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She wakes to find herself lost to an early winter on a mountainside no more than a day’s trek from the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. To her horror, someone has opened another damn churning monstrosity of a Breach in the sky. She stares at the vast gaping wound in the clouds above, swirling and breaking across the fabric of reality, and watches as demons come hurling from the Fade in a symphony of roaring wind, crackling magic, and Fade-touched meteors.
She has no weapons, no provisions, no staff, and she is battered and still missing her left arm, but she knows this wilderness like she still remembers the back of her missing hand by heart. She begins what will be a slow slog of a journey back in the direction of Haven. She may be the political figurehead of an Andrastian holy war, but she is still Dalish, for crying out loud, and completely undaunted by hopeless expeditions into nature, no matter where fate has decided to unceremoniously drop her.
She faces a few demons, mostly wisps of rage or despair, and even without a staff she is able to move forwards, more or less unharmed. She isn’t sure how she came to be here, and her memories from just before waking in the snow are fuzzy and indistinct. Still, she remembers few times being quite this exhausted, quite this cold, quite this battle-worn…
She trudges on, resolute. She will find a momentary shelter in Haven, which to her knowledge has yet to be completely restored but will offer her a reprieve from the cold, and then she will find her way back to headquarters from there. She no longer has the means to close the Breach in her hand, but she will find some way to do so, even if it means kidnapping the Dread Wolf himself and kicking his arse until he fixes this mess once and for all.
It takes her a little less than a full day to make the journey, which is honestly better time than she was expecting, and when she looks down into the valley where Haven rests besides the frozen lake, she is surprised to see the settlement completely intact, and, even more surprising, filled to the brim with people. Outside Haven’s walls are a small gathering of tents in orderly rows, and soldiers training. The forge is up and running, and it’s a sight she hasn’t seen since…
She feels very ill. For a moment she lets herself believe it’s from hunger.
And then, standing shin-deep in fresh, crunchy snow, shivering and clutching her maimed arm, her jaw hanging open, she just knows that she is in the past. Again.
That is not a new Breach.
That is The Breach. The first one.
She looks to the heavens and feels very nauseated, and very cold.
Eventually she stumbles down the mountain and into Haven, barely able to stand on her own two feet, and is quickly dragged to a makeshift healing camp, just within Haven’s walls, that Adan and his apprentices have set up to deal with the flow of refugees and pilgrims in the valley. Nobody recognises her as she is brought into a tent, but she is surprised by her own strong emotions at all the familiar human faces around her. She is ignored, for the most part. Adan assesses her injury and proclaims that she is just hypothermic, needs shelter from exposure, and perhaps something to eat. He gives what is left of her missing arm some attention, but he realises quickly that the injury is older and not an immediate issue. So Adan leaves her be, not unkindly per se, but without the characteristic gruff camaraderie she’d once had with the man.
She is grateful for the reprieve from the cold, and the chance to lie down for a while and gather her thoughts. She wonders why her head hasn’t exploded yet at the thought that she has somehow managed to travel through time not once, but twice. She is so damn tired.
Adan and his apprentices don’t answer her when she (carefully, so carefully) tries to ask them what is going on. So she closes her eyes, pretends to sleep, takes stock of the last few hours and her memories. She is convinced that this is not a dream or a hallucination, as she is convinced by the lack of vallaslin on her face and her missing left arm that she has indeed travelled through time once more.
She misses Dorian’s particular sense of humour at the moment. She could use the perspective his wit often brings, just about now. Useful for pulling one’s head out of one’s arse, Sera would say.
At least Haven isn’t covered in glowing red lyrium.
That’s… strangely comforting.
To distract her own galloping mind, she begins eavesdropping on the other patients. Their conversations, thankfully, offer her clues she can use to fill in the blanks of her understanding of the state of affairs in Haven, and what happened after the Conclave.
It is a shock, but also, bizarrely, a huge relief when she discovers that someone else has stumbled upon Corypheus’ plot at Justinia’s Conclave and has been lauded by the refugees at Haven as the Herald of Andraste. Apparently she is only a few hours late to Cassandra’s proclamation of the formation of the Inquisition, and Haven is positively buzzing with excitement about the human… male… Herald.
She thinks that something about that combination does not sit well with her.
The human male Herald is the only survivor of the Conclave, which means her past self, the Lavellan that belongs to this timeline in the past, has died. It's a shock, but a numbing one. It means there is only her, and she will not have to contend with the reality of herself being here. It also means she is not the Herald. The heavy mantle of her title and place amongst the humans here is gone, like her missing limb. Perhaps forever.
She takes stock of her options. These are the earliest days of the Inquisition, and it is still fragile. She might be able to leave Haven, perhaps even return to her clan, and start keeping her eye on the ground for opportunities… She shakes the thought away. Leaving will not work. Clan Lavellan is dirt-poor by the standards of the political behemoths of Thedas, and they are too far and too vulnerable. She doesn’t need to remind herself that Corypheus is not the real danger here.
She has no practical grasp of time magic to speak of, but from her investigations of the subject with Dorian she remembers just how downright dangerous it is to trifle with. Trying to get back to her own time will make it just as likely that she herself might destroy the world. Besides, she had moved to the future and back with some limited success that one time, so even if she could move back to the future, would it be a future she would recognise?
No. She can’t leave the Inquisition, not yet, no matter who the Inquisitor is. She will need to stay—
Her eyes snap open and stare emptily at the stained and worn ceiling of the healer’s tent.
Solas.
She shuts her eyes again, tightly.
Fate is unkind, she thinks.
She will need to outsmart him at his own damned tricks.
She wonders if he is here, in Haven, right now. How much has he accomplished? He has been awake for a year already, if memory serves. So it is likely she will have to work like mad to catch up.
Lavellan realises that she has already made up her mind. She is still in this. She may never be the Inquisitor again, but she will not walk away. She might hate it, but she’ll keep playing the game, as Leliana or Josephine used to say. Fighting like hell to survive and get shit done, a mirage of Iron Bull and Varric grumble in her mind.
She is struck by the emptiness that hits her gut: she misses them all desperately.
When she is cleared by the alchemist after a few hours of rest, one of Leliana’s spies, shrouded in a green cowl, arrives before she can sort out her next plan of action, and tells her gruffly to get ready, because the spymaster wants to have a word with her.
Lavellan’s first instinct is fear. Though no small part of her very much looks forward to the meeting, her own situation here is beyond precarious. But Leliana will not recognise her. She is a completely unknown Dalish elf. This does not bode well at all.
She has no anchor to protect her this time around. By the standards of the Chantry that Leliana has passionately served for years, she is also an apostate. To the eyes of many, that is no better than being a wild, baby-stealing stereotype of a Dalish witch, and in these early days in Haven Leliana feels abandoned by her god. Leliana had been one of her most trusted advisors, once, but she remembers the early days with Leliana. In her own time, the human woman had been furious with grief and lashing out severely at any available target. This could get very dangerous—fast.
She briefly considers lying to Leliana about being a mage, but throws the idea away. Leliana is an infinitely better liar than she is, and infinitely better at recognising the signs of an awkward lie. No, she’ll have a better chance if she sticks as close to the truth as possible.
Right.
The truth.
Lavellan follows the green-cloaked spy until she is brought into the spymaster’s tent. The bard is looking over a scroll in her arms, but though Leliana might look distracted, Lavellan knows she is already observing and gathering hundreds of details.
“So, my people tell me that you were spotted in the mountains this morning, not far from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. What were you doing there?” Leliana asks, skipping over any formalities. Lavellan is not surprised.
“I was sent to the Temple by my clan. It was hoped… It was hoped that I would be able to report back on the events of the Conclave back to my people.”
“A Dalish clan?” Leliana’s eyes jerk upwards, away from the scroll she is holding, to fixate on her face.
Right, Lavellan remembers: no vallaslin.
“Yes, I am First of Clan Lavellan of the Free Marches.” She offers the information readily. Leliana will undoubtedly confirm the information if she feels that she presents a real threat. “The conflict between mages and templars spills beyond the walls of human cities and borders, and our people suffer from this political and military instability, which has reached even the Dalish. It was hoped I would pass unnoticed at the Conclave.” Lavellan thanks her memories of Josephine for the hours of coaching she has had to endure. She knows how to address politically savvy humans that wouldn’t think twice about killing her, if nothing else.
“How did you survive the explosion?”
Ah. This question is more easily answered, since she can just tell the truth… Well, a version of it, at least. “I had not yet arrived at the Conclave. I was late.”
“Why were you so far from the Temple? There are no roads where you were first seen.”
“I had to take an unusual route to the Temple, one that I had hoped might let me pass unseen by Chantry forces or the templars. I am a Dalish mage, and I am sure you have heard the stories of what templars have been doing to mages since the start of the rebellion.”
“I have never seen a Dalish adult without markings. And I have never met a Dalish spy confess so quickly to being one.”
Leliana’s tone is a little ominous, but before Lavellan can answer the unspoken accusation the bard continues in a brisk tone:
“I will investigate your Clan, and ask them to corroborate your story. Until I am satisfied of your innocence, you will remain within the walls of Haven. If I am given even the slightest reason to suspect you might be causing trouble or that you were in any way involved with the explosion at the Conclave, I will have no problems giving you to the templars and letting them do whatever they want to you.”
Lavellan blinks. Holy shit. She supposes she must be grateful that Leliana isn’t just locking her up and throwing away the key.
She will take this small stroke of luck, however, so she nods in deference to Leliana, trying to let gratitude flood her features.
“You have my gratitude,” she responds diplomatically, “I look forwards to proving my innocence, as well as my worth to the Inquisition.”
Leliana blinks, but her frown remains intact. “What do you mean?”
Lavellan considers her next words carefully, and manages to look Leliana straight in the eye as she speaks.
“My people might seem unusual to outsiders, and perhaps we might even seem unusual to other Dalish. I was sent to the Conclave because my people look to the future and see only darkness. We are used to grappling with impossible odds, but there is only so long one can cope with tragedy after tragedy before wondering when someone is finally going to act and rise above what to all seems insurmountable and strike a match in the dark. This Inquisition does not fight for the Dalish, but if this Inquisition is going to leave its mark on history… I would like to do my part in that.”
Leliana might suspect she is trying to appease the bard’s idealistic or romantic sensibilities. In a sense that is exactly what she is trying to do. Doesn’t hurt that it is the truth, in ways Leliana cannot suspect, at least not yet.
Leliana’s eyes narrow. “So you admit that you intend to spy on the Inquisition for your clan?”
Lavellan softens in the face of Leliana’s brusque cynicism. Probably not a good idea, but she can’t help herself. “That is not quite what I meant, I apologise. Clan Lavellan has no power to alter the course of Thedas, or change the plight of the elves. But this Inquisition… this Inquisition faces the reality of a broken sky, and must act. That action will ripple across Thedas. I would be here, and help. I am tired of having dark futures thrust upon me and my people. I see a flame in the dark. I would follow its light.”
She knows, deep down, that Leliana is a deeply pious woman, and as a bard she also has a fondness for symbolism and metaphors, especially religious ones. She just hopes that Leliana is not so hurt that she immediately suspects she is being manipulated, and instead allows Lavellan to unabashedly appeal to her romanticism.
There is a look in Leliana’s eyes. Lavellan supposes that either way, she has probably convinced the bard of something.
“I will verify your information and we will continue this discussion at a later time.”
Leliana turns her back to her then, and returns to her business with one of her spies who just walked into the tent. Lavellan knows a dismissal when she sees one and quietly slips away.
She walks out into the light outside the tent, and takes in a deep breath. The Chantry building has not changed from her memories, and the sights, sounds, and even smells settle against her senses, uncanny because it is so familiar.
She never really missed this place, not in the way she sometimes missed Skyhold. She’d been so frightened here, at first, barely more than a young girl, really, when she’d woken up and found herself in chains.
She remembered how the vitriol and anger had whiplashed into cultish worship and reverence. It had disoriented her and filled her with dread. She’d tried finding some humour in it all with Varric and Solas, especially at first.
She feels herself tensing at the thought of the elven apostate, a feeling of longing and yearning twisting in her gut.
A part of herself hates herself for what she is about to do, on more than one level. She is walking towards the apothecary’s hut, but it is not Adan or his apprentices she wants to see.
Yes, she is really doing this.
She sees him standing in the small open space between the three huts, his hands clasped together behind his back. He is looking out at the horizon beyond Haven’s stone walls. She traces with her eyes the curve of his shoulders and the back of his neck, and finds it hard to breathe in the cold winter air.
He has no idea who she is.
For once, she could have an advantage of anonymity and secrets. He would not be able to manipulate her as he once did. Leading her to Skyhold, teaching her about the mark on her hand, serenading her with stories about the Fade and elven history…
She realises with a start that Solas and her are equals now. More than they have ever been before. In power, in magic, in knowledge. That equality might not last, and it is probably more than a little fraught. But he has not yet absorbed repositories of power meant for the evanuris. He is not the Dread Wolf yet. He is still just a mage, if an exceptionally talented mage. But still.
Her heart flutters as she watches Solas turning around, he must have felt he was being watched. She sees the outline of his face against the landscape and the distraught sky, and pushes down a strangled sob threatening to choke her throat.
He’s seen her now, however, and she moves forward, trying to act as naturally as possible. It’s not like she’d just been staring at the details of the shoulder-blades of her greatest adversary and former lover.
She thinks about turning away, and just walking into Adan’s cabin and making up an excuse about needing lyrium potions or something, but changes her mind. She will not run away from him. She needs to establish a rapport with him and Varric, so that she may soon prove her usefulness to Cassandra, and eventually the inner circle, and the new Herald.
One step at a time, she thinks, trying to ignore the absolute war raging in her stomach. She doesn’t think it is possible to be this grateful and this nauseated.
He looks at her curiously, and she suddenly realises that she has no idea what she is going to say, so she blurts:
“Andaran atish’an. Are you the apostate elf?”
It would probably have been completely unnoticeable to anybody else, but she sees the faint traces of a sneer around his eyes as she greets him in elvish. He is likely offended by any number of things: the pronunciation, that she is Dalish, the implication that she considers him to be the same kind of elf as she.
That last thought hurts a little more than the others, and she holds onto that feeling. It will be easier, she thinks, if she can focus on Solas’ disdain, as he is now firmly an adversary. She knows better than last time than to be swept up in him again.
“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions,” he replies smoothly. His voice causes the skin on her spine to ripple all the way down her back.
Right.
“My name is Lavellan,” she says in tone that she is proud is only slightly subdued. “Allow me to apologise for my forwardness. I am simply relieved to not be the only apostate in this place.”
Solas nods. She can read the understanding on his face as his mouth relaxes and the downward pull of his eyebrows lessens. Her heart hurts with how easily she can read his face, even as guarded as it is now.
She had once, what feels like an age ago, and certainly in another lifetime, tried to build a connection with him (and then later with Sera, to disastrous effect) based on her supposition that since they were both elven, they were therefore outcasts in similar ways within the Inquisition.
This time, she will emphasise that she is an apostate instead.
She notices then that he is gazing at her face. She stamps down the girlish blush spreading on her cheeks. She reasons that he is simply wondering whether she is Dalish, or an alienage elf with a better handle on the elven language than most. Though she has already revealed that she is an apostate, so he probably assumes she is Dalish.
“It is comforting to not find oneself alone. The Seeker has been accommodating towards me, of course, but I understand your caution,” he tells her, with the hint of familiar warmth and kindness in his voice that she remembers all too well.
“I heard the humans speaking of you. You taught the Herald to close the rifts, though he is not a mage. Will you be staying, then, with this Inquisition?” She is proud of how smooth that sounds. Very smooth. Almost nonchalant.
Solas nods. “I will see the Breach repaired.”
“I am glad to hear that, as I intend to stay to help myself. This is a danger that none of us can afford to ignore,” she tells him, looking up at the broken sky because it is too painful to look at him.
In a strange way, this conversation is the most affirming experience she’s had so far since finding herself lost in the snow, up in the mountains near the Temple. She knows that she cannot truly confide in anyone, here in the past (present?), but she always found her conversations with Solas eased some part of her, no matter how brief, cryptic, or fraught.
How that hasn’t changed, even when he does not know her at all…
She keeps her gaze focused on the sky. The Breach is somewhat beautiful, in a terrible way. The way a dragon destroying a forest is beautiful, in a terrible way.
Well, at least Iron Bull and her probably have a lot more in common now, in any case. She’s likely seen as many horrors as he has, now.
“Where you once part of a circle?” Solas speaks by her side, pulling her from her thoughts, “Forgive my curiosity.”
She shakes her head. “No, in fact I am Dalish, from a clan that wanders the Free Marches. I trained with a Keeper, but have also travelled alone and learned many secrets that way.”
In fact, over the years of training with dozens of different extremely powerful mages, she wonders if she’ll have a hard time explaining her magic this time around. She has learned tricks from Dorian and Vivienne, and even from Solas himself. She has spent time with all three enchanters that Josephine had found for her back in the day when it was clear she was going to be facing terrors far greater than minor demons whilst closing holes in the sky. And that was just the beginning of it. She doesn’t feel quite as physically young as she was last time she was here, but it might look a little suspicious for a Keeper’s First to have amassed the skills and experience she has.
“I see,” Solas smiles. He must have guessed that she’s Dalish, and looks pleased he guessed right. “I am simply surprised at the lack of vallaslin on your face. I recall it being a rigid custom amongst the Dalish.”
“It is,” she answers quietly, nodding.
She decides, then and there, that he will never get the satisfaction of knowing what happened to her face. Let him think whatever he wants. This is not a story she will ever give him.
He waits a little longer, perhaps hoping an explanation is forthcoming. She notices, that despite the green horror looming in the sky, that nightfall is falling around them, and quickly. In this version of Haven, she does not have assigned quarters in a cozy cabin. She will probably be roughing it, but given her experience with over-exposure this morning, she would like to perhaps find a tent or sturdier clothes to help get her through the winter night.
“Ma serannas, Solas. I am greatly relieved that I am not alone here, and will speak to you later. I must find accommodations.”
“Goodnight,” he nods, bowing his head slightly as she takes leave of him. She dares look at his eyes just a fraction of a second longer, and finds leaving him creates a painful sensation in her chest and stomach. But she is cold, and tired, and would like to sleep, so she heads to the tavern to ask if anyone knows who to ask for a tent or a cot to sleep on for the night.
She walks down the steps towards the inn, and cannot quite resist the impulse to look back at Solas over her shoulder once more, and discovers that he is standing still, his eyes never leaving her as she walks away.