to varying degrees of success. This was going to be difficult. True, her biotics and Solas’ magic should help, but she knew healing her had drained him, and she isn’t eager to test herself so quickly with such a force of mages again. They needed a tiebreaker. 

If only they had guns. 

But they don’t, so she scrambles for another plan. “Is there another way we can reach Dennet? A path that can take us around the battle?” 

“I’m afraid not,” Cassandra sighs, clearly just as eager to avoid being so outnumbered. “That pass you see winding through the cliffs? That is the only way forward.” 

“Shit!” Varric curses. “Of course it is.”

“We could double back and return later with the help of Corporal Vale’s forces,” suggests Solas. 

Shepard shakes her head. “I’ve sent them to clear the group of bandits we saw yesterday. Besides, they need to stay at the Crossroads to protect the villages. Should we fail, they are their last line of defense.”

“I admit it is not the best plan,” he amends. 

She hums, scanning the terrain around her. “Anything you know of this place that we could perhaps use to our advantage?”

“No, not really,” the Seeker sighs disappointedly. 

“Too bad you don’t have any thresher maws,” she says wryly. 

Cassandra scrunches her face. “What’s a thresher maw?”

“Very large, worm-like creatures that can spit poison at you and swallow a small army whole. Very dangerous, and at times, very useful when pointed in the right direction.” 

“What kind of battles have you been in, exactly?” Varric chuckles darkly. 

She smiles. “Ones that I always won.”

Again, Cassandra shakes her head. “Unfortunately, the only wildlife here that are somewhat dangerous are the occasional packs of wolves and wandering bears.”

“Wolves? Bears?” She says, her attention immediately piqued. 

“Yes . . .” the warrior answers slowly. “Why?”

“Any idea where we might find some?”

“Why?” Alarm is now in the Seeker’s voice. 

Shepard grins. 

“Well, this is going to be interesting,” Varric whispers to Solas. “You sure she didn’t hit her head?”

_____

It turns out the bears are easy to find. Figuring out how to lure them into the battle is another matter. That is, until Shepard has another, equally crazy idea. 

“You want to do what?!” Cassandra shouts.

“We have plenty of food, thanks to our hunting last night and this morning.” Shepard points out. “All we have to do is get them interested and lure them to a bigger meal. During the havoc, we can fight from the sides, picking them off without having to take them head-on.” 

“You want to lure the bears out with our food and have them chase you all the way to the Witchwood? What if the bears catch you?”

“I’ve lured a thresher maw on foot to take down a Reaper. I think I can handle evading some bears. Besides, Solas will aid in covering me while you and Varric wait near the point of entry.”  

“No! Absolutely not. This is insanity!”

Varric sighs, “It does sound a bit, well . . . yeah . . . crazy.” 

“Solas? Tell her this is crazy!” Cassandra whirls to the mage, imploring him to help aid in swaying her decision. 

The apostate, however, was actually looking off thoughtfully into the distance. “While it is by no means unconventional, the idea is not entirely without its merit. Actually, it is a creative use of weaponizing the environment to our advantage.” 

This time, everyone gapes at Solas in shock. 

“You can’t be serious!” defies Cassandra. 

“Why not?” he insists. “Have we any other better ideas?”

“Surely we can do better than this?!” 

Shepard shakes her head. “No time. Cassandra, Varric, hide yourselves by the entrance. Once the bears enter, wait for them to start attacking before jumping in. Solas and I should not be close behind. So, everyone, hand over your food, please. I’ll need a lot for this to work.” 

Reluctantly, they do, and soon, Shepard has her pack heavy with her extra burdens and is ready to set in motion her incredibly insane plan. Before heading out, she gives them all a sincere look. 

“Trust me, please.” 

_____

It works.

Well, as well as an incredibly insane, far-fetched plan can work. 

It takes a while for the bears they had discovered to pick up the scent of her food, but once they do, they eagerly follow their noses. The rest of the plan... well, Shepard just sums it up playing an extreme, life-threatening game of old-Earth football. Only, in this metaphor, the ball is her bag of food, and the opposing team is three very hungry bears, chasing her to the end field. 

Bears are fast. More so than one would give credit to their massive bodies. Shepard ends up constantly using a biotic lift to propel herself safely out of their reach before coming near their claws once again. Solas occasionally distracts them with a gentle snip of magic on their heels. Finally, winded and almost at her limit, she sees the end of the cave and its opening to the battlefield beyond. With one final burst of energy, she heaves the pack of food as far as she can throw it, sending it right in the middle of a sub-group fighting. 

“Be ready!” she cries to her hidden companions. 

Not waiting for a reply, she lifts herself safely onto an overhead pile of rocks. Now she waits and overlooks their hard work. For a few intense moments, she is afraid her idea will only just me crazy. However, when three very large, very hungry, and very frustrated bears come charging into a battlefield, the surprise and horror of the sight sends the mages and templars scrambling in fear. 

Smiling, she laughs out an order, “Protect our allies! Pick the bloody bastards off!” 

She and her team stick to the outskirts of the fray, easily picking off any distracted mage and templar. The chaos also proves useful in drawing some of the main battles over to them, greatly lessening the main body of both opposing forces. Finally, one bear goes down with the combined efforts of two mages. This makes the remaining two hesitant, and they begin to retreat. 

“Alright, team, form up!”

Seeing what is happening, her crew obeys, and they advance head-on into the battle. Though they are still outnumbered, the odds are significantly better. While Shepard is forced to use less of her biotics, her crossbow and Omni-Blade come in handy. The Seeker takes out the mages almost on her own. Using that same strange power she had seen her use before, the mages are left helpless as Solas sweeps in and quickly snuffs them out. The remaining templars prove to be more challenging. Shepard will have to test her limits, but this time, she asks for help. 

“Solas!” she calls to him above the din. “I’m going to break through them. I’ll need you.”

Understanding immediately registers in his eyes, and he swiftly comes to her side. 

“If I collapse, I need you to cover me,” she informs him. 

He nods.  

“Here it goes.” 

Summing all her remaining strength, she raises a dome around them. The Templars back away in shock. Several try to disrupt it, but to no avail. Finally, she takes a breath and releases it with a cry of exhausted triumph. The barrier shatters, and just as before, the force throws the templars back. Immediately, she falls to her knees and struggles for breath. 

Solas is by her side, and she feels his own magic form a barrier around her. Warmth and gratitude swell in her, and she nods a silent thank you. Meanwhile, Cassandra and Varric have descended on the downed templars, and soon, all is quiet. They are all alone, they are all covered in blood, and they are all pleasantly relieved and amused. 

Cassandra even laughs. “I can’t believe that worked! It was insane, but it actually worked!” 

“You may be crazy, but then all my friends are,” Varric agrees. 

Shepard huffs out a slight laugh. “Honestly, I was even doubtful for a minute. So,” she pants, “how about we find this horsemaster and make camp. I’d say we all earned a rest after today.” 

“Agreed,” Solas says, and holds out his hand. With a smile, she takes it, and he helps steady her as she is lifted to her feet. “Well done.” 

The compliment is unexpected, and takes her off guard. 

“You didn’t do so bad yourself.” 

“I did keep those bears from eating you.” 

“And the templars from skewering me. Thanks for that.”

“You are most welcome,” he smiles and bows slightly. “Shall we, Herald?”

“Let’s,” she agrees, and gives him her own slight bow before following Cassandra through the pass and to a river. 

A river with a rift hanging above a waterfall. 

“Well, shit,” Varric swears. 

“Nope. Absolutely not,” Shepard says, skirting around it. “Rest first. Fight later.” 

No one argued and gladly followed her wide path around it. Finally, when they reach the top of the hill, they see a farm with several huts spread around fields. In the distance, they can see a large stable filled with horses. 

“Stars,” Shepard says, coming to a halt as she takes in the sight. “This horsemaster better be the damn best after what we just went through.” 

“He is,” the Seeker assures her. 

“So, Bear Wrangler, ready to convince the nice man to give his horses to the Inquisition?”

She considers Varric through the corner of her eye. 

“Bear Wrangler?”

“Hmmm…How about Bear Rider?”

She snorts. “Keep trying.” 

Varric heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Keep this up, and I might just settle for Picky.”

Chapter Text

By nightfall, all are exhausted and ready for rest. They had spoken to Master Dennett, who insisted on a list of things being completed before he would even send one horse of his to the Inquisition. The list being this: build three watchtowers around the perimeter of the farm to discourage bandits, clear out the pack of wolves that have been attacking the livestock, and, of course, close the rifts. Thankfully, during the three hours she had passed out, Cassandra had sent a raven to Haven to ask Cullen to send more soldiers to help deal with the rogue mages and templars. Knowing tomorrow is going to be a hell of a busy day, they quickly make camp by the stream and prepare to head to bed. Shepard volunteers for the first watch and has to argue with Cassandra over it. 

“You were wounded today,” the warrior insists, “you should take time to recover.”

“I’m well enough to keep watch for a couple of hours. Besides, I’m not sleepy yet. Might as well be useful. I’ll be sure to wake you next. Goodnight, Cassandra.” 

At her firm and evident dismissal, Cassandra has no choice but to comply, and soon ducks into her tent. Solas, however, settles himself by her side near the fire. She casts him a warning glare, daring him to pick up the argument that Cassandra had dropped, but he shakes his head and motions to her legs. 

“I only wish to examine your injuries once more before retiring. If you will allow me?” 

“I know that healing me drained you. Shouldn’t you get some sleep yourself? Besides, you did an excellent job. You can barely see the scars.”

“As you said, ‘I know my capabilities better than you’,” he throws her words back at her. “And if I am capable of further healing them, I will do so.” 

Shepard clenches her jaw stubbornly at his rebuttal, but relents, reminding herself she had agreed to accept help when offered.  Sighing in defeat, she rolls the legs of her pants up to her mid-thighs. Though the scars are faint, they are still evident even in the flickering firelight. Solas holds out his hand, asking permission. Nodding her consent, she watches as his hands hover over her legs. Magic glows between them, and she feels a cool, prickling sensation as he slowly works his way across the damaged patches of skin. That same tingling sound she heard earlier is once again present. 

“Does all magic sound like yours?” she whispers, hoping her question doesn’t distract him. 

“That depends on the spell, as well as the one casting it.” his eyes never leave his work. “Do all biotics sound the same?”

She contemplates for a moment. “I never gave it much thought before, but yes. I think so.” 

“Interesting,” he hums. 

For the remainder of his work, she watches in silence. It is fascinating. While omni gel and modern medicine have worked miracles, there is something entirely beautiful and surreal about watching your skin mend itself together with a wave of a hand. For not the first time since waking up on Thedas, she wishes she had been more of a scientist than a simple soldier. Then, she may be able to unravel the mysteries of this world where everything is so familiar and yet so different. Magic, the fade, spirits, demons... even the humans here are all subjects she finds fascinating but incapable of dissecting with her limited training. Even with her omni tool, she doubts she will be able to interpret the data correctly on what she scans. 

If only Liara were here. 

Shepard sighs and closes her eyes, trying to block out the thoughts and ghosts that threaten to haunt her. Wallowing in “what ifs” will get her nowhere. For now, she must focus on what is. Maybe after the Breach is closed, if she is still alive, she can begin investigating how she got here and if she can go home. That is, if there is a home still left. Damn it. Why can’t she remember? 

“I am finished.” 

Her eyes open and stare at the immaculate surface of newly restored skin. “That’s amazing, and pretty handy. Thank you, Solas.” 

“It is no trouble, though I do not wish to make this area of my services a habit.” 

“No, I can’t say that I do either.” She unrolls her pants and lets them cover her legs. “I’m not sure I have enough pants to spare.” 

He huffs and turns away, but not before she sees his mouth twitch. “We shall start our practice soon, then. Tomorrow, perhaps. For now, rest well.” 

“Goodnight,” she says as he slips into his tent. 

The cool night air blows gently on her skin, and the warmth and crackling of the fire make it all the more serene. Looking up, she sees the stars. Unlike at Haven, she can see them all. They shine across the sea of night like lighthouses guiding travelers safely home. None of them is familiar, however. Still, she wonders if one could guide her yet. From her pack, she takes out one of the star charts and unfolds it. The constellations are just as foreign, but she begins her efforts in trying to spot them. As she draws them in the air with her finger, she wonders if they have stories. 

She should ask Solas later. 

At the thought of her strange companion, she sighs and massages her head. It pains her to not tell him–all of them, freely, what they wish to know. But, regulations are regulations, and if she does find a way off this planet, it will be better for everyone that they remain unaware that she comes from the stars. Who would believe her anyway? Still, she can’t shake the feeling that the similarities she has seen here to her own world are too many to be a coincidence of space. The humans and even some of the plants and animals are too uncanny to explain away. What the heck is going on? 

Thirsty, she licks her lips and removes a cup from her pack. There is still a hot pot of coffee by the fire. Thank the stars that is one commodity she doesn’t have to go without. Pouring herself a cup, she blows on it while taking tiny sips. That is when her eyes fall on Cassandra’s abandoned cup, and an idea bursts in her head. Excitedly, she picks up the cup and activates her omni tool. 

She scans the cup and waits. 

Scan Complete. DNA Sequence Found. 

Her heart thumping loudly, she scans herself and programs the computer to compare them. The orange light flickers and hums as it processes the information. 

Analysis Complete. 

The words blink back at her, and with a shaking hand, she clicks it. 

Match Confirmed. Contemporary Strands Found: 91.7%. 

That’s . . . that’s impossible. She scans again and again, but each time, the same information is concluded. Shepard is no scientist, but even she remembers enough of her basic science classes to know what this means. These humans aren’t just a repeat of evolution. They are direct descendants of Earth, and somehow, they ended up here. Not only that, but they have been here long enough to have formed a divergence in their DNA. Many generations worth. 

What the hell does this all mean?

The hours pass quickly, and soon it is time to make good on her promise and wake Cassandra. Reluctantly, she does so, and the Seeker sleepily rouses from the comfort of her bedroll and takes her post. As Shepard rolls around, trying to calm her rampaging questions, one thought crosses her mind that gives her some peace. However they got here, these are her people.  

She really isn’t alone. 

_____

In the morning, Shepard wakes to the heavenly aroma of a freshly made breakfast. Eager to fill her stomach, she climbs out of the tent without bothering to fix her hair. Solas glances at her and blinks a few times before fixing his attention back on the pan of eggs frying over the fire. 

“Where did you find those?” 

“Mistress Elaina was kind enough to offer them. After all, what good will we be fighting wolves if we do not have much strength?” 

“Well, I’ll have to thank her then,” Varric says, stepping out of his own tent. “I’m not the biggest fan of fennec,” he winks at her. “No offense.”

Shrugging, she retrieves her cup and fills it with more coffee. “I never said I was a cook.” 

“Chuckles here is doing really well.” Varric leans over his shoulder and dramatically smells the cooking eggs. “Ah! Beautiful! Just be sure mine is done over easy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Solas says before shoving him out of his way with his shoulder. 

“Don’t upset the cook, Varric. I’d rather not eat a burnt breakfast.” 

“I’m just giving some advice. Chuckles doesn’t mind. Do you?”

“Oh no!” Solas says, overemphasizing every word. “Not at all!  I have always endeavored to take people’s orders. I should start taking tips.” 

“What’s going on?” asks Cassandra. From the look of her damp hair, she has made use of the stream nearby. 

“Too many cooks in the kitchen,” Shepard quips and downs the last of her coffee. 

Just then, a gust of wind blows her loose mane into her face. Her hair has never been this long, and the need to constantly push it out of her eyes is beginning to grate on her. Since waking up in Haven, she has had no time to bother with it and has simply twisted it into a carless bun. Now, she thinks, it is time for a haircut. Grunting in irritation, she retrieves her pack from her tent and begins to rummage through it. Not finding the object of her need, she curses and kicks her bag. 

“Is there something wrong, Druffalo?” 

Shepard glares at him. “What’s that?”

He waves over her hair, “Because it’s long and fluffy, and you look like you’re about to charge at something.” 

Ignoring him, she asks, “You have a knife?” 

Varric raises his eyebrows. “What for?” 

“Do you have a knife or not?”

“Here,” Cassandra walks over and pulls one from her boot. “Take mine.”

“Thanks,” she says, taking it. “I’ll give it back to you in a minute.” 

Splitting her hair into two sections down her shoulders, she bunches one side just below her jawline and begins to cut. Instantly, Varric rushes to her side and grabs the knife from her hand. 

“Whoa! Hang on now! Is this because I called you Druffalo? I didn’t mean it. Don’t take it to heart. Your hair is lovely.” 

Irritated, she tries to grab the knife, but he evades her. “No, it's impractical. Now give me back the knife.” 

He shakes his head and throws it to Cassandra, who barely manages to catch it. 

“Varric–” she warns him. 

 The dwarf holds his hands up in a placating manner. “Look, just because you’ve got it into your head that function needs to be over beauty, doesn’t mean you need a haircut like the Seeker’s here.” 

Cassandra gasps and self-consciously touches the lone braid in her short hair. “What’s wrong with my hair?!” 

Ignoring her, Varric goes to his own pack and removes a silk pouch with gold embroidery. From it, he takes out a long, elegant razor. Its edge is fine and sharp, and glints in the rays of the early morning sun. “You want to cut your hair, fine. At least do it with style.”  

Shepard laughs. “Are you a hairstylist too?”

“Come now, how else do you get a dwarf this handsome?” 

“Alright, style away! But I want it short.”

“Define short,” he says, circling her with a critical eye. “Below the shoulders?”

She shakes her head and points to her jawline. “Here.”

“Fine, at the shoulders then.”

“No. Here,” she insists. “You might be able to tell Solas how to cook your eggs, but don’t tell me how to wear my hair.”

Even though she doesn’t look at him, she swears she hears the mage grumble. 

Varric tuts in disappointment and comes to her shoulder. Carefully, he takes a long strand and raises the blade. “All off?”

“All off.”

“You sure?”

“Varric.”

“All off then,” he agrees. “Just one thing.”

She groans. “What now?”

“You have to pay me.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“Who said anything about money? You can pay me with a story.”

Shepard stiffens. 

“Loosen up, Captain. It doesn’t have to be one that makes you pull your teeth out. Just a nice story about our fearless leader before all this shit got weird.” 

It isn’t that she doesn’t have any stories; it’s just that she doesn’t know how to tell them. Still, if it will make him shut up and get on with it, she can scrape up one. 

“Deal,” she says briskly. “Now shut up and cut my damn hair.” 

The dwarf chuckles and, with a smug smile, begins to cut. He sighs as he works, as if each long strand that falls to the ground is a desecration to him. Finally, he finishes and dangles her dead hair in front of her for effect.

 “There! All off. You happy now?”

“Quite,” she says, and gives her head a shake. It feels loads lighter. “Just how I like it.” 

Suddenly, Varric stares intently at her, studying her face. “You know something, it’s not so bad after all.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, really.” He holds her chin and turns her head from side to side. “Hmmm, yes. With a little snip here and here, it’ll be perfect!”

“Uh, Varric?”

“Shhh,” he silences her. “Don’t interrupt an artist at work.” 

Before she can protest, he is already cutting again. Their exhibition draws an audience, for Cassandra has come to stand beside Varric, and in the corner of her eye, she sees Solas lean over to watch. She tries to tell from Cassandra’s face what he’s doing, but the woman looks on only with curiosity. 

“It’s only hair,” she says. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

That earns her a snort. “Only hair, she says! Give people something to look at besides that hand, and they just might see a person. Or a woman. Take your pick.” Finally, he steps back and bows with a flourish of hands. “Now presenting my masterpiece. Behold! Our new Captain!”

Cassandra gapes. 

“What?” she demands, suddenly very worried about her hair after all. 

“It’s quite good, actually,” she answers as though she can’t believe her eyes. “Normally, I would say not to trust Varric, but he did a decent job. Better than I could have done.” 

“Clearly,” Varric mutters. 

Cassandra snaps at him. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Where do I start? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Shepard tunes them out, too distracted to continue listening. Instead, she grabs her pack and heads to the stream to wash. Once by the water, she strips off her overshirt and washes the skin around her clothes with a wet cloth. It may not be a hot shower, but even a brisk rub down feels like a luxury after days of sweat and travel. After drying off with a towel, she takes out a comb and runs it through her hair. Her fingers rejoice at the familiar length. Finally, she peeks at her reflection in the water. Though it’s foggy now from her disturbance, it is enough to show her what Varric has done. 

Besides her normal bob, she’d requested, he has framed her face with wispy bangs, and the effect did more than she had thought. It makes her look almost elegant. The thought makes her smile. Her, elegant? She can’t even dance. Still, she doesn’t hate this change. Sighing, she realizes she has to give a decent story now. He did do a good job, after all. 

When she comes back to camp, the bickering has stopped as everyone silently eats their breakfast. Solas notices her approach and holds a plate out to her. Nodding her thanks, she takes it and eats. The eggs and beans are very good. It seems Solas has a hidden talent, as well as Varric. 

“So, how do you like it?” Varric prods. 

Swallowing her last bite, she hums and nods her head. “The eggs are very good. Thank you, Solas.”

“You are most welcome. I rarely get such easy customers.” 

“Really? Are they that picky? ‘Make mine over easy! Not too light! Not too dark!’ That sort of thing?”

Solas doesn’t even crack a smile. “Indeed. I should charge extra.”

“Very funny, you two,” Varric laughs good-naturedly. “The hair, Captain. How do you like your hair?”

“Oh, the hair?” she asks in mock innocence. “Not too bad, I suppose. Solas, any more of these eggs?” 

“Unfortunately, no.”

“It’s a shame. Those were some damn good eggs.”

“I am pleased you think so.”

“Oh come on!” Varric pleads, throwing his hands in the air. “I save you from butchering your best qualities, and you want to talk about eggs?”

“Why not?’ Cassandra says. “You are doing a great job of self-promoting with that big mouth.” 

Another round of bickering ensues, but as they break camp, Shepard nudges Varric’s shoulder. 

“Thanks.”

“You still owe me a story,” he reminds her. 

“Later,” she promises, “and drop the ‘Captain’.”

“But–”

“No.”

“Picky,” he grumbles.

_____

 They start by scouting the area for wolves. The task is simple enough, for a small pack finds them first. She is sad to have to kill them, for her white wolf friend comes to mind, but when she sees their glowing eyes, she knows they aren’t normal. When they are killed, she kneels by one of the corpses. 

“These must be the wolves Master Dennet’s wife warned us about,” remarks Varric.

“What’s with the glowing eyes?” 

“The Breach may have driven them mad . . . or perhaps a demon took command of the pack,” Solas answers as he kneels beside her. 

“Now demons are possessing wolves?” Cassandra groans. “Wonderful.” 

Shepard sighs, “We should see where their tracks came from.” Rising, she takes one moment longer to look at the black wolf before scouting the ground for their trail.

“Is something troubling you?” Solas asks her quietly. 

“I wish we didn’t have to kill them.”

“They are intelligent, practical creatures,” he agrees with a strange look in his eye, “and are often misunderstood by small-minded fools who think of them only as terrible beasts.”

“My best friend is a wolf,” she says with a note of tragedy. Solas casts her a look of surprise. She only tilts the corner of her mouth and points ahead. “Looks like Varric found their trail.”

With Varric’s lead, they follow the tracks to the river they had crossed just the other day. The rift still crackles above the waterfall. They stop, caught between the indecision to carry on tracking or to deal with the rift first. Everyone looks at her. 

“I’m not the only one here, you know. Isn’t this your Inquisition, Cassandra?”

“It was never my Inquisition. Divine Justinia ordered it, but she is gone.” 

“You still started it.”

“I do not have the means to close the rifts. This is your choice.”

Shepard grunts begrudgingly at her point. “Fine. Might as well get it over with. It’s not the Breach. How bad can it be?”

It’s not long before she eats those words. 

The demons that come out of this rift are nothing like the ones she fought before. Three are as tall as trees with thin, green bodies, long tails, and claws. Their eyes clustered together on their face like a spider’s. The other demon has gray, wrinkled skin wrapped in rags and a black hood pulled over its face, hiding its features.

“What the hell are those?” she screams as she tries to maneuver a safe distance to disrupt the rift. 

“Terror and Despair,” Solas yells in reply. “Be wary, they can–”

His warning is cut off. It is too late. 

All she feels is a strange shift in the atmosphere around her when the ground suddenly crackles beneath her feet. Her hand flares in response, and she barely takes a step back before one of the tall demons suddenly leaps up through the portal of energy and wraps its claws around her. Pinned helplessly to the ground, she stares up at the demon, whose spider-like eyes bore into hers with malice. 

“Terror, I presume.”

Its small mouth opens, and an unearthly screech almost erupts her eardrums. 

“You’ll have to do better than that,” she says, and sends a warp straight through it. 

Just as before, her biotics do not seem to affect the demon as much as they should, but it catches it off guard long enough for her to get to her feet. Instantly, she feels the cool, tingling energy of Solas’ magic settle over her right before the demon leaps at her again. Instinctively, she raises her own barrier as well, and when the demon’s claws try to tear through, the force sends them both reeling backward. Shepard recovers sooner, however, and unholsters her crossbow just in time to shoot it in one of its eyes. It screeches even louder, and Shepard winces from the pain that rings through her ears. 

Enraged, the demon yanks the arrow out of its eye. Black liquid squirts into the air like a fountain. Suddenly, the ground crackles like the rift once again, and the demon disappears. 

Shit. 

Not good. 

Shit. 

Thinking fast, she uses her biotics to lift her onto the rocks of the waterfall above until she comes to the top. If she wanted to, she could touch the rift she is so close to. She wishes she had time to scan it, but with a demon waiting to pop up through the ground, she'd better not. Quickly, her hand throbbing, she links to the rift. The power builds until it erupts. Instantly, her link is severed, and she glances down at her companions. 

Varric and Cassandra are battling their own terror demon. Each distracts it long enough for the other to get a hit in. Solas, meanwhile, is struggling with what she assumes to be despair. It launches a beam of ice at him, which he spins gracefully to avoid like a ballerina dancer. Fire melts another blast of ice that comes near him. Shepard makes to leap down to aid him when she feels the shift in the air again. 

In seconds, she lifts herself into the air just as her terror demon leaps where she had stood moments before. While it stands, confused at her own sudden disappearance, she activates her Omni-Blade and lets herself fall. She lands with the added force of gravity, and her blade tears through the demon's back as she falls to the ground. More black liquid pours out as it screeches one last time before disintegrating. She takes a few more moments to catch her breath before she descends to her companions below. 

Cassandra and Varric have managed to destroy their demon and are running to aid Solas as well, who is still gracefully dodging the despair demon’s icy blasts. However, she notes the decrease in his speed from before. He is tiring. 

“Varric,” she calls to him. 

As if reading her mind, he reloads Bianca. “On it,” he answers, and points his crossbow in the air. 

A literal shower of arrows rains down on the demon. The distraction is enough for Solas to maneuver safely around its flank. Good. All they have to do is keep its attention for a little longer. Cassandra bangs her sword against her shield and lets out a taunting battle cry. Shepard smiles at the sight. The warrior would fit in with a Krogan charge any day. With her biotics, she raises a shield around them both, and together, they charge. They have its full attention now. 

Instantly, it floats toward them, meeting their charge. Shepard braces for the impact, digging her boots into the earth. Her barrier shatters, flinging the demon off to the side. However, the moment of victory is brief, for unlike the terror demon, it recovers quickly. A blast of ice shoots towards her, and she rolls to avoid it. The air whistles with another rain of Varric’s arrows, and Cassandra taunts the demon again, trying to draw its attention away from her. The demon, however, ignores them and launches itself through the air. Again, she has to roll to avoid impact, and as she rises, she flares her biotics and lifts her omni blade for a swift strike, but what she sees freezes her in place. 

For the first time, she sees the face under the hood. 

Anderson. 

His face is gaunt and droops at the mouth. The prideful, intelligent eyes are now sunken into their sockets, displaying a look of painful anguish. Only once has she seen that look directed towards her before. 

Disappointment. 

He is disappointed in her. 

And why shouldn’t he be? 

She failed him, after all. 

He died because she didn’t save him. 

She destroyed the Reapers, but at what cost? 

He would have told her to find another way. 

She should have. 

But she didn’t. 

She failed him. 

She failed them all. 

All her promises had led to nothing.

It would have been better if it were her. 

He should have lived. 

She should have died. 

It is only just. 

What else can she do?

She should pay. 

It is simple, really. 

All she has to do is die. 

It is so easy. 

All she has to do is let go. 

Let go . . .

“No!” A voice rings out. 

She is pointing her own blade at her stomach. Anger flares in her. Defiant. 

The illusion shatters. Before her, it is not the face of Anderson she sees. Small, beady eyes pierce into her through a small, hairless face. Its large mouth protrudes two large incisors that make it look like a mole. Its twisted, decrypt hands turn towards itself. So this is Despair. She knows it well. 

An angry roar erupts from her throat. Her biotics pull the demon to her, impaling it in her omni blade. “I will never yield!” she screams. “Not with my dying breath! So go to hell!” 

With a swift jerk, she removes her blade from its abdomen and stabs it repeatedly in the face until all that remains is empty air. Black liquid runs down her face, and with a shaking hand, she wipes it briskly from her eyes. It isn’t until then that she realizes she is on her knees by the muddy bank of the river. Looking down at the water, her reflection stares back at her. Anger twists like a blade, and she hastily rises to her feet. The world spins, and she rests her hands on her knees. 

“Shepard?”

At the sound of her name, she looks up. Solas stands just a few feet from her. Concern knits the area between his brows, but there is also a look of urgency. Cassandra and Varric, too, are not far off, with equal looks on their faces. 

The rift still crackles above them. 

Turning, she raises her hand. She nearly buckles under the effort to remain standing as the energy builds, crackles, and finally disperses. It is closed. She allows her hands to fall to her knees again. With great effort, she slows her breathing. 

“You okay there, Spitfire?” For once, the dwarf sounds hesitant. 

Swallowing, she nods and carefully straightens. Once she is sure the world will maintain its center of balance, she rolls back her shoulders and deactivates her omni blade. Without giving them a glance, she marches forward. 

“Let’s find the damn wolves.”

It is a full minute before she hears their footsteps follow behind her. She pauses, trying to pick up the trail again. Suddenly, something cold grazes her fingers, and she starts. Solas had come up beside her so quietly, she hadn’t noticed. In his hands is a familiar orange potion. With a nod, she takes the flask gratefully and downs it in one go. Her body tingles and buzzes at the sensation, and in moments, she feels instantly rejuvenated. Startled, she looks at him. 

Sensing her unspoken question, he explains, “I increased certain properties in hopes the effects are more substantial than the last time. How do you feel?”

“Ready to fight,” she says, handing the empty glass back to him. “Thanks.”

“Over here, Spitfire!” Varric beckons, pointing to the entrance of a cave further down the stream.

Cassandra joins them. “That cave could be the lair of our strange wolves.”

“Most likely,” Solas agrees. 

“Any idea what kind of demon might be controlling them?”

He shakes his head. “A powerful one.”

“Yeah. Of course,” Shepard says dryly. “Let’s go into the cave of powerful, demon-possessed wolves then.”

_____

The demon turns out to be Terror, and Solas is right. It is very powerful. Without Solas’ potion in her, she doubts she would be holding up so well between it and the wolves. 

“Try not to kill them!” she orders her team as her biotics throw several wolves back. 

“How are we supposed to do that?” Cassandra demands, clearly annoyed. 

“If you must, you must. Just try!” With that order given, she joins Solas in his struggle with the terror demon. Noticing her approach, it disappears into a crackle of energy. Bracing herself, she waits for the shift in the air before spinning towards Solas. 

“Watch out!” she cries. 

He, too, must have felt the shift, for he does something she has never seen before. In a blur, he dashes a good ten paces before halting. Instantly, the demon appears, and she has no time for distraction. She sends a warp its way to gain its attention away from Solas. 

“For a demon called Terror, I've seen uglier than you,” she taunts.

It works. 

The demon turns, and its ugly shape shifts into a nightmare all too familiar to her. Before her is a banshee much like the ones she had helped fight at the monastery with Samara. Its mouth opens, and its guttural cry spikes a fear she has almost forgotten. Well, she did ask for it. 

“That’s better,” she says. 

Just as it leaps on her, a green fist of energy slams into it. Solas has taken advantage of the distraction and now sends blow after blow upon the demon. It smashes into the rocky cliffs above, and its form shifts back just as he sends a blast that topples the rocks onto it. Soon, it is buried in rubble. Instantly, her hand sparks, and she feels a heaviness she didn’t know was there lift. The wolves, too, halt simultaneously in their attacks. Their eyes stop glowing. 

They stand in silence, surrounded by a pack of black wolves. 

Cassandra takes a step back, and they growl. 

“Don’t move,” Solas whispers. “They will attack if they think you are weak.”

“Then we should attack–”

“No,” Shepard hisses at her. “Wait.”

A large black wolf stands a few feet from her, and steps towards it. It growls, but does not leap. These aren’t like her white wolf friend, but she isn’t afraid of them either. Pulling herself to her full height, she marches toward it and halts right by its large head. 

“Go!” she commands with her soldier’s voice. “You’re free. Don’t come back here.” It stops growling. All the wolves look between her and the large wolf. “GO!” she yells. 

The wolf backs away and turns its head up to the sky. A loud howl echoes around them,  and soon, the other wolves join in as well. At the end of their song, the wolves retreat, leaving them alone in the abandoned cave.  

“Well done,” Solas says in a quiet tone. 

Cassandra sheaves her sword. “The farmers should be safe without them around.”

“And the wolves are pleased to be free from the demon’s control,” adds Solas, still staring at her piercingly with his cool eyes. 

Shepard does her best to ignore him as she looks around. At least half a dozen wolves had not been too lucky. Sighing, she shakes her head. “It’s a shame.” 

A low grunt rumbles from Cassandra. “We did our best.”

“I know. Still, it’s sad–a waste of life.” 

“Do your people have a . . . respect for wolves?” 

The question makes her look at him. As she suspects, the hunter, not her potential friend, stares back at her. “We try to have respect for all life, but yes, I suppose we do. Especially since they are almost extinct.” 

His eyes glisten with interest, and she can almost feel the questions form on his tongue, but Varric interrupts. 

“Well, what’s next, Howler?” 

Shepard scrunches her nose. “That’s terrible.” 

“You said you liked wolves.”

“It’s still terrible.”

He sighs. “Wolf Fang?”

“That sounds like a mercenary company.” 

“Fine, I’ll name you something you can’t beat.” 

“What’s that?”

“Dread Wolf,” he says, grinning devilishly. “The fabled, Dalish god of tricks and father of all wolves.” 

“And betrayal,” Solas adds shortly, “if it is fables you wish to believe.” 

Varric’s face falls. “Yeah, I forgot that part. Andraste’s ass! It could have been perfect.” 

“I do not think she deserves such a title.” 

“Come now, Chuckles, if you think you can do better, why don’t you give her a name?”

“That is not why I am here.”

“Coward.”

She and Cassandra share a look. Shepard rolls her eyes. “If you two are done measuring each other, we ladies are going to go patch up the sky.” 

Cassandra flushes at her statement, but quickly follows her out of the cave.  They hear the sound of Varric’s hearty laugh echoing behind them. 

_____

Two rifts later, Shepard is gritting her teeth from the pain. Her hand is throbbing from the constant use, and she swears she can feel it start to grow again. Solas comes to her side before she can shake it off. Not waiting for her permission, he grabs her hand firmly, but not forcefully, and begins pouring his energy into her. Instantly, she feels relief, and the throbbing ebbs away. 

“How do you do that?” 

“A combination of healing magic and wards. The more you use the anchor, the more it will wear them down. It will be wise for me to check on their condition after constant use.” 

“No arguments here. I'm rather attached to my arm.” 

Varric laughs. “Puns? Really?”

She snorts. “Unintentional, but, yeah.”

Solas does not look amused, and his jaw tightens in disapproval. He grips her hand. 

“Relax, Solas, with you around, I'm sure it’ll be fine.” 

His eyes dart away, and he drops her hand. “We should inform Master Dennet of our success.” 

“Right,” she agrees, “time to backtrack.” 

Varric swears. “Think we can convince him to lend us some horses at least? These are my best pair of boots.” 

“We can try. It is only fair after all we've done so f–” she trails off as her eyes catch on a flash of light in the distance. “What's that?” 

“What?” Cassandra looks at where she is pointing. Squinting against the sun, she shields her eyes with her hand. “I can't make it out.” 

“Let's go see,” she says, and redirects her course. 

A low grumble of protest comes from the dwarf. “What about my boots? What if I trip and fall to my death? My publisher would never forgive me if I died so dully.” 

“If you don't stop complaining, someone might run you through with a sword.”

“Seeker, without my complaining, you'd forget I'm here, but I appreciate the thought.”

“Ugh.” 

It doesn’t take them long to find the object of their curiosity. On a ledge overlooking Master Dennet’s farm is a large platform holding a sphere. A small magnifying glass is attached to it. Immediately, her interest peaks and she eagerly approaches it. “What is it?”

“Hmm...” Solas hums as he circles it with a similar curiosity. “Interesting.”

“What? You don’t know?” Varric guffaws in mock shock. 

“Why would you believe I would?”

“You seem to know everything.”

“I never claimed to.”

“You still act like it, though.”

“Quiet, you two!” she huffs as she peers through the microscope, “I’m trying to think.” Inside, there is blackness except for several bright points of light. Huh. Strange. Taking a step back, she examines the sphere and notices several gears. Curiously, she moves one and hears a loud click. 

“That did something,” Cassandra says. 

Peering back into the microscope, she sees that it did indeed. A line now joins the two points together. “What the hell?” she mutters, and examines the sphere again. Something is familiar to her. There are lines on the sphere that circle around to—

“It’s a clock!” she declares in excitement and rushes back to the microscope. Maybe studying ancient astronomy is paying off after all. 

“A what now?”

Shepard blinks and hurriedly seeks to correct her mistake. “It’s a planetarium! A mechanical representation of the cycle of stars in a single piece of equipment.” Her explanation is by no means entirely accurate, but close enough. “But this one seems different. If I can just make it out . . .”

Their voices become distant as she concentrates on the mechanics of the sphere. She carefully starts to turn more gears, and more lines connect the dots, but if a line is already drawn, the whole piece resets. Understanding bursts through, and with a gasp of excitement, she rips off her pack and digs through it wildly until her fingers clasp the star charts she had been studying only the night before. 

“Uh . . . everything okay, Spitfire?”

“Look! Look at this!” she exclaims hurriedly, spreading the chart before her on the ground. “There! It has to be this one. I was memorizing it last night!” Without waiting to see if they were comprehending this outburst, she dashes to the planetarium and begins moving the gears. “It is a planetarium, but it’s also a puzzle. To solve it, you need to know the right constellation. Not only that, but if you don’t connect it right, it resets. If I can just break down the shapes into cycles, I can return to the starting point and–” the last gear shifts into place, completing the constellation perfectly. 

Suddenly, two bright beams of light reflect to two points on the horizon. “Yes!” she cheers. “That’s what I’m talking about!” 

“Uh . . . what did you do, exactly?”

Shepard blinks at the dwarf. “I solved the puzzle.”

“But what was that?” Cassandra asks, motioning to where the beams of light had pointed. 

“No clue. Solas?”

“At a guess? Directions.”

“See? I found directions,” she tells the dwarf, crossing her arms.

“To what?” he insists. 

She grins. “Only one way to find out.” 

“Alright, fine,” he relents, “but only after we get the horses from the nice man. These boots have had enough walking for three days. Besides, I’m not sure any of us could keep up with you when you're this excited. You’re like a mabari pup with a shiny, new ball.”

Shepard feels heat on her cheeks, and she instantly works to blanken her face. “Sorry.” 

Varric chuckles at her. “Don’t get all bashful on me, Stargazer. It’s good to see you enjoying something.”

“Stargazer?”

“What? Too much for you?”

“No,” she says, and feels the heat spread. Helplessly, her blank mask cracks into a soft smile. “I like it.” 

_____

Master Dennet and his wife are very happy to hear of their progress. All that remains is to wait for Cullen’s soldiers to arrive with the materials and manpower to build the towers. Meanwhile, they are offered three sturdy horses to aid them on the remainder of their journey, as well as a stockpile of food from their garden. Thankful for their newfound fortunes, they set up camp in the same spot as the previous night, and soon are relishing a hearty meal under the calm, starry sky. 

Shepard is looking up at said sky, lost in thoughts of home on the Normandy, when someone bumps her elbow. Startled, she looks over at Varric, who is sitting beside her. “What?”

“I said, ‘How about that story you owe me,’ Stargazer?”

Her heart stutters a moment in her chest. “Oh, right.” She had forgotten during the chaos and excitement of the day. Crap. What does she tell them? 

“Let’s start simple,” he suggests, seeing her obvious hesitation. “What are your parents like? What were you like as a child? You know, the boring stuff.”

“There is nothing simple about any of that.” The sudden silence makes her realize she has voiced her thoughts aloud. 

Damn it. 

“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he answers gently. “Though I may find the occasional joy in ruffling some feathers–”

“Ha!” Cassandra protests. 

He ignores her and continues. “-I don’t like forcing the bad stuff to the surface. That usually finds a way to come out eventually, no need for my helping it along.” 

Shepard sits in silence, thinking. Considering. Most of her history is trying at best, and harrowing at worst. The only good thing in her life was her ship and crew, and even then, it was bittersweet. No matter what story she tells (even if she spins it without all the space stuff), there will be difficulty in telling it. Pain is an old acquaintance of hers, and now, it is insisting on becoming friends, it seems. 

“Perhaps we should retire,” Cassandra’s voice ripples through the silence. “After all, it has been a trying day and–”

“Alright,” she sighs, staring into her cup. “Just don’t expect it to be all sunshine and rainbows.” 

Another silence falls, but she hears the distinct sound of Cassandra shuffling closer to her, as if afraid to miss a single word. It appears Varric isn’t the only one anticipating her story, and she refuses to look at Solas. If she does, she worries she will be able to tell it at all. That man has an unsettling way of making her feel like hunted prey one minute, and a possible friend the next. Out of all the aliens she has met, he is the strangest one. At least with Krogan, you can headbutt them and everything works itself out. With him, everything is twisted in a tangle of loneliness and wariness. Loneliness that calls them both to seek companionship, and wariness that comes from years of living alone–or betrayal, she isn’t entirely sure yet. 

Finally, Shepard takes a long swig of her coffee and begins. 

“I never knew my parents. They abandoned me on the street. No note of explanation, no warm blanket–not even a name. They just left me there to die or be found, I guess.”

Cassandra gasps, “How horrible!”

Shepard glares at her, and the woman immediately shuts her mouth. “I don’t want your pity, Cassandra.”

“I– I am sorry. Please, do continue. I won’t say anything more.”

She nods, accepting her apology and her promise.

“How did you get your name then?” Varric wonders. “Actually, now that I think about it, is Shepard your first or your last name?”

“Last, and it was part of the name of the orphanage.” 

“Which was . . . ?”

“Shepherd’s Flock Orphanage,” she answers, laughing softly. “I misspelled it on my identification card, and it stuck.”

“What about your first name?”

“Why?”

“Well, you have one, right? It can’t really be Commander!” he points out. 

“I do, but no one ever calls me by it.”

“Why’s that?’ 

She shrugs, “I didn’t choose it, so I never liked it very much.”

“It can’t be that bad! What is it? Jane? Sarah?” he huffs at her obvious silence. “This is going to bug me. 

“Anyways, I was found and brought to an orphanage, where I stayed till I was sixteen, and then ran away. It was always overcrowded, and when my biotics developed, everyone was afraid of me. It was new, and not many people understood what biotics were or could do then. Anyway, I left. The problem was, I had nowhere to go without being turned over to the orphanage again, so I ended up on the streets.”

She pauses, staring into her empty mug. It’s funny how this part of the story still fills her with shame after all these years. 

“That’s when they found me. The Tenth Street Reds: a gang full of washed-up or unwanted kids like me. At first, they wanted to rob me, but when they discovered I was broke and was a biotic, they decided to put me to good use. It was robbery starting out: small jobs and pickpocketing. I didn’t like it, but when you’re hungry and scared, you can convince yourself it’s just to survive and you’re not really hurting anyone.” 

She pauses, briefly, as shame swells in her. “I’m not proud of it–of what I did. It never just ends there. The stealing became extortion, smuggling, drug dealing, gunrunning . . . Finally, one day, they kidnapped a rich girl from someone important, and then I realized I couldn’t justify it anymore. I wanted out.”

“I doubt they just wrote you a thank you note,” Varric remarks darkly. 

“No. They didn’t,” she confirms. “I tried, once. It didn’t end well.” A darker memory threatens to come to her mind, but she forces it back. No. She won’t go there again. 

“Anyways, one day I was passing by some ships that had docked. There were a bunch of soldiers and fancy uniforms, and I figured I would try my luck on one of them while they were busy.” She smiles at the memory. “It was the best mistake of my life.” 

“I take it you were caught then?” Varric asks. 

“Caught?” she laughs, “I barely brushed his pocket before he had me in an arm hold. I’d gotten it into my head that I was invincible. He showed me how wrong I was . . . about a lot of things.”

“What happened? Did he have you arrested?” Cassandra blushes and suddenly ducks her head. “I’m sorry. I said I wouldn’t say anything.”

“It’s fine, Cassandra, and no, he didn’t.” 

“He didn’t? But why?” her voice pitches high into an almost squeal.

Varric laughs, “You’ll have to excuse Cassandra. She has a weak spot for stories about characters defeating the odds. Do continue.”

“It turns out that the soldier was a well-respected captain in the Navy. I was certain I was headed for the brig–I mean, jail. He didn’t call the authorities, though. He took one look at me and asked if I had eaten lunch. Despite my answer, he dragged me to a restaurant. And not just any restaurant. It was the most expensive one in town, and I always dreamed about walking there one day. Instead, there I was, scared stiff, sitting across from the man I had tried to rob, and I couldn’t think of a single thing to eat. He ordered plates of meat, vegetables, and desserts– most I didn’t even know the name of. I couldn’t eat anything. I was too scared to.

When I asked what he wanted, he said he wanted me to eat. Having no other choice, I did, but I couldn’t enjoy a single bite. Finally, he asked me what I wanted. I said I wanted to leave, but that’s not what he meant. For the first time, someone asked me what I wanted out of life, and I didn’t know. That’s when he gave me a choice. I could walk out of the restaurant free, but back to my way of life, or I could walk out with him, and he would enter me into the Naval Academy. However, if I joined the Navy, he would watch my every move, and if I did anything shady or slacked off, he would kick me out on my ass and hand me over.” 

“So you joined then,” Varric deduced. 

“Yes, I did, and that was the best decision of my life.”

“Why did you join?”

The sound of Solas’ quiet voice startles her, and for the first time, she braves a look at him. It is not the hunter she sees, but a stoic blank slate. She can not begin to read him, and it unnerves her. 

“Did you join to simply escape your position in the gang?” Though his face gives away nothing, something in his tone is dark, and she bristles. 

“Honestly, maybe a little. Joining the Navy would provide me some protection, but there was still a chance I could end right back where I started, so no. Not entirely.”

“Then why?” Solas presses.

“Because–because he made me believe I could change, and I wanted to try. I had to try.” She looks away from him as emotions she does not want him to see threaten to overwhelm her. “He sponsored me all the way. Anything I needed, I had, but only if I earned it. It wasn’t just the drills and tests, but also my behavior–my control. When I started to slip, he was there, encouraging me, pointing me in the right direction. 

Finally, I had passed all the tests, but people were opposed to my past and pushed back on my official initiation into the Navy. He pushed them right back. We made my past public, so that no one could say I was trying to hide anything. It worked. They relented, and I was made an official member of the Alliance Navy.”

“So, this guy,” Varric prods gently, “what happened to him?”

“He remained my mentor, and eventually, he became my captain.” Old frustrations push forward, and she huffs, “That is, he was until the damn politicians took his ship away from him and gave it to me. Bunch of political bull crap!”

“Hold on,” he says, disbelieving. “They gave his ship to you?” 

“And his crew.”

“Is this where your hatred for politics comes from?”

“That’s where it started.”

“I don’t blame you.’ He shakes his head. “Has he found another ship at least? I know a shipless captain, and she never is happy until she has people to boss around again.” 

“No.”

“Then what happened to him?” Cassandra interjects curiously.

“He’s dead,” she says simply, and looks up at the sky. Somewhere, up there, she hopes he found peace. 

“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–” the Seeker breaks off at the shake of Varric’s head. 

“Every soldier knows he can die, Cassandra.”

“That’s true,” she says, hesitantly, “but I know that knowing that doesn’t ease the pain. When you care for someone . . . well, you know.”

“Yes, I do.” 

“What was his name?” the warrior asks.

“Anderson. David Anderson.” While it hurts to say his name, it also feels right. “He was one hell of a captain.”  

“To Captain Anderson then,” Varric says, raising his mug. “Without him, we wouldn’t have our fire-blazing, bear-wrangling, star-gazing Herald.”

Shepard rolls her eyes, but secretly, his words are bittersweet to her soul. 

Cassandra raises her mug. “I’ll drink to that!” 

“To Anderson,” she whispers, touched by the sentiment. 

Even Solas raises his mug and drinks. 

Clearing her throat, she blinks back at the emotions threatening to reveal themselves. “So, was my story payment enough for one haircut?”

“It’ll do, this time,” the dwarf says, winking at her. 

She huffs and sets down her mug. “As entertaining as this has been, we should get some rest. Cullen’s reinforcements should be here tomorrow, and we need to be ready.” 

“You are right,” Cassandra says, standing. “I will take first watch.” 

“I believe I will do well going first,” Solas says. “I have some potions I need to prepare.”

“And I can take second, since I was last yesterday,” Varric agrees. 

“Very well,” Cassandra relents and turns to her. “Coming, Shepard?”

She smiles at the use of her name. “Yes.” 

Cassandra ducks into their tent, and after stretching out her muscles, she follows. The flap closes behind her, and as she nestles into her bedroll, Varric’s voice carries through to her ears before sleep claims her.  

“I saw that, Chuckles.” 

Chapter Text

The next morning is a blur of motion as they break camp and rush to meet with Cullen’s reinforcements. Thanks to their steeds, the journey is made in half the time, although they still have to skirt around patrols of rogue mages and templars. By the time the sun breaks, they are back at the Inquisition camp, and Scout Harding greets them, followed by several Inquisition soldiers. 

“Your worship, good to see you still alive. I was worried that you would get overwhelmed by all the fighting.”

Shepard can’t help but cringe at the title. “It’s Shepard, and they would have if it weren’t for a few . . . friends.”

Varric snorts. “Is that what you call a stampede of raging, hungry beasts? What does that make me?”

“Bait, of course,” Cassandra deadpans. 

“Ouch! That hurt, Seeker.”

“Good. It was meant to.”

“Uh…” Harding glances between her and her companions. “Should I ask?”

“NO,” her crew answers.

“Okay then,” she shakes her head and shifts her attention to the cluster of soldiers behind her. “These are the reinforcements you requested, and Commander Cullen sent one of his most trusted to help lead them. Your worship–”

“Shepard,” she corrects. 

“-Herald, may I present Lysette. A recent, promising recruit of the Templar order.”

A fair woman with dark hair and shining armor steps forward. “Former recruit. There is no order anymore.” The woman nods at her in greeting. “Lady Herald, it is good to meet you, and to see you making progress with all this mess. My men and I will be glad to help aid you.” 

“Are you all former templars?” 

“Some,” the woman says, shrugging. “Most are just souls tired of the chaos.” 

“Good. We need that,” Shepard says, and extends her hand. 

Lysette raises her eyebrows in surprise, but accepts it firmly. “I’m glad you think so. I think we will fight well together, Herald.” 

Fight well, they do indeed. With a company of ten templars, four mages, and sixteen soldiers, they become a force to reckon with. They travel back to the scorched ruins of the Witchwood and find their first fight with a group of mages. Thankfully, they are quelled easily and without any loss on their side. Patting down the bodies proves useful, for on one corpse, they find a note detailing the whereabouts of their camp. For once, Shepard feels like luck is on their side. 

They find the stronghold protected in an old ruin deeper in the woods. It is patrolled by guards, but they are taken out quietly by the swift work of several skilled rogues. Getting inside, however, proves to be harder. A magical barrier protects the entrance, and they know that once it’s removed, every mage within will attack them immediately and without mercy. It could easily become a slaughter, especially since they do not know their numbers or the terrain inside. Lysette suggests sending the templars in first in an attempt to remove the mage’s abilities, but Shepard dismisses it. 

“No,” Shepard says firmly.  “Sending in so many templars at once could just get them killed before they can nullify the mages, and we need every one of them. Especially since we don’t know how many of them there are.”

“Then what would you suggest?” Lysett counters. “Our rogues are skilled, but they will be detected quickly without a distraction, and a full-on charge could be just as disastrous.”

She nods in agreement and smiles as a plan forms in her mind. 

“Well, shit,” Varric swears, and nudges Lysett with his elbow. “I know that look anywhere. Better brace your britches. Knowing her, they might end up on fire or being dragged down by a bunch of bears.” 

“You don’t even know what it is yet,” Shepard answers defensively. 

“So that wasn’t the smile of an insane plan?”

“It’s not that crazy. Mostly.”

“Define crazy in your terms?”

“There aren’t any bears.” 

Varric huffs. “I don’t find that comforting.” 

In the end, they follow her plan, and to her credit, it wasn’t as crazy as the bears. It still earns her several protests and looks of skepticism, but they follow anyway. Perhaps mostly due to her title as herald of their god than any trust in her abilities. Oh well. They’ll learn eventually that crazy is her specialty. The Normandy crew did. 

As soon as one of the mages nullifies the magic barrier, they swing into action. Shepard, followed by Varric and Solas, rushes into the cave. Shepard waves her arms wildly and yells, making sure she has the attention of every mage there. To her crew’s surprise and relief, no one attacks. 

“Quickly! Templars are approaching the stronghold! We have to attack them first before they pin us in here!” 

About forty apostates stare at her in silent alarm and confusion. Finally, one of them, presumably the leader, steps forward. He looks skeptical, but also alarmed enough to question further. 

“What do you mean? How do you know? How many?”

“How do you think? We saw them! It’s the whole bloody camp! That’s how many!”

The leader’s eyes widen in terror. “That can’t be! Who are you?”

At this, Varric steps forward, his quick tongue for once put to good use. “Don’t you recognise the grieving, suffering lover of the mage rebel, Anders? The same Anders who made all mage rebellions possible? If I were you, I would listen to her.” 

Suddenly, the man’s eyes grow wider, and he stutters as his mind struggles to wrap around what is happening.

Shepard, however, doesn’t give him time. “Well? What the hell are you standing around for! Get everyone out there!”

“But–” the man begins, still shocked.

“Move!” Shepard commands, putting all her experience into the word. 

Instantly, the man snaps into action, barking orders to all around. Soon, every mage is following her out of the entrance and into their trap. Varric and Solas linger behind, bringing up the rear and closing off the only means of retreat. As soon as everyone is out of the stronghold and into the clearing, Shepard halts. 

“Where are the guards?” the leader demands, scanning about. 

“Dead,” she answers honestly. The apostate leader only has time to gasp before her omni blade rips through his heart. “Inquisition! Charge!” 

At her command, the Inquisition forces sprout from their hiding places, and the apostates gape in terror as they realize they are surrounded. It is a massacre, but not for the Inquisition. They tighten their circle around them until all within can not move without hitting their own people. In their panic, some do just that. Finally, after twenty minutes, it is over, and Lysette rallies forces, counting the wounded. No dead. This time. 

Shepard stands alone, surrounded by a circle of corpses. 

Always corpses. 

Always death. 

Always by her hand. 

“I can’t believe that actually worked!” 

Varric’s voice snaps her to attention, and she forces a smile. “I thought you’d have some faith in me. After all, you like the fantastical.”

“In stories, but I never go looking for it in the real world!”

“A lover, huh?” Shepard smirks, crossing her arms. 

The dwarf shrugs. “It seemed better than saying, ‘This is definitely not a trap. ’”

“True,” she admits, smiling. 

The Templar camp proves to be less intimidating and even quicker at wiping out.

It’s strange. When did death become so easy for her? She wonders if it will ever stop, but staring at another mass of bloody corpses and wasted life, she knows the answer. 

It never does. 

It never will. 

_____

At nightfall, they make camp and are joined by Lysette and company. Shouts of camaraderie and boisterous laughter replace the quiet night she has become accustomed to. Normally, she would welcome it, but tonight, it makes her heart ache with memories. Ghostly echoes of celebrations on the Normandy, each one stolen in between certain death and hard-won victories. Looking around her, she does feel some pride in what they did, but it is a distant pride. While these people may be descendants of her race, they are not her crew. Not really. 

Footsteps pad in the grass and stop beside her, calling her attention. She knows who it is without looking. His quiet movements have begun to be more familiar in the days spent traveling together. At times, when she hears his approach, she wavers between comfort and wariness. Over the past few days, they have seldom spoken at length, and she still senses that he, too, does not know what to make of her. What a hesitant pair they make. Both are unsure of their friendship, but both want it nevertheless. A constant game of give and pull. 

“Hello, Solas.” She greets him without looking up and takes a sip of black coffee. 

“Our work today will be quite fruitful for the people here.” There is a pause before he adds, “You have done well.” 

“Have I?” 

“More than most. It would have been easier to leave things to arrive at their own conclusion and divert your attention solely to your end goal. Instead, you have made a path that will both aid your cause as well as the people here. That is no easy feat.” 

She stares into the black liquid in her hands. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Though she can’t see him, she can hear his frown. “Do you not?”

“Just doing my job,” she mutters and pours the remainder of her coffee into the dirt. When she finally looks up at him, his head is cocked to one side, and his mouth is drawn into a thin frown. “Do you need something?”

He continues to stare at her. 

“What?”

Whatever he is thinking, he chooses to keep to himself, for he simply shakes his head. “Come,” he says briskly. Then he turns and strides away. 

Shepard blinks. 

Did quiet, cautious Solas just give her an order? Yes, she thinks he did. 

Curious, she follows. He takes her far enough away from the camp to not be seen, but they can still hear voices and flashes of firelight in the distance. They have come to a clearing, and the night sky is bare above them. Instinctively, she raises her head and looks up. Her time studying the charts has proved fruitful, and she can already spot three clusters of constellations. She wonders if anyone is up there now, looking for her. Even if they are, how can she expect them to find her?

“You miss it.”

“Sorry?” she asks, turning her focus to him. 

His eyes glint in the dark, traveling her face. “Being at sea.” 

Sighing, she looks away, not wanting him to see her grief. “I miss the stars. My stars. Everything is familiar here, but different. It’s like I’m walking through a dream.” 

“Dreams are normally more pleasant.”

“Maybe for some.” 

There is a pause, and she looks back to see if he is still there. She isn’t prepared for the look of emotion on his face. Besides flashes of frustration, concern, and the occasional smile, she has never seen his careful facade slip so. For a moment, she sees her own feelings reflected in him. Grief. It is sharp and sorrowful and so very strong. But then, it is gone. He masks himself once again. 

She can’t blame him. After all, she has done the same. As commander, she never could afford to let her emotions slip in front of her crew. Even with Kaidan. In the end, she had to always give them hope, even when she herself had none. 

“I’m sorry. Perhaps one day you can return home and have peaceful dreams.” Before she can reply, he sets his jaw and flourishes his staff at his side. “Now, if you are ready, let us begin.” 

Ah. That’s right. He did say he would train her. 

“No setting my pants on fire, right?” She shifts into a battle stance. 

Solas smirks. “Only if you have the sense not to step into a fire mine.” 

“That’s it. You’re going down.” 

She attacks, running forward, flaring her biotics. Solas stands his ground, and right when she releases a warp, he blurs, only to materialize five feet on her right. Startled, she pulls up a barrier, just in time to deflect a blast of his energy. Her barrier holds, and she releases it with a blast. He deflects, however, with a barrier of his own, and casts a blast of ice at her feet. Shepard slips and hits the ground on her rear. 

Clever man.

As soon as she hits, she rolls to the side. Just in time too, for a moment later and she would have been encased in ice. Coming out of her dodge, she wastes no time in reaching out, lifting him into the air. Solas dangles above her, and she smirks. 

“I believe that’s a point for me.”

“Premature,” he says, before a green fist materializes in front of her. 

It slams into her abdomen, sending her flying backwards. She lands on the ground once again. Though winded and seeing stars in front of her instead of above, she has the sense enough to raise another barrier. A second fist slams against it, but it holds. 

“I earned that,” she admits, gritting her teeth. “But now, I won’t play nice.” 

“That is the idea,” he taunts. 

Smug little—

 Another blast of energy, and her barrier breaks. Instantly, Shepard lifts into the air and lands behind him. Ice shoots out towards her feet, but she pivots and evades it. As she lunges forward, she activates her omni blade. Solas, sensing the movement, sends out a blast of energy to throw her back. But Shepard is expecting it, and at the last moment, plunges her blade into the ground, anchoring herself. The blast passes, and she sweeps his legs. 

With a huff, he slams onto the ground, and she straddles his waist. Quickly, her biotics jerk his staff out of his grasp, and it lands in some bushes behind them. The omni blade hums at his throat. His eyes do not grow wide with surprise or fear. Instead, they coolly stare back at her. 

“Is this a win, or am I being premature?” 

“Look down,” he instructs. 

Following his gaze, she stills at his hand pressed directly on her abdomen. It hums with an unleashed energy. In a real fight, she might be dead before her blade ever cuts his throat. She clicks her omni blade shut.

“Nice trick,” she says, staring down at him.

“Your first lesson is this,” Solas’ eyes glint darkly up at her. “Never trust a mage.” 

She quirks a brow at him, “Never?”

“Never in battle.”

“Noted,” she says, and rolls off of him. 

Once standing, she offers him a hand. Hesitantly, he takes it, only to jerk back at the sudden electric shock as their fingers meet. 

Shepard winces. “Sorry about that. It happens sometimes with biotics. Small bursts of electricity can discharge when we touch metal... or people.”

“Fascinating,” he says, and to her surprise, takes her hand again. She helps him to his feet, and he stares at where their hands join. “Can you control it? Use the electrical charge to your advantage?”

“No. None that I know of.” 

Solas releases her hand. Instead of clasping his hands behind his back in his normal, thoughtful posture, he links them in front of him. It makes him look timid. Something she had never expected to call him. It makes her uneasy. 

“So, besides having my ass handed to me, how did I do?” 

His lips twitch at the corners like they always do when he tries not to smile. “Better than most.” 

“But still not good enough.” 

“I am confident in your abilities, with practice and more experience.”

“Not many people have made me eat dirt like this in a long time.” Shepard drops her teasing tone, letting him know her sincerity. “Thanks for the lesson.” 

He holds her gaze and nods. 

“Solas? When we fight demons, I notice that my biotics don't seem to affect them as much as people. Would you know why?”

His hands once again clasp behind his back. The scholar has her full attention. “I thought as much watching your past encounters, but did not wish to assume it to be abnormal. Have you never fought demons before?”

“No. Can't say I have.” 

“Interesting.” 

The simple word makes her bristle. That was a mistake. How, she is unsure. She has to remember to be more careful. No matter how much she respects Solas, he is too smart and inquisitive for his own damn good. 

“May I try something?

“Is it going to end with me on my ass again?” 

“Ha!” he laughs abruptly. “No. It is a simple spell. It should cause you no harm.”

She is wary, but can't think of a reason to deny his request. “Alright. Go ahead.” 

At her consent, he steps closer to her. Their faces are so near, she can see the small specks of freckles that are scattered on his face. Almost like stars, she thinks. His hands rise, and energy glows around them, until it reaches out and touches her skin. Unlike when he was healing her, this energy is warm and buzzes through her. Even her teeth vibrate at the sensation. It lasts only a moment, and he drops his hands. The energy disperses, leaving her feeling cold. A shiver runs through her. 

“So, what did that do?”

For another long moment, he stares at her. A familiar crease settles between his eyes as he contemplates whatever it is that just happened.  “It appears you have a... resistance to spiritual magic.”

“Uh, okay. What’s that?’

“Simply put, it is magical energy linked to the fade. Demons and spirits alike draw from it. Without the fade, they could not exist.” 

“So, why do I have this resistance?”

“I suspect it is tied to your unique biology.” Those cool eyes narrow at hers. 

Every hair on her rises as if she has been struck by lightning. He couldn’t know. Could he? But those eyes tell her everything. 

He knows. 

Somehow, he knows, and she is screwed.

“Thank you for the lesson. I should go.” 

Without waiting for a reply, she turns on her heel and hastily strides back to camp. Varric calls out to her, but she ignores him and hastily retreats into her tent. The Seeker is already by her bead roll, and appears to be fussing with the braid in her hair. Open, seeing her enter, she hastily snaps her arms to her sides like a child caught doing something wrong. 

“Oh! Herald! I was– never mind,” she says, catching the hard look in her roommate's eyes. “Is everything alright?”

“Are we all set to head back to Haven tomorrow?”

Cassandra studies her for a moment before answering. “Yes, all is well here, for now.” 

“Good. We’ll leave in the morning then,” she says as she strips her armor off and throws it in a heap by the corner. All the while, she feels the warrior’s eyes on her, full of questions, but thankfully, Cassandra says nothing. With a heavy sigh, she flops onto her own bedroll and risks a quick glance in her direction. “Goodnight, Cassandra.”

“Goodnight,” the woman returns pensively before blowing out the light.. “Sleep well.”

Shepard does not sleep well. Through most of the night, all she can see are those eyes staring at her. Staring at her like she wasn’t human–like she wasn’t even real. 

It terrifies her. 

No tears. No fears.  

The command repeats in her head, but tonight, it gives her no comfort. 

_____

“Let’s go,” Shepard says in the morning after coming out of her tent. 

After that, she doesn't say another word for the rest of the day. Not that Varric doesn’t try to coax them out of her, of course. At his first try, she only shakes her head. However, when it becomes evident he won’t be giving up, she strategically prods her horse farther ahead until she can no longer hear his chatter. Thankfully, Shepard has a good memory and recognizes most of the terrain to assure her they are going the right way. She doesn’t want to be rude, but she needs the silence. The silence helps her think, and after last night, she needs to think. 

Solas knows she isn’t human. Well, not fully. It had to have been that damn spell. Why did she agree to it? She should have stopped to consider the possibility, but she hadn’t. No, instead, she had let her guard down around him again. What had he said? Never trust a mage . Damn right she shouldn’t have. At least, not this mage.  But he always draws her in. Why? 

Shepard knows the answer. 

It’s because she sees so much of herself in him. She knows he could understand her. Somehow, he could, if she would just let him in. But she can’t. To do so, she would have to tell him everything, and the regulations prohibit that. But what if she’s stuck here? What if no one ever comes to find her, and she is left here, alone, forever waiting? What good will those regulations do her then? It is a paradox, and not one she looks forward to solving. 

It’s Cassandra who sees them first. “Herald! Up ahead! Someone is approaching. They look–strange. Very strange. Can you see them?”

Following her directions, she looks and sees them. Shepard pulls on the reins, bringing her horse to a sudden stop. The horse flares and stamps its hooves in protest, but doesn’t attempt to move. Neither does Shepard. She is frozen in place, staring at the outline of figures that are steadily approaching them. It can’t be. She’s never this lucky (well, except for Trainer’s toothbrush). It just couldn’t be. But as she watches in shocked silence, the outlines become clearer, and soon, there is no mistaking it. No one in Thedas has armor like that, except for her. 

They’ve found her. 

“Stargazer? You alright?” Varric’s horse halts beside her, and he leans so far in his saddle to look at her, he almost falls off. “Do you know them?” 

“They came,” she answers, her voice cracking with disbelief. “They found me.” 

“Who?” asks Cassandra, pulling up on her other side. 

The question jerks her out of the blissful state of hope realized and back to the gravity of the situation. They are here, but that also means there will be so many questions should her traveling companions see them really up close. She has to speak to them. Alone. Especially away from a certain inquisitive man. 

Hastily, Shepard dismounts and leads her horse out of sight to the safety of the bushes. “Over here,” she calls, beckoning them. 

She doesn’t miss the shared looks of curiosity and concern that pass among them, but they do as they are asked. Once everyone has dismounted in the safety of the rocks and bushes, she turns to them. 

“Stay here. I need to speak with them, but stay out of sight until I return.” 

Of course, it is Cassandra who protests first. “What?! Absolutely not! They look heavily armed in a way I’ve never seen before. I will not allow you to walk into danger.” 

Shepard levels her with a glare. “I’m not asking your permission. I’m asking for your cooperation.” 

“But–” 

Varric interrupts the Seeker with a question of his own. “You know these people, don’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“They’re from home, aren’t they?”

She bites her tongue, but loosens it. “Yes.” 

Cassandra gasps. “You mean they’re from your crew? I thought they were–?”

Shepard shakes her head. “I don’t know who they are. I need to talk to them. Tell me now, will you stay here?”

Cassandra and Varric nod instantly, leaving Solas, whose gaze has not left her face throughout the entire transaction. Imploring, Shepard pleads with him through her eyes. Something in him softens, and he nods. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. Then, with one last look in their direction, she steps back into the clearing. 

By this time, the figures have moved within hearing range, and Shepard waves her arms, attracting their attention. 

“Stop!” One of them calls, and the other four halt their approach. They are armed, she notes, but while their guns are in their hands, none are trained on her. Their white armor reflects in the bright sunlight. 

“I’m Commander Shepard from the Alliance Navy,” she calls, lifting her hands in a sign of peace. “I crashed here, I think.” 

“Shepard? You’re Commander Shepard?” The lead soldier asks, stepping forward. 

“Yes,” she confirms, lowering her hands. “Do you know what happened to the Normandy? Where’s my crew?” 

The man takes five more paces, then stops again. After staring at her for a while, he draws his hand up to activate a communication device attached to his helmet. Shepard follows the movement, and her blood turns cold at the sight of the insignia on the chest plate of his armor. 

“We’ve found Shepard. I repeat, we found Shepard. All units rendezvous back to the ship. We’ll take her from here.” 

Cerberus. 

“Shit!’ she curses, and flings herself to the cover of some nearby rocks just as a familiar zap of a gun fires through the air. She knows she can’t stay here. With no gun and only her biotics, she didn’t like her odds. Her best bet was to make it back to her group. At least she had the sense to tell them to stay put. 

“Herald!” Cassandra calls, coming out from the cover of their rocks. Varric and Solas soon emerge as well, poised for battle. The foolish idiots. 

Damn them. 

Shepard sprints toward them. The lead Cerberus agent already has his gun aimed in their direction. Right at Solas, who has begun to run towards her. 

“Get back! Get back now!” she thunders, but she knows it will be too late. 

With a sudden burst of energy, Shepherd flings Solas through the air, out of the range of fire. He lands on the ground next to Cassandra, winded but unharmed. Just then, her side burns with a searing pain, sending her face forward on the ground. 

“The Benefactor said unharmed!” roars one of the agents. 

“It’s not my fault she jumped in the way!” 

So, they don’t want her dead. Good to know, but that doesn’t bode well for her companions. Grasping the wetness at her side, she struggles but manages to get back on her feet. To her horror, Cassandra is still kneeling next to Solas, and Varric has joined them, crossbow ready for battle. 

“I said, go back!” 

Once again, Shepard sprints towards them. Thankfully, they heed her this time, and as they move to run back to cover, she hears a familiar hum. The hum of a weapon charging up. 

“Get down!” she screams and turns, throwing up a barrier. 

Rapid fire immediately blasts through the air and bombards her shield. Shepard grits her teeth and digs her heels into the dirt. She will not break, not if her companions are going to make it out alive. The fire stops for a moment, and she risks a glance back at them. They have almost made it back to the rocks, but Solas lingers on the edge, staring at her with stubborn determination. 

“Go, damn you!”

The firing starts again, and her shield breaks. 

She falls to her knees. New plan. There is no way she can make it back. They want her, not her companions. If she can lead them away from them, she might have a better chance of picking the bastards off, or at least, giving her people time to escape. So much for being rescued. Now she’s the one rescuing people. Again. Damn her luck. 

Pressing a hand to her side, she rolls, but not before releasing a warp straight through the enemy line. Three of them fling to the ground, leaving two standing, but dazed. “You want me? Come and get me, you bastards!” She sends another warp through them and runs. Runs in the opposite direction of her company’s cover. 

“Herald!” Solas yells after her. 

“I’ll lead them off. Go!” 

His voice echoes after her again, but she ignores him as she pushes forward. The Cerberus agents are right on her heels. What follows is one of the most painful cat-and-mouse games in her life. Painful, not just because of the hole in her side, but also due to the fact that one of her pursuers also happens to be a biotic. She discovers this when a singularity propels her into the air, and she floats in the air, helpless. Suddenly, gravity returns, and she falls. Cerberus agents surround her, guns drawn. 

“Easy now, just come with us, and no one has to get hurt.” 

Shepard smirks. “Is that so?”

“As long as you come quietly.” 

“Tell me something,” she pants, catching her breath. “How are you going to do that without killing me?”

Before they can react, she lunges forward, and her Omni-Blade materializes in one of their chests. He flails and slumps to the ground in a bloody heap. One down. Four to go.  Pain splits her head as the butt of a gun crashes on her skull. Her vision blackens, and she falls to her knees again, but she listens. Heavy footsteps stop beside her, and with a last bit of strength, she spins low on the ground and sweeps them off their feet. The man lands beside her with a thud, and instantly, she paws the ground until her fingers touch metal. Her vision clears, and Shepard grins. 

In her hand is a gun. 

The man under her swears, but Shepard points at his head and fires. Blood spurts, splashing her in the face, and the man doesn’t move again. Two down. Three to go. 

“Shit!” one of them swears. “Screw this. Take her down now!” 

This time, no one shoots. A green fist materializes in front of her and plows into the man. He screams and fires at the magical apparition, but nothing happens. Instead, it hits him two more times before he falls to the ground, lifeless. 

Two to go.

Three arrows shoot out from behind her, and into the ground by one of their feet before exploding in a blast of fire. A scream erupts in the air, and for a moment, the agent runs in blind panic, trying to pat out the fire. That is when a blur of movement passes her, and she sees a flash of metal as Cassandra’s sword frees the man’s head from his body. Both head and burning corpse fall to the ground. 

One. 

She feels magic wrap around her protectively. Cassandra, Varric, and Solas assemble in front of her, all facing the last remaining soldier. Terrified, the soldier raises his gun, only for Solas to blast him into the side of a nearby rocky edge. The gun flies out of his grasp, leaving him defensively and surrounded by very angry people. They will kill him. He knows it, and so does she. 

“Wait!”

They freeze at her command. 

“Don’t hurt him. I need him alive.” 

Wheezing, she uses the butt of the gun to help lift herself to her feet. Slowly, she moves toward the lone Cerberus soldier. His helmet obscures his features, but she can tell by his stiffness that he is afraid. Good. She can use that. People talk best when scared.

“Now,” she begins, stopping in front of him. “You’re going to answer my questions, and as long as you don’t give me any bull crap, I’ll let you go. Understand?”

The man says nothing. 

“I said, do you understand?” She presses the gun to his chest. 

He swallows and nods. 

“Good.” She removes the gun from his chest, and he visibly exhales. “What are you doing here?”

“To find you.”

“Why?”

“Because you escaped.” Confusion is laced in his voice, and he tilts his head at her.

“From you?”

This time, he laughs. It is wild and full of mania, much like a jackal. “You don’t even remember, do you? You don’t even know how you got here!”

“That’s why you’re going to tell me.”

“Oh, how the great and mighty Commander has fallen. The savior of the universe, reduced to playing knights and maidens. What would your adoring fans think of you now?”

“Enough! Tell me how I got here. How is Cerberus still active? I destroyed your base. The Illusive Man is dead.” 

Again, he laughs, crossing his arms in front of him. Gone is his fear. Now, he stands in front of her, full of arrogant contempt. “It was never about the Illusive Man. He served his purpose. We have a greater calling now.” 

“You'd better start making sense, and fast.”

“No, I don’t think I will. You’re no murderer. Me, on the other hand–” he shrugs and leans forward. Cassandra lurches toward him, sword pointed at his throat, should he try to attack. “-I have nothing to lose.” 

A flash of orange is her only warning before he spins, grabbing Cassandra by the shoulder, and pulling back his arm to deal a deadly blow. His omni blade is pointed at her back.

“Cassandra!’ she screams and fires. 

For one moment, he still stands, suspended in time before he drops to the ground. Cassandra backs away, unharmed, but shocked at what has happened. 

“No!” Shepard springs forward, dropping her. She lifts him up by his shoulders and shakes him. “Tell me how I got here, you son-of-a-bitch! Tell me how the hell I’m supposed to go home”!

 She does not need to see his face to know. His chest does not move. He is dead. Enraged, she slams his body back on the ground. With hesitant hands, she takes off his helmet, only to curse and back away violently. Reaper tech. They are still embedded with Reaper tech. Shouldn’t it be no longer possible? But there it is, staring back at her through sallow, lifeless eyes. 

“Maker’s breath!” gasps Cassandra at the sight. 

“Stay back!” she orders, showing them away. “Don’t get near them.” 

Looking around, she gathers the guns that have fallen on the ground and jams them, making sure they can’t be used again. All except one. An assault rifle. That, she turns on the safety and shoves it into her pack. 

“Solas?”

“Herald?”

“Burn them,” she orders, waving at the mess of corpses and guns. “Burn everything. Leave nothing behind.” 

Curiosity flashes in his eyes, but he nods and does as she asks. 

As soon as she feels the heat of the flames, she spins on her heel and walks back to their horses. Blood still drips from her side, and she still aches from the hit to the head, but nothing compares to what injury that is within. Unseen. Hope shattered, destroyed by her own hand. When she reaches the horses, she looks up at the sky. It is bright blue above her, with the occasional wisps of clouds. Home. She had been so close to going home. So damn close.  

Shepard rarely loses control, but today is one of those days. 

With a roar of despair, she lashes out. There is a loud cracking sound, and the ground shakes beneath her. The horses whine and stomp nearby in alarm. The release, however, feels good. 

“Stargazer?”

Her heart lurches in pain. Yes. That is what she is reduced to, isn’t it? Forever looking up without flying among them ever again. No, she can’t do this. Not now. No tears. No tears. Shepard forces a slow, deep breath before turning around. She is vaguely aware of them standing in front of her as she marches to her horse. 

“Let’s go,” she says, and does not speak again. 

Before following after her, a warrior, an elf, and a dwarf all stare up at the newly formed crack in the rocky edge of the cliff above. 

No one says a word. 

Chapter Text

Traveling normally soothes him. Exploring ancient ruins, discovering areas where the veil is so thin he feels like he could almost slip through, and finding new places he has never seen before, all open a plethora of possibilities in his dreams. Today, however, he discovers that traveling on foot in dung-infested hills while hearing nothing but bickering does little to put him at ease. On the contrary, hearing the dwarf’s constant complaining and squabbling with the Seeker is beginning to fray his patience. At one point, he seriously considers casting a spell to silence his voice, but settles for a sound muffling spell instead. By the way Raven’s shoulders are tensed up, he suspects she is of the same opinion. Just as he is about to suggest sharing his merciful spell with her, she suddenly breaks her silence.  

“Are you two together or . . . ?” 

While Seeker and dwarf stumble about in their shock, Solas can not help but laugh. 

“Was that a serious question?”

Raven looks upon the odd pair in obvious amusement. “Clearly not as logical a one as I’d thought.” 

“Ugh,” replies the Seeker, who is struggling to clean her boots rather poorly. “What in Andraste’s name would make you think that?” 

“Oh, this I have to hear! Do tell us!” Varric insists in between intervals of wheezing. 

She shrugs in response. “You two are always going at each other, and in my experience, that usually means you’re rivals, or this is just pent-up tension.”

The Seeker blushes with embarrassment at the innuendo and protests through fits of coughing. Solas, however, considers Raven in a slightly different light. While she is bold with her words, the few moments his compliments were accidentally misinterpreted have given him a glimpse at a shyness in her he otherwise would never have known to be there. That shyness implied that perhaps she is unfamiliar with such attention. Now, he wonders if her “experience” is more than he had given her credit for. Then again, knowing soldiers and being a woman at sea, he should have guessed that such incidents could be normal for her. Not that it really matters, but it is a piece of the puzzle that helps complete this strange, human woman. A puzzle he is still frustratingly unable to piece together. 

“Alright, alright!” Her voice rings out, interrupting his thoughts and their companion’s fighting. “Clearly, I was wrong. Let’s not get on each other’s nerves so soon. We have a long trip ahead of us.”

At first, he is hopeful about her abilities in placating them. However, he underestimated the dwarf’s need to constantly needle his previous captor, and the bickering starts once again. As if sensing his own disappointment, Raven groans and rolls her eyes in his direction. The look is so amusing on her normally professional face that he almost laughs again, but thinks better of it. 

“Are they always like this?”

“Worse,” he confirms, and she groans again under the weight of his answer. 

“Great! Looks like I’ll be playing peacemaker again.”

Solas is going to ask her if that is a role she often finds herself in, when the dwarf asks her a far better question. A question he himself is curious about, but would never voice. For that, he begrudgingly forgives the dwarf for causing his headache this early morning. 

“So, you said in your ‘experience’. Was it in the form of a rival or pent-up tension?”

Raven peculiarly seems unembarrassed at such a personal question, and more amused at the suggestion. “I meant my experience on my ship. As commander, I saw and knew almost everything.” 

“What? Am I to understand there was no ‘pent-up tension’ for you?”

The dwarf has guts; he gives him that. It is a surprise he has lived so long with such an intrusive tongue.

“I was their commander, Varric. That would be fraternizing and inappropriate.”

Ah. Interesting. It seems she does not blur the line between relationships when they are unequal in terms of authority or power. A wise decision for any leader, but one that often goes unheeded in pursuit of fulfilling more base needs. It comforts him to know she, at least, is not so foolishly carnal. 

“Surely it's happened though?” Varric continues to prod. “Put people together in life-threatening situations and it’ll happen sooner or later.”

Her jaw tightens, and her answer is delivered with a slowness that was not present before. “It has, on occasion.” 

“And? What happened?”

“They would be tried and court martialed.”

“That’s not very romantic,” the dwarf sighs in defeat, “but it could have a tragic quality to it. Star-crossed lovers doomed to be torn apart? People eat that shit up.”

There, again, she clenches her jaw, and a shadow falls over her features, dimming her eyes. All of a sudden, one of the pieces clicks into place. Of course. The man in her nightmare. Perhaps he was a sacrifice of her position. Suddenly, her necklace feels heavy in his pocket. In an effort to relieve her of further pain, he distracts the dwarf. 

“Looking for more writing material, Master Tethras?” 

“Maybe, if our Herald here has any good stories to share.”

“No,” comes her quick reply.

“I thought you said–”

Fenedhis. Can the dwarf not see her discomfort?

Varric keeps prodding her, hoping she will relent, but she holds firm. Finally, he sighs in defeat. “Ravaini was a sea captain. She always had entertaining stories…though most of them involved a level of smut I would never write.” 

Solas sees the revulsion in her eyes before she speaks. 

“I won’t use the memories of my crew as entertainment.”

“Oh, shit. I didn’t mean it like that.” Varric says seriously. “Look, we all have a story we won’t tell. I’m just saying, if you ever want to share some, I’d be willing to listen. Sometimes stories are all we have to help keep what’s lost alive.”

Unless, of course, they are twisted so far from the truth that they do nothing but taint and corrupt everything beyond recognition. While the dwarf means well, his efforts are misplaced. The Dalish are proof of this. At the thought, he tastes bitterness on his tongue. The fools. So blinded by pride that they never admit to the fallacy and flawed integrity of oral history. Falling into these unpleasant thoughts, he tries to focus his attention on his present goal. That is when he sees her clasp at her throat, only to sigh as her empty fingers fall back to her side. Guilt replaces his bitterness. He still means to give her necklace back to her. The timing, however, is another matter.

“Herald?” he inquires gently. 

Those brilliant eyes shine back at him. Just below the surface, he sees her grief. 

“Just thinking of what’s ahead.” 

He says nothing, and by the way she hastily seeks conversation with Varric, she is aware he does not believe her. Another piece finds its place. She is a private woman. At first, he thought it to be born solely from her secrets. Now, he sees it is also her nature. Most likely due to her position as commander.  After all, he of all people should know that in perilous times, it is best to keep one's emotions held close. 

Betrayal is a scar that never fades. 

_____ 

Before they find the Chantry mother, they find the Templars. Roaming, rabid beasts with no thought in them except an instinct to kill. Killing them will be easy. The Templars see their approach and charge. One goes straight for Raven. Before he can settle a barrier over her, the veil jolts as her power rips through the ground and straight through the templar. Solas stares at her in bewilderment, as does every templar. It does not take them long to call her an abomination and demand her blood. Every single templar charges at her. 

“Protect the Her–” Cassandra starts to order. 

“No!” she demands, flaring her biotics. “Stay back.” 

“That will be unwise–” he starts to protest, but she has already left them: straight into the templar horde. Fenedhis! Foolish, foolish woman. Though she has proven herself apt at fighting demons, there is no way to know how a templar’s abilities can affect her. The Seeker must also share in his trepidations, for she, too, sprints after her.  Their concern, once again, appears to be premature. Slamming her fist into the ground, Raven releases a massive force of energy that sends every templar flying through the air. 

“Now! Take them now!”  she orders as she begins shooting them with her crossbow. 

Clever. 

Together, they eliminate half a dozen before they can get off the ground. While it is not wise for him to get too near her, lest any templars attempt to smite him, he always has an eye trained in her direction. Though he admires her fearlessness in battle, he still thinks her too rash. His fears prove true. While he is distracted for a moment to help aid Cassandra, a templar has come up behind her. 

“Herald! Behind you!” 

Raven twists around, but his warning comes too late. 

Helpless, he can only watch as the templar kneels and plunges his sword into the ground. A smite. Fear clenches in his belly as he watches her stagger back. Instantly, he sends a barrier over her. Though she may not be able to use her powers, he can lend her his. 

“The Herald!” he shouts, hoping Cassandra and Varric can help in aiding her. 

Once again, she surprises him. She surprises them all. 

Raven burns. Blue energy surrounds her like flames as she sends her attacker flying. The templar does not move again. Normally, her power is a rhythmic, quiet hum that he almost finds soothing. Now, it booms, pulsing with energy that is screaming to be released. It is mesmerizing. Unfortunately, now is not the time to linger on such thoughts, for in the distance, he sees a swarm of rogue mages and templars emerge. 

“More coming our way!” he warns as he rushes to her side. 

Quickly, his eyes scan her body for injuries, but he sees none. A thought occurs to him, and before he can think better of it, he acts. It is a spell only he knows, and he is gentle as he pushes on the veil around her, coaxing it to him. It responds, at first, but refuses to go near her. Solas releases it, and she looks at him with wide eyes. So, she had felt it. Mercifully, he is saved by her questioning as their attackers still approach. For the veil to be actively repelled by her startles him. So much about her should not be. He looks at her one last time before running to the oncoming mages, pleading for them to think and end this madness. They do not heed his wisdom, and death follows.

“Everyone, get behind me!” 

The confident power in her voice commands their obedience, and everyone obeys with haste. He, too, joins their circle, and he marvels at the ease with which she has taken control.  If there had been any doubt she was a commander, it is gone now. With a rapidness that only comes from experience, she assigns everyone a role to play. Her efficiency is admirable. 

“Ready?” she asks. 

They poised tight like a bow ready to lose an arrow. Once again, Solas feels her power start to hum, and slowly, it builds into a steady crescendo. The veil pulls back as a blue dome grows around them, surrounding them all. At the sight, he can not help the breathe being stolen from his lungs. Solas has never seen such raw power without the aid of magic. Indeed, even if it were magic, such power has been rare since his creation of the veil. To see such a feat done so without magic and by a human is incredible, and also, incredibly terrifying. 

Their attackers try to break through, but nothing penetrates her barrier. Finally, she shatters it, and the veil snaps back around them. The sensation leaves him breathless. Following her instructions, their enemies are wiped out quickly. Looking around at the remains of the battle, he spots her standing around a mass of Templar corpses. Gone is the assured posture of command. Instead, her shoulders droop, and her eyes are fixed on a vacant face below her. Solas knows that look and shares it. Senseless death is never easy. He follows after Varric and Cassandra. 

“That’s the end of it,” the Seeker reports in relief. 

“No,” she whispers, her eyes never leaving the corpse, “it never is.” 

Defeat is in her voice, and Solas frowns. The only other time he had heard that from her was in her nightmare. Then, it had been orchestrated by demons, but this comes from within. It does not suit her. 

“You okay?” asks Varric.

For all his intrusiveness, Solas is grateful for the dwarf’s perception, at times.  

Raven turns, but sways, and her knees buckle. Collectively, they lurch forward, fearful she might fall, but she manages to stay on her feet. 

“Herald!” Cassandra leaps forward and takes her arm, offering her support. 

“I’m alright,” she insists in a breathless voice. “That took more out of me than I thought. Once I get something to eat, I’ll be fine.” 

Cassandra voices their concern. “Are you sure? You look . . .” 

“Hungry,” Raven interrupts, “I’m just hungry.”

Varric laughs. “ You take out wave after wave of templars on your own, and the first thing you want is a sandwich?”

“A girl needs her strength,” she shrugs. 

“If that was you on an empty stomach, remind me not to bet against you on a full one.” 

Solas shrugs off his pack and grasps about for a rejuvenation potion he remembers still having. Finally, he finds it and slips it into her hand. He does not fail to notice how her fingers tremble. Using her powers in battle has exhausted her. 

“Here, this may help restore some of your energy until we reach camp. It should not be long now,” he reassures her. 

Skeptical, she sniffs it, and her nose crinkles at the sharp odor. “This isn’t going to be like your tea, is it?’

The look on her face reminds him of a child who is reluctant to take their medicine. It makes him smile. “No.”

“Oh well. Bottom’s up!” Throwing her head back, she drains it in haste. Afterwards, she shivers, as though to shake off the bitter taste. “I’ve had worse.”

“Do you feel better?”

“Enough,” she nods, and hands the empty glass back to him. Her fingers no longer tremble, but her skin is still pale. “Let’s go find the mother.” 

They press onward into the Crossroads, but Solas makes sure he is not far from her side. On their way, they pass through the scorched ruins of the village. The others take in the sight with equal dismay and revulsion. 

“These people never stood a chance,” Varric says. 

“Why?”Cassandra shakes her head. “Why do they insist on continuing a war when the Breach will doom us all? We should be uniting, not fighting.”

“Seeker! Is that a note of optimistic thinking?” 

“Is common sense so optimistic?”

“It is in my experience,” the dwarf answers glumly.  

“Mine too,” says Raven. “People will always ignore the bigger problem as long as possible. They can’t control it, so they latch on to the things they think they can.”

Wise words spoken with bitterness. Solas finds comfort in sensing it in another. 

“Maybe they can be reasoned with. If we could find the Templars and explain to them–”

“You saw them, Seeker,” he interrupts, remembering how they did not heed his own cries of wisdom. “They are beyond reason. All that is left is a single will to fight.”

“Surely not all!” The Seeker exclaims defensively. 

She still has great faith in people. Such faith died long ago for him. It may come for her as well, given time. He pities her for it. 

“Why not? They think their cause is just. Why should they abandon it now?”

“Even if the world around them burns?” she asks, clearly disturbed. 

Resolve and dread mix within him. “Especially then.” 

Unknown to his companions, he already walks such a path. There is no other way. When one has lost everything, they will inevitably sacrifice the same to get it back. Such is life. The constant cycle of life and destruction. But this world has no life, not truly. They trudge along heavily, cut off from the fade except in dreams, and even then, they can not truly dwell with it. While they mimic living, they only know pain. They know only instinct. Their death will be a kindness. 

Lost in dark paths of his mind, the hairs on his neck prickle, and he turns, looking for the cause of the sensation. Raven stares at him. The scar on her brow deepens under the strain of her study. Her lips part in a question, but he is spared from having to answer as a soldier points them to Mother Giselle. While they are distracted, he takes the moment to slip away. He had forgotten how keen a mind she possesses. Though human, she does not wander aimlessly. There are many injured, and by the looks of things, few healers. Without another thought, he gets to work. He does not mind easing these poor creatures' pain. 

Besides, it helps distract him from thoughts of her. 

_____ 

Solas has just finished healing the worst of the wounded when he sees her descend the stairs and stomp over towards Varric. The frustration in her is evident, and he quickly excuses himself and makes to join her. Perhaps her conversation with the Chantry mother did not go as well as she had hoped. When he reaches her, Varric has finished informing her of the refugees' need for food.

“I’m afraid that is not all,” he interjects. “The people here are in dire need of supplies: blankets and healing herbs, to be precise. Without proper shelter, they must have a means to keep warm through the cold nights.”

Raven brings a hand up to massage her temple. “And the healing herbs?” 

“It would be better if there were an actual healer here. Apparently, the only ones who are assisting are the average kind soul and basic mage. Without any proper medical knowledge, any aid will be limited, but we can at least give them as many resources to ease the suffering as we are able.”

“That is not all we must do,” Cassandra says as she completes their circle.

She sighs in exasperation. “Let’s have it.”

Solas watches her as the Seeker continues adding to the list of things they need to do in order to secure the area and keep the refugees safe. While the potion has indeed aided in returning her strength, he can tell it has not been enough. Exhaustion is only increasing her frustration. Further evidence of this presents itself in her uncharacteristic, biting remarks. When Cassandra questions her about her talk with the mother, she informs them of her suggestion to go speak with the leaders of the Chantry directly. The Seeker readily agrees to such an action, but Varric and she both are evident in their skepticism. 

That is another thing he has noticed about her. She has no faith in politics. A sentiment he can find no fault in. 

“It is something worth considering,” Solas settles on saying. 

Her huff speaks loudly of her doubts. “Honestly, she could have sent us a raven and saved us the trip and our time.”  

For a moment, he expects her to insist on their leaving and heading straight to Val Royeaux. After all, it is the more direct path. Why should she care for the well-being of a few refugees? They are not her main concern. They are not her true people. But then, he sees those eyes wander the destruction around them, and he remembers that look. It was the same look she had when standing in the ruins of the conclave. He saw then that she would do everything she could to close the Breach, and now he sees she will do no less for these people. Warmth floods his core. 

“But, since we’re here, we can help.” All her previous frustration falls away, and he sees the commander take control. “Alright, let’s divide and conquer. First, we need to help these people for the night. Cassandra, work with the people here to get some sort of shelter made. Recruit some of Vale’s men if you have to. Varric, you’re a people person. Know of any way to get these people some blankets and warm clothes?”

He watches as she assigns them. She directs them according to their individual strengths. Not only has she apparently been observing them, but she has made her assessments well. 

“Solas?” Her voice jolts him back to the conversation. 

“Herald?”

“How good are you at hunting?”

“Adequate.” 

“Good. You’ll come with me. While we hunt, we can gather any herbs you think they need.” Turning back to the others, she says, “We’ll meet back here by dark. Everyone got that?”

Cassandra and Varric nod.

“Good. Let’s get moving.” 

She marches off, and he follows.

_____

The animals have fled far away from the fighting. Solas suggests using the dung piles to track them, which she agrees to. The trail leads them past several bandit camps, and for a moment, he is worried she will insist on engaging them. Thankfully, she seems to know, even without her weakened state, that their numbers are too great. Instead, she marks their location and they press on. 

It is their first time being alone together since that time in his cabin. Admittedly, he is hoping to share in conversation without the input of the others, but he quickly releases that hope. Every time he begins closing the gap between them to speak, she shies away. At first, he attributes it to the terrain, but after a third attempt, he knows it to be intentional. She does not wish to speak to him. Puzzled, he maintains his distance and occasionally stops to gather herbs. It must be due to fatigue. There have been many times he has desired solitude. It is only natural that she could desire the same.     

They finally find a herd of rams. Between his magic and her deadly aim, they have plenty of meat to take back. The refugees will not go to bed hungry this night. As they skin and prepare the meat for their journey back, he notices her hands. They work with a swift grace that comes from dedicated practice. Though they are rough with calluses, he still finds them elegant. He wonders what those hands could have done if war and the harshness of life had not damaged them. Remembering the poems she whispered to him in the night, he could almost imagine them penning such beautiful words. Instead, they kill. A pity and a waste.  Like so many things in this abomination of a world. 

Soon, their packs have all they can possibly carry, and they backtrack. The closer they approach the ruined village, the more energy she appears to lose. The extra weight can not be helping her, but he knows she will refuse a break, so he says nothing. Finally, return to the village to see it bustling with activity. The Seeker and Corporal Vale’s soldiers have done an excellent job making shelters in their absence. Varric, too, seems to have pulled through, based on the blankets and coats clutched possessively by the people they pass by. 

A soldier sees them and approaches. As he salutes, Raven shoves her packs of meat into his arms and scrambles off towards Cassandra. The soldier struggles under the unexpected weight in his arms and blinks at Solas in confusion. 

“It is food for the refugees,” he explains. 

The soldier stares at him stupidly. “Ah! Of course . . .  so, what do I do with it?”

He can be no more than sixteen, he thinks, based on human years. Just a boy. So young. So stupidly young. Begrudgingly, he remembers his own youth and sighs. 

“Come,” he beckons to him. “We must cook and distribute it evenly.”

The boy stumbles behind him, dragging the packs of food. Solas looks back towards the Seeker, but only sees the dwarf with her now. There is no sign of Raven. Perhaps the dwarf has brought her food, and she now eats in peace. Content that she can now rest for the busy days ahead, he turns his attention elsewhere. 

“Do you know how to cook meat?”

The boy takes a moment to answer, obviously confused. “Uh . . . you heat it?”

He sighs. “You will learn. Come, let us begin then.”

_____

The boy, though a bit clumsy, takes to his instructions easily, and soon they are handing out a mediocre but hot stew. Finally, the crowd disperses, and Solas waves the boy off with a bowl of his own. Solas eats as well, sitting by the flames of the fire, considering what is to come. Tonight, he must seek out Wisdom. It has been too long, and he worries about her safety. He also wonders what insight she might have on Raven. 

“So, how was your hunt?” 

So much for a night of quiet contemplation. Instead of speaking, he chews on another spoonful of stew. 

“Don’t speak too fast, I might not understand you!” Varric fills a bowl for himself before sitting next to him. He blows tentatively on his food before taking a bite. “Not too bad. Next time, use a little salt. Maybe add some pepper.”

Solas huffs. 

“I’m just saying it could be better. Don’t freeze my balls off just because I offer you some advice.”

“Strange,” Solas says in mock contemplation, “I do not recall asking for some.”

“What can I say? I’m a giver.”

“Thank you, but I am afraid my pack is full. I have no room for such gifts.”

This time, it is the dwarf who huffs. “And to think I once thought you didn’t have a sense of humor.”

“Few do.”

“Maybe if you’d smile more, they would.”

“Maybe if they care to look beyond what they see, such actions will be unnecessary.”

“You’re so prickly.” Varric shakes his head. “I don’t know what she sees in you.”

Solas whips back his head. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, nothing,” the dwarf says flippantly, blowing carelessly on his spoon. 

Before he can demand what bizarre story the dwarf is spinning in his head, a small girl wanders to their fire. 

“They said there was food,” she explains, eyeing them hesitantly. Her eyes stare hungrily at their bowls. “May I have some?”

“Of course!” Varric booms. Quickly, he stands and serves her a fresh one from the pot. With great tenderness, he places it into her frail hands. “There, be sure to blow on it first. We don’t want to hurt that pretty smile of yours.” 

The girl blushes at his compliment and stares at her bowl of food like it were a gold crown. For all the wealth in the world, nothing can replace the wealth that comes from small kindnesses such as these. Again, Solas feels a warmth coil in him at the pleasure of knowing the good Raven has done these people. 

“Could I have another, you think?”

“Of course!” Varric laughs. “Just finish this first, and I’ll be sure to serve you another.” 

Again, the girl blushes and looks timidly down at her feet. “It isn’t for me. It’s for the Herald of Andraste. At least, I think it’s her.”

At this, Solas’ ears twitch. “The Herald?”

“Oh shit,” the dwarf curses under his breath. “I know she has a heart of gold and all, but this is ridiculous.” 

“Did you not bring her food when we returned?” he asks, disturbed by his remarks. 

“There wasn’t any food around, remember?” 

Of course. How could he have forgotten? How could she have forgotten? 

“Did I say something wrong?” 

They turn back to the girl, who now looks at them with eyes primed for tears. Instantly, Varric soothes her troubles. 

“Of course not! You said just the right thing. Don’t worry your pretty little head about the Herald. We’ll make sure she gets plenty to eat. Do you know where she is?”

Smiling once again, the girl nods. “She was back in the infirmary when I left.”

“The infirmary?” 

Is she hurt? How could he not have known?

“Yes, ser. She asked if she could stay, then fell asleep. Fell asleep right away! I thought she was dead, but I heard her breathing. Then I began thinking, with her looking so pale, she might be just as hungry as me.”

“You did good, kid,” Varric assures her with a pat on her arm. “You’re a good girl. Go enjoy your supper.” 

Beaming and blushing at the same time, the girl wanders off. 

“Shit. I knew she hadn’t eaten. I just figured she was waiting till everyone had their share.” Varric draws a hand over his face. “Flissa did mention she eats like a mabari on Feastday, and after what she said earlier, she really needs to eat.”

“I will go,” he decides, and rises to retrieve a fresh bowl. 

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

Solas’ eyes snap back to him. “Why would it not? She needs to eat.”

“Yes, but you don’t have to be the one to go.” 

Tired of his wordplay, his tone hardens. “Say what you mean, Master Tethras.” 

“I mean–she hasn’t seemed exactly at ease around you today.” 

Solas looks away and pours another spoonful into the bowl. 

“You know,” Varric observes. “Would you happen to know why? Did you have a spat?”

“We are not children, child of the stone,” he snaps back. 

“What is it then?”

“Perhaps she just desires solitude.”

“Who in their right mind wants to be alone?” 

 “I do,” Solas says. With a steaming bowl of stew in his hands, he strides past the dwarf. “Sweet dreams.” 

It is a low shot, but the dwarf has whittled down to his last thread of patience. 

“Ass,” Varric calls after him. 

He does deserve that. 

_____

At first, he does not see her, but as he draws further into the small hut, a slumped form in the corner draws his attention. Unlike humans, elves can see clearly in the dark, and the sight of her pale form sends a jolt of alarm through him. Hurriedly, he kneels by her side. Her breath brushes against the sensitive skin of his hand, and he lets out a sigh of relief. 

“Herald,” he whispers gently, trying not to disturb the sleeping wounded nearby. “Herald, wake up. I have brought you food.”

She does not respond. 

Trying a different tactic, he places a hand on her shoulder and gives her a gentle shake. “Shepard,” he whispers again, though, more loudly this time. 

Her eyes fly open in alarm, and he immediately drops his hand. “All is well,” he reassures her. 

It takes a moment for her mind and eyes to adjust. When she finally speaks, her voice is cracked and hoarse, “Solas?” 

“Hush,” he says, stilling her from speaking further. He lifts up the bowl in an offering to her. “Take this.” 

For a moment, her eyes stare at his gift with want, but then slowly start to drift shut. “Shepard, you must eat. You can rest after, ma fallon. ”  

The term of friendship leaps out again without thought. He should not do so, he knows, but to hear the language of his people again is a comfort. Even if such knowledge comes from an unknown deal with a spirit, and even if it comes from human lips. At least her lips are not cruel with words such as “knife ear”. At first, he thinks his lapse will go unnoticed by her weariness, but the smile that spreads across her face is so full of joy he knows there is no hope for it.   

Doing his best to ignore her obvious pleasure, he pushes the bowl towards her. “Here, eat.” His tone comes out more forceful than he intended, but she pays it no mind. 

She is still smiling brightly at him as he reaches out to accept the bowl. Her hands settle over his. They are still rough, but warm his cool skin. He waits for their release, but it does not come.

She speaks then, and her voice has a deep, smoky tone that makes his ears tingle. 

“So, am I really your friend?”

Fenedhis. 

The question is so bold and so unexpected, he can not hide his surprise. Another piece clicks into place. So this has been the reason for her reclusiveness with him. Though he had first called her friend, it had been done so in a moment born of regret from causing her pain, as well as in a language he did not think she would understand. Afterwards, he treated her with suspicion. He can see why such actions would cause her to drift from him.  Slowly, he forces himself to calm before answering with a question of his own. 

 “Do you doubt it?”

“I’m not sure. I know you don’t trust me.” 

Her blunt honesty leaves him scrambling for words. “I–it is not–”

Mercifully, she cuts in. “Solas, it’s alright. I wouldn’t trust me either, in your shoes.”

His hands feel cold at her sudden absence. Still reeling from the situation, he uses her own tactic against her. Evasive humor. 

“I don’t wear shoes.”

The sudden laugh that springs from her makes it all the more worth it. “It’s a figure of speech.” 

“I am aware. Please, eat.” His main goal accomplished, he starts his retreat, but once again, her words pull him back. 

“Will you stay?”

No. This is not wise. There is no point in such actions. 

An excuse is on his tongue when she adds, “I might fall asleep again. Talking will keep me awake.” 

“Very well.” It is a trap, he knows, but one he surprisingly is willing to step into. Solas rests beside her, but takes care that their hands have no more reason to touch. 

“Thank you,” she says, and finally looks at her food. “Is this the ram we hunted?” 

“While it was enough to go around, there was not much left by the time the villagers were through.”

“Is it better if I don’t know?”

“It is Fennec.”

“Those small, fox-looking animals with the big ears?”

“Yes.” 

“A shame. They’re kind of cute.” 

Cute? Surely she would not refuse substances solely because the animal had once been cute?

“Will that keep you from eating?”

She grins. “Nope!” 

Her words prove true. She devours the bowl in seconds, not caring how he may perceive such blatant eagerness with which she attacks her meal. He watches in amusement as she uses her sleeve to wipe her mouth. No, he does not think many would find her graceful, but grace comes in many forms. 

“Thank you. It was good.” She catches his stare. “What?”

“You are always this hungry.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

He chuckles at her defensiveness. “Besides your recent display? Varric mentioned it.” 

“And how would he know?”

“Flissa.”

“Oh.”

Ah, there is her shyness again. A rosy blush flushes her pale cheeks, and for the first time all day, she looks relaxed. 

“It’s normal, at least, for biotics.” 

 This manages to tear him away from studying her. “Truly? Does it concern how you draw your energy? For mages, we either draw from the fade or lyrium, but you do neither.”

“No, we don’t.”

She pauses, as though hoping he will move the subject on to something else. He will not, however. While she has twisted her words to make him stay, he will reap the benefits of remaining in her trap. Sensing his resolve, she relents and begins to explain. Slowly, however, as though he may not understand her meaning. 

“We generate a unique energy within ourselves that helps us create the power to manipulate an unseen element in the world around us.”

Her explanation is vague. Still, it is more information than he had before.

“I see, so it is much like a mage’s mana then. We can not go beyond what our mana allows, once our limit is reached.” 

“Close enough. It also causes our body to burn energy faster.”

“Thus, your seemingly constant state of hunger?”

“It’s been more difficult to maintain here. There are certain foods that give me more of the energy I need, and unfortunately, Haven doesn’t have much of them.”

“What kinds of food?”

“Very specific meats and vegetables. Some I haven’t seen here yet.” 

“You should make a list. I am sure Cassandra and Leliana can help get what you need.”

She shakes her head. “It’s fine. They don’t need to worry about me.”

Until this moment, he has reserved his judgment of her seemingly careless actions concerning her well-being. Now, however, anger flares in him. Not only is she needlessly putting herself at risk, but she risks her position as a figurehead of hope as well. 

“It is not fine if you are left so weak after one battle. Nor is it fine if everyone hears how the Herald of Andraste practically collapses from exhaustion. Like it or not, these people look up to you, and if you run yourself into the ground due to misplaced pride, you will help no one.” 

“Don’t lecture me, Solas.” 

For the first time, her anger is upon him. He had expected fits of yelling, blind rage. Instead, her quiet, short tone burns him just as sure as a slap. 

“I don’t need you to remind me of my position. I’m a Commander. I know what it means to lead, and I don’t take that lightly. As for my pride, I have none. At least, not in myself, but I don’t let anything come between me and the mission.” 

“And yet you collapsed here without eating,” he retorts. His voice does rise, but not in a yell. He will not give her that pleasure. 

“I was tired. I was going to eat in the morning.”

“When? Before or after we fight the mages and templars?”

“Stow it, Solas! I know myself and my limitations better than you . I never jeopardize the mission.” 

Those deep, violet eyes he once compared to a flower now burn like veilfire. They spark and glow in the dark. Even in her anger, they are still beautiful. He remembers not long ago how they were closed, refusing to open for three days, and all because she had tried to close the Breach. She had almost died fixing his mistake. Twice. Again, he remembers trying to rip the anchor from her arm, not caring for her screams. He had thought she would die anyway. She had not, and he thought he would not doubt her strength again.  

Abashed, he looks down at his feet. “I–forgive me. You are right. I do not know you as well as yourself. As long as you take care not to let this become an obstacle, I will submit to your judgment.”

At the sound of her huff, he expects more of her anger. He should know by now that she always subverts his expectations. 

“If you truly want to be my friend, I need you to trust me.” 

Her words draw him back to her. Gone is her anger, but in its place is something that stings him all the same. 

“There are things I won’t... can’t be able to explain to you, but I always stand by my crew. Always. So, can you do that, Solas? Will you trust me?” 

Solas does not know what to say, so he says nothing. Here, she has admitted to her secrets, and yet, he can not fault her for it. She is hiding things, true, but not maliciously. That, he knows now. Though evasive, she is not dishonest. Not with her words, and not with her intentions. 

Unlike him. 

Furthermore, she admits her dedication to him. She is declaring herself to be his shield, should he need it. Much like she did in their first conversation at Haven. She offers her friendship so willingly to him, and fenedhis, he is tempted. It has been so long since he could trust another, and the last one he had called fallon had betrayed him, too. Solas had slain him himself, and the blood has yet to dry on his hands. No. As much as he longs for such support, his path will not allow such a mistake. 

Receiving her answer in his silence, he watches her eyes dim in sorrow. Sighing, she leans back and shuts her eyes. 

“Goodnight, Solas.”

It is a dismissal. An acceptance of the wall he has drawn between them. One he should be glad for, but the pang in his chest informs him otherwise. Slowly, he rises to his feet and looks down at her. He mourns for what could have been. 

“Goodnight,” he returns.

As he walks to the door, he knows that in his silence, he has let her believe a lie. 

“ Ir abelas, ” he whispers, and flees into the dark. 

_____

In the fade, he visits his agents in their dreams. His hopes for news of his orb are dashed. No one has anything to report. The creature has simply vanished. Furthermore, there are no findings to back up Raven’s story. Still, her ship may be lost at the bottom of the sea, thus explaining any signs of it. Solas instructs them to cease their searching for now and instead directs some to infiltrate the Inquisition. He names himself as his own spy. Though Raven may trust him, Leliana is not so easy to thaw. Others will be far better suited for that task. Once he has attended to all he can, he drifts off to find Wisdom. 

The last friend he has, and one that could never betray him. 

Still, such a friendship is limited in this world. His own construction has cast them farther apart. Yet, just knowing she is there is enough to ease his loneliness. Soon, he wanders to the area in the fade she has claimed for her own. It is not long before she comes to him. She is well, she is whole, and for now, he is not alone. Tenderly, she greets him, stroking his face. He leans into her embrace. She speaks to him in Elvhen, which she knows he needs. 

My friend, there is a great storm in you. What troubles you so?

“ My orb is gone. The darkspawn survived and has taken it. The Breach, the rifts, the spirits that go through them to be corrupted against their nature… all is my fault. Once again, I sought to help my people, only to again destroy them in the process. I have failed them, just as I have failed Mythal. Just as I continue to fail you.” 

Success is often the fruit of failure. You know this. True failure is only achieved when no other options are before you. You are not at such a place. 

“No, but if I can not stop him, if I can not retrieve the orb, the only other way is to–”

Tell me, what purpose does dwelling on restricted possibilities achieve? 

He knows the point she is making and sighs in answer. She frames his face in her hands and looks within him. 

Now, tell me, my friend, what is this storm I see that darkens your spirit?

Confused, he seeks to clarify. “As I have said, the orb is gone. The world is breaking.”

Yes, that does indeed trouble you, but this is a far greater storm. It is more recent. It rages with indecision. Do you not know its cause?

Understanding floods him with sorrow. “Yes.”

Can I give you aid? 

  He thinks of a woman who has offered to provide him such comfort as this, but he knows the answer he must give. “ No, not in this, my friend.”

It is then that Solas weeps, and Wisdom is there to hold him.

_____

In the morning, he rises before the sun even begins to peek above the horizon. A chilly fog rolls through the air, and the ground glistens with dew. Solas takes advantage of this time to meditate on Wisdom’s counsel. He wanders into the wilderness, but does not stray far. Along the way, he finds some fruit and makes it his light breakfast. She is right, of course. He was right. Drawing away from Ra–the Herald is not only wise, but necessary. 

They both have their secrets, as well as a cause. No good will come from any relationship where there can not be truth. It is a kindness to them both not to expand their relationship any further. He will provide support when needed, as well as advice. Anything more, he must abstain. After all, in the end, it will not matter. Once he has his orb, this world will cease to exist, and her with it. Presumably. 

All too soon, sunlight begins to illuminate the hazy sky and returns to find his party. The tasks prove none too difficult as they are the only ones gathered around a fire, eating strips of meat. From the bits of conversation he picks up as he approaches, Varric has started earlier than normal in his efforts to leave the Seeker in a rage. The dwarf could at least have the decency to wait till noon. 

“Why don’t I have a nickname?” 

“You do, Seeker. You do.”

“But that’s just my title!” 

Varric shrugs, indifferent to the Seeker’s plight. “I give people names that reflect what they are, and you are a Seeker.”

“But, it’s so–so obvious.”

“Aw, feeling left out? Don’t worry, you’ll always have a special place in my heart. After Bianca, of course.” 

Solas chooses to kneel next to Varric, who is the furthest from the Herald. The distance does not protect him from her eyes, however, and he joins the dwarf in conversation. At least this way, he will have a valid reason not to speak to her. 

“Why my nickname?” 

“Chuckles? For your bright and shining optimism, of course!” 

“Ah, irony then.”

“I’d think that was obvious,” Varric answers boorishly.

Suddenly, a stick of meat is held under his gaze. Without looking, he knows it is her. He could not mistake those hands anywhere. “No, thank you.” 

The hand clenches the stick, but retreats. 

Ir abelas. 

“If everyone’s done, we should head out.” 

Solas hears the disappointment in the words she does not voice. 

_____

Despite having witnessed several millennia of war, it never makes seeing it any easier. 

“So much destruction... so much waste,” he whispers. 

Destruction he has caused. All he has ever wanted is to save, to build. Instead, his fate seems to be one of death and loneliness. Wisdom, he knows, disagrees. While he finds her words comforting, knowing and feeling are two separate creatures that rarely coexist. 

The Seeker and Varric get into a heated debate, unlike their normal bickering. When Cassandra’s voice echoes around them, the Herald snaps.  

“Enough! Stow it! Both of you!” Shepard says sharply. “Show some respect, and be mindful of your surroundings. If there are any rogue stragglers, they know we’re here now.” 

The Seeker, to her credit, looks ashamed. “I’m sorry, Herald. You are right, of course.”

“Not always.” 

Her words are almost a whisper and hold a tone of self-loathing that forces him to look at her. There is no mistake, for he sees her contempt directed inward, and wonders if she is thinking of their disagreement the other night. When her eyes catch him looking, he quickly shifts them to the path ahead. Doing so makes a twinge of pain twist in his chest, but he ignores it. It is necessary. 

Further thoughts on the matter are banished as they spot a group of apostates ransacking the remains of their foes. Silently, they crawl towards them, using the terrain to conceal their approach. It is not long before the Herald gives the signal to attack. They do so as one mind, and their targets are taken by surprise and can offer little resistance. Once his own enemy has fallen, he turns to see how the others have fared, just in time to catch a mage place a fire mine behind her. 

“Herald! Behind you!” 

Before he can cast a barrier, she has already taken a step back and erupts in flames. 

“No!” 

The sound of his cry is overcome by her own violent roar as she leaps into the air. She is an arrow set aflame. It is no cry of pain that comes from her lips, but a battle cry of rage. If a rage demon were to see her, they would take her to be one of their own. With a mighty force, she falls. Burning. The mage is pinned beneath her, and his own flames start to transfer from her back to him. Terror is in his eyes as her blade of light materializes. With a curse he does not fully understand, she beheads him. Then, she falls to her knees. 

Even now, she does not cry in pain. 

Solas has been running to her and encases her lower torso in ice, smothering the flames. She blinks down at herself rather calmly, as though detached from her own body.  It is shocking then. Her body has not caught up with the damage that has been done to it.

 “Herald!” Cassandra and Varric call behind him. 

“Still alive! How are the other mages? Dead, I hope.” The calm, easy response does little to calm them. 

“Alive? You were on fire!” The terror in the Seeker’s voice is evident. 

“And now I’m not.” 

“I have to admit that was equal parts terrifying and impressive,” Varric says, “I know they call you the Herald of Andraste, but I would prefer you didn’t repeat her gruesome death. No offense.”

“None taken,” she quips, and finally looks up at him. “Thank you, Solas. Now, please release me.”

He knows it is most likely the shock that is keeping her so calm, but he can not help feeling anger at her. She is too bold, too sure in battle. She fights as though she is invincible. For a moment, he had even thought… he let that thought die. She yet remains, and he can help her. 

Solas stares at her, letting nothing be mistaken in his tone and look. “It will hurt, most likely worse than the flames.” 

The Herald does not hesitate. “It’s not my first time, Solas.” 

Ah. Of course. How could he have forgotten the scars on her body when she had first been brought to him? Suddenly, her eyes narrow at him, and she huffs. Her sudden shift into anger startles him, but he has no time to question her reason. 

“Do it,” she commands. 

The ice shatters, and she falls. 

 Solas catches her in his arms. Her shock has shattered with the ice, and now her body is registering the pain. Every muscle in her body quakes, but she does not scream. By the trickle of blood in the corner of her mouth, she is taking great lengths not to do so. Even when in so much pain, she refuses to let her will crack even the smallest fraction. Admiration rises in him as well as urgency. He whispers in her ear, trying to soothe her. It helps little, and soon he is instructing the Seeker to hold her still as he works. 

“Be still. I have you. Be still.” 

“I have something that might help. A pretty potent healing potion. I’ve seen it work miracles.” Varric says, and pulls out a flask that he recognizes instantly. 

Mythal’s Favor, or, at least, that is what the Dalish have called it. A very rare potion at that. Relief floods him. Her wounds are extensive, and he well remembers the resistance her body has to his healing magic. “Give it to her. She will need it.”

“Here, Fireball, take a shot of this. It’ll help.”

The Herald sputters, as though in an attempt to laugh, but instead, coughs up blood. Fear prickles on his skin. The wounds have been worse than he imagined. Quickly, the dwarf holds the potion to her lips. Solas aids him, pulling gently at the back of her head so she will not choke. 

“There we go! Not so bad, is it? Now, just relax, Fireball, and let Chuckles do what he does.”

 “Call me that again and I’ll shoot your ass,” she wheezes. 

Then, she passes out. 

Solas works quickly. Blood, burnt skin, and melted metal coat her legs, leaving her limbs unrecognizable. The Seeker helps carry her to a nearby stream, and together, they clean the worst away with water before he attempts some healing spells. Just as before, her body is resistant. Frustrated, Solas downs two lyrium potions in order to stop the bleeding. The hardest part is trying to fix her damaged muscles and skin. Even with the aid of lyrium, his hands are beginning to tremble slightly from the strain. The Seeker, too, notices his struggle and begins to question him when he distracts her with a suggestion to ask Commander Cullen to send men to help clear the area. Thankfully, she leaves him to send a raven to do just that, and he can contemplate in peace. Varric keeps watch not far off. 

It should be working! Why is her body so resistant? Her muscles should mend easily with this spell; it is as though… With a jolt, he shakes his head. How blindly foolish of him. Of course! She is not made of skin and bone alone, but metal as well. It is as much a part of her as the blood in her veins. Testing his hypothesis, he examines her, and his magic proves him to be correct. The metal parts in her are damaged too, and must be repaired. How he can do so is another problem. 

For two hours, his magic examines every inch of her. There are pieces of her that are missing, and are replaced by these metal constructions that somehow mimic the function necessary with precision. It is fascinating as well as disturbing. How can such a thing be? There is nothing he can compare it to. Though he has seen missing limbs replaced with contraptions that help replace what has been lost, it is by no means as intricate and precise as what has been done to her. Now, however, he must focus on finding a means to repair something he barely understands. 

In the end, he takes a risk. Carefully, he seeps his magic into her once again and attempts to copy the pieces he has observed. Essentially, it is as risky as building a construction based solely on what can be seen, without understanding how the pieces work or what purpose they serve. Aware of the damage he can cause her, it takes all of his focus and will. The process is draining. Within an hour, however, he begins to hope. Her muscles mend, and her skin starts to weave together. Now that he has sought to repair all of her, including her metal constructs, he feels less resistance. There will be scaring, but that is the least of his worries. He will not know for sure of his success until she wakes. 

Having done all he can for her wounds, Solas allows himself to indulge some of his curiosity. Pressing a hand over her forehead and chest, magic presses through her. Though he has had his suspicions, feeling it to be true surprises him still. Most of her heart has been infused with metal, as well as her brain. It is as if she has been remade, stitched together like a patchwork quilt. 

The Herald stirs, and when he looks down, he is drowning in a sea of deep purple.  

Instantly, Solas ceases his spell and removes his hand. 

“What?! What was that?” she gasps. 

“Magic,” he answers, and feels pleasure at the child-like wonder in her voice.  But no, he must not indulge her. Sternly, he lets his displeasure with her carelessness be known. “It is good that you are awake. I was unsure if you would so soon.” 

“How long have I been out?”

“Three hours, practically. It is noon.”

Groaning, she pushes up on her elbows in an effort to sit up, but his hand shoots out to her chest. He can feel her heartbeat steadily beneath him. Despite knowing it is made of metal as well as flesh, it is no different from any other. In its function, at least. He wonders if her adjustments have any effect on her spirit. 

“I’m okay. I’ll take it slow.” 

Her reassurance does not move him. Recalling her insistence that she will never jeopardize their mission, he remains firm in his rebuke. “You could have died.”

“Yes,” she admits all too easily. 

“You have only just recovered from attempting to close the Breach. Having such extensive damage like this so soon could have killed you, and I would have been unable to save you.” And unable to save his people. 

“Yes,” she admits again. “But it didn’t.”

Still defiant to the last, he sees. Such foolishness. “This time.”

“Solas.” 

She snaps out his name in the same tone she had used last night before she resisted his counsel. Resentment starts to rise in his chest, and he readies to defend against her stubborn will. 

“I know. I wasn’t trying to be careless. I was unprepared. I’ve never fought a mage before. He caught me by surprise, but it won’t happen again.”

“And how will you be sure of that? Will you fly through the air like a ball of fire?” He lashes out in his anger, in his fear of having almost lost something precious to him. The anchor. His people. His last hope. His last chance to make things right. 

He awaits her anger, but finds it surprisingly gone. 

“Because you are going to fight me.”

“I am?” This, he had not expected. To what end does she seek?

“Yes. Every day until I can know what to expect. Not only because you are a mage, but also because I need your help.”

Beneath his hand, he feels her heartbeat rapidly increase. Quickly, he removes himself from her. 

“Solas, ma fallon–”

Solas swallows back the pain from her words. 

“-Last night you said I was prideful, but I’m not. I just never . . . I’ve never had to ask for help before. I don’t know how. I’ve always been the one giving it. You were right last night. Just because I don’t think I need help doesn’t mean I shouldn’t ask for it. So, I’m asking you. Please, help me with this.”

He can not do this. He can not. 

Solas looks at the ground instead of her eyes. Even after his refusal of her friendship, she still decides to trust him, to look to him for support. Even if he will not consider her one, she will still call him her friend. There is no stopping her from pursuing this path on her own. While he will remain distant, she will continue to hold out her hand. He should be firm, more forceful, but he finds in this moment, he can not find the strength to do so. More honestly, he does not wish to. 

“Never mind, I can find another mage to–”

Realizing she is once again misinterpreting his silence, he interjects. “No! I’m sorry. I will help you. I will teach you how to fight a mage.” Wisdom’s words suddenly echo in his mind, warning him to tread carefully. So he gives her one last chance to reconsider. “That is, unless you would prefer another.”

“There’s no one else I would trust.” Her smile reaches her eyes, and she is brilliant. 

At the sudden sensation of warmth on the tips of his ears, he looks back towards Varric, as though simply checking on the dwarf. 

 “Why do you? You hardly know me.” 

“Because what I’ve seen tells me you are a good man, and you have gone out of your way to help me.” 

A good man? There is no good in what he has done to her, and what he will do in the future. As for helping her, it was to serve his own interest. 

“Why do you?” She counters, “You don’t even trust me.”

Fenedhis , her boldness has a talent in piercing through his barriers. He decides to answer her with the same bluntness.