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Sunlight, low and slicing through thin clouds, gilded the spring taiga, affording the Hinterlands a radiance at odds with the rebellions’ chaos.
Naked and shivering, Eirlana strode into the pool and nearly leaped back out. Instead, she waded in up to her waist and scrubbed herself with a cloth. The dried blood washed away in moments, yet its feeling remained, a tightness to her skin. She scrubbed harder. In her left hand, the mark thrummed, sending shivers along her bones.
Eventually, she stumbled out, dried, and dressed.
Damp hair bound in a bun, she stepped through the ferns to the cliff. From her vantage point, the sun remained in the sky, yet twilight draped over the valley below, turning trees into spectres and campfires into targets for bandits. Leagues away, Redcliffe’s castle peeked over the hills.
She sat, pulled her tools from her satchel, and began grinding elfroot into a mush. Tomorrow, she’d deliver a batch of potions to the corporal. Even with her standing offer to heal whenever they happened to pass through, it wouldn’t be enough.
Until a healer turns up and agrees to work in a war zone, nothing will —
Gleaming with sunlight, a sword cut the thought off.
She flinched, crushing roots. Too clear, too recent to be shoved aside, the memory bulled forward — stumbling away from the weapon, stammering, a flash of lightning, and the templar bursting, spraying blood. Another — a mage preparing to cast on Varric, a fade-step, then her own staff-blade in the elf’s gut.
The anchor’s thrumming sped up, keeping time with her heartbeat.
Bile pushing up her throat, she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the ground. She tried to think of something else, the astrariums or those skulls on pedestals, the sound of a cracking skull —
Hands shaking, she set her mortar aside, then crawled forward and vomited over the edge. Her throat burned, making her eyes water. When nothing else came up, she curled up, shuddering.
After a minute, the nausea faded a little. Moving slowly, she wiped her tears away and crawled back to her tools.
Dusk had fallen without her notice, shrouding the cliff in shadows. Silently reciting elfroot’s uses, she cast a dim mage-light and picked up her mortar again.
Footsteps and a voice calling, “Herald?”
She straightened out of her slouch. “Over here.”
A smudge of green and grey in her peripheral, Solas stepped through the ferns. “You have been gone a while. Are you well?”
She flushed, afraid he’d heard her retching, and squashed another root with her pestle. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“Very well. I will leave you be.”
“Wait,” she blurted, then blanked on what to say. “Would, would you tell me about Elvhenan?”
“Am I not intruding?”
“No, you’re not,” she said, still staring at her hands. “I’m just worn out. But if you don’t mind….”
“Of course.” He sat down next to her. “What do you know of Halamshiral?”
Gathering her thoughts, she bottled the elfroot mush and repacked her tools. “It was founded a thousand years ago, after the war with the Imperium, after Andraste’s children gave us the Dales, and after The Long Walk. It was the capital of the Dales and its cultural centre for three hundred years. In the second Exalted March, the city and nation fell to Orlais.”
Solas hummed. “An accurate history, if lacking any meat.”
“Everything else is speculation,” she said. “It was thoroughly sacked.”
“Precisely. The Dalish strive to remember Halamshiral, but Halamshiral was merely a fumbling attempt to recreate a forgotten land.”
“Arlathan.”
“Elvhenan’s greatest city,” he said, voice turning wistful. “Place of magic and beauty, lost to time.”
“You almost sound like you’ve seen it.”
“I have.”
She stared at him. He’s — “Creators, you’ve seen it? In bellanar’an? You’ve dreamed in Arlathan’s forest?”
“Once.” His gaze fell, something that might be sorrow on his face. “A long time ago.”
Her heart thumped, loud in her chest. “So?”
He met her eyes and smiled faintly. “We hear stories of them living in trees and imagine wooden ramps or Dalish aravels. Imagine instead spires of crystal twining through the branches. Palaces floating among the clouds. Imagine beings who lived forever, for whom magic was as natural as breathing. That is what was lost.”
Her focus snagged. “Hold on. Hold on. The ancient elves were immortal?”
“In a sense; their bodies did not fail with the passage of time, so long as they did not remain in uthenera for centuries.” He paused. “You do not believe me. Is the immortality of the elvhen not mentioned in Dalish stories?”
“I…in our myths. Immortality is in the same stories as those with dragon tamers.”
His expression soured. “And therefore it cannot be true?”
She pursed her lips. “How many thousands of years have passed since then? Three thousand? Four? And what’s happened since? Millennia of genocide and cultural oppression. There’s barely enough remembered history about the Dales to fill fifty sheets of parchment. What we know about Elvhenan wouldn’t fill five.”
He hummed, low in his throat. “Yes. That is true.”
“I’m not saying that I don’t believe you, but that they were immortal doesn’t matter today. It’s inconsequential. What caused their immortality, however, may not be. Did you ever see their echoes, in bellanar’an? Do you know what made them immortal?”
“I have seen echoes of the elvhen countless times, but no, I never witnessed the source of their immortality, or what caused it to fail.” After a moment, he added, “Your legends claim that contact with humans robbed the elvhen of immortality.”
She couldn’t suppress her snort. “I’m sorry, whose legends? Not Dalish, and I doubt elven at all.” When he didn’t elaborate, she shrugged. “It’s nug shit. Mortality is not a disease.”
“What, then, would you propose as the responsible factor?”
She glanced at the Anchor, its glow bright in the failing light. “A loss of magic? We — the Dalish — have records of ruins which were found warded against the elements and against time. Maybe…the ancient elves were magically sustained, and that magic failed.”
“That is possible.” After a beat, he said, “There is much more about Elvhenan to tell, far too much for one conversation. Is there anything specific you would like to ask?”
She began to say ‘healing magic,’ to ask after what he’d gleaned from his studies, what he’d witnessed in memories, and how she could improve her technique, but stopped. Her skin itched, as if the blood remained. A sprawl of bodies lingered in her vision. “You’re a healer, right?” At his nod, she looked down at her hands again, fiddling with her sylvanwood ring. “How do you separate the you that heals from the you that kills?”
Silence answered. She clenched her fists, skin hot, nausea building again. Fenedhis, I shouldn’t have asked —
“I do not suppose I do, anymore.”
She looked up. Something must’ve shown on her face, for his expression softened.
“The fighting we participated in troubles you.”
“I’m not,” she swallowed, “accustomed to killing. Or battle.”
“Considering your position as First, I am not surprised.”
She laughed, a huff of breath. “Perhaps you should be.” He raised an eyebrow and she looked out over the valley, darkened to ink, before continuing. “Every First-in-training learns to command and fight.”
“Your people have warleaders, correct? Is the defence of your clans not their responsibility?”
She shook her head. “Not entirely. War-bands are sometimes away, dealing with threats that venture into our territory. A Keeper is always with their clan and must always be ready to defend it. And so must Firsts.”
“Without practical training to complement the theoretical, you cannot expect yourself to perform as a soldier would.”
She shot him a look. “I’m not. I only expect to hold my own.”
“The more experience you gain, the more you will adjust. For now, I suggest you hold a position to the rear, support from a distance, and pay attention to what both your allies and opponents are doing. And,” he added, voice turning stern, “do not take unnecessary risks.”
“Implying I’ve already taken one?”
“Your defence of Master Tethras.”
“Since when is saving Varric an unnecessary risk?”
“It is the manner in which you did that is problem.”
“If I’d cast from that distance, the mage could’ve easily deflected my spell at Varric.”
“Deflected spells rarely cause more than superficial harm.”
“Meaning the risk remains that they could cause more,” she snapped, sharper than intended. His eyes narrowed, irritation showing in the crinkles between his brows. She took a breath. “Solas, my duty as a First is to protect my people, and as long as I’m a member of the Inquisition, its people are mine.” Even if they hate me.
“That is admirable,” he said, expression smoothing, “yet if you cannot guard yourself in battle, your resolve is irrelevant.”
She lifted her chin. “It won’t be. I’ll practice. And I will be mindful of the risks I take.”
He glanced down, at her satchel. “Tell me, why did you choose to become a healer?”
His words pulled another memory up — laughter and iron rasping, a storm of spelled lightning, blood flowing through her weak spells and shaky hands. She tensed slightly, perhaps slightly enough to go unnoticed. “I failed to protect someone.” Her voice did not waver. She did not drop her eyes.
He hummed. “I believe you have the answer to your question.”
“Pardon?”
“You wish to safeguard the lives of those around you. To succeed you must accept that doing so will inevitably result in blood on your hands, that of those you kill and of those you cannot protect.”
Just for a moment, she closed her eyes, embarrassed to have hoped for a different answer. He’d spoken with his usual detached tone, and yet, the words weighed true. Deshanna had once given her the same answer, with the same weight in her voice. I must accept this. I am First of Lavellan and I do. I do. Heavy and unyielding, Solas’ words settled over her heart. “You speak from experience.”
Again, a shadow passed over his face. “I do.”
“Ma serannas,” she said calmly, despite not feeling calm at all. “I appreciate your honesty. And guidance.”
“You are welcome. You carry a heavy mantle and a heavier responsibility, as the Herald of Andraste,” he replied, tone solemn. His gaze left hers and wandered to the ground. “The hour grows late. We should return to camp, Herald, and prepare for tomorrow.”
“All right.” She walked with him through the ferns, lengthening her strides to keep pace. Lighting the way, her mage-light hovered between them. “Solas,” she said, spotting the campfire’s glow ahead, “may I ask that you don’t call me ‘Herald?’”
“You did not ask the same of Seeker Pentaghast,” he replied, not accusingly.
“Unlike Cassandra, you don’t strike me as Andrastian.”
“No, I am not. However, there is still the matter of decorum.”
“I know. Only ‘Herald’ in public. Our ambassador lectured that into me after the first mishap.”
“Very well. What would you have me call you?”
“Just ‘Lavellan.’”
“Ma nuvenin.”