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At first, there is nothing but darkness. A pitch black inky depth that no one can escape, and then, a sudden burst of feral green light blazing within her palm; expanding and eating away at her, sending electric pulses through her hand and up her arm, setting her ablaze in an eternal green flame until her entirety is consumed by the light of the Fade.
Mahariel gasps awake, sweat dripping down her freshly marked face. Tamlen stirs next to her and she freezes. How did she end up in Tamlen’s araval? This was often the case in her restless nights. Mahariel would sleep walk and end up here, always back here beside her best friend. She calms her breathing gradually before gazing down at the man beside her. Tamlen, although he had grown broad over the years, still looked soft faced when he slept. Mahariel smiled and wiped her brow gently with the palm of her hand, careful not to scrape the scabbing of the fresh wounds on her face.
It was today she was given her vallaslin, blood writing, which marks the transitioning into adulthood within the clan. And her forehead still burns with flush, even long after Marethari took her into the aravel with the promises of maturity and adulthood yet unfulfilled. Tamlen’s ceremony is set in a few days, she knows, but she can’t help feeling bashful as she recalls his eyes moving gently over her newly decorated face. She wonders what it looks like. She can still feel the scorch of the needle on her skin, as though the design of Dirthamen’s raven wing arches have come alive on her temples. Marethari warned her not to touch them for as long as they itch, but she’s just glad the greivous pain of the ritual is over.
Tamlen shifts beside her and grumbles. “Couldn’t sleep, Fen?” he mutters sleepily, eyes still closed. Mahariel sighs and brings a hand to gently play with one of the small braids in his golden hair. She produces a sound in the back of her throat affirming his suspicions. He moves one of his hands over hers, preventing her from twirling the braid any further and instead curls his fingers in around it before placing his lips gently on her knuckles.
“What did you dream about?” Tamlen whispers as Mahariel settles back down next to him, careful not to let go of his hand.
Mahariel inhales and exhales deeply before speaking. “Green fire; same as last time,” she hisses. It was always this same vision but nothing clearer ever came of it. “Isn’t that the sign of lunacy?” Tamlen chuckles.
"I'd be so lucky!" Mahariel bumbles.
“You’re not insane,” he breathes, stifling soft snickers.
Mahariel sighs, “But how do you know?” she hisses, pouting. When she turns her head to face him she is startled, his eyes studying her features, showing only concern for her.
Tamlen hesitates, she can feel it, the tension in the air is stifling within that moment. It is late in the night on a warm summer’s day and the long-grass is tall and sweet, smelling like open fields, flowers, and honeyed wheat and it filters through the camp and whisks away the scent of the halla, dirt, sweat and smoke of the hearth. Suddenly Mahariel is conscious of everything around her. She stares at her tan toes, made darker in the absence of light, and wrinkles her nose in thought, hoping to alleviate some tension in the moment.
“Tamlen, what am I doing?” she murmurs, large blue eyes darting about, pinpointing small stitches in the silk of the araval.
“You shouldn’t mumble like that, you know how the elders hate it,” he titters breathily.
“Creators, Tamlen! It’s the middle of the nigh-,” he kisses her.
He kisses her for the first time under the silk of the araval on the far side of camp. He leans over, grasps her face in his hands, and presses his lips to hers. She freezes, inhaling sharply through her nose, hyperaware of the warmth of his palms gently placed on her cheeks, avoiding her freshly engraved vallaslin and of the soft nudge of the tip of his nose on her cheek. Was this another dream, perhaps? A pleasant effervescence of happiness bubbles up in her heart as she shuts her eyes and responds as best as she can. It’s clumsy, as any first kiss is, but the implications are what truly matter. This was a connection, a bond between them shared over countless moons and here they were, forcing their reverie to the surface and into reality. This was much better than the Fade; softer and with more warmth then the dream realm could ever offer in its stead. When Tamlen pulls back, Mahariel can see through even the cloak of night that his face is deep red and the tips of his ears look like they’ve been dipped in scarlet ink.
Mahariel blinks. Once, twice; clears her throat. His hands drop away from her slowly and she finds herself missing the contact almost immediately.
He looks at her for a moment, indecision and something she can’t identify struggling openly on his face. “What was that?” she asks in a raspy voice, sounding like she hasn’t spoken in years, her voice cracking.
“S-sorry lethallan…,” Tamlen bites his lip, avoiding eye contact as best he could. “But, you’re not crazy."
"And how is that, hm?" Mahariel smirks up at him, blue eyes glinting mischievously.
"Because I," he hesitates, unsure of whether he should continue but reasserts his confidence by clearing his throat, "Because I wouldn’t fall for a madwoman…” he sighs softly.
Mahariel can’t help but burst into a quiet, breathy laughter. She rests her head on his shoulder as she laughs, and he winds an arm around her waist. It is then that she realizes just how broad Tamlen has become. Wasn’t it just yesterday that she adopted the underdeveloped halfbreed Dalish and brought him under her wing when he arrived from the city as a small child? Wasn’t it just yesterday that she had to defend him and Merrill both daily from the larger parented children in the clan, armed with naught but fiery heart, prickly spindleweed and wolfy snarling? Wasn’t it nary a few days ago that she, Merrill and Tamlen adopted the younger Fenarel into their group of misfits?
“I suppose you’re right,” she sighs into his chest, “I’ll speak to Marethari about it in the morning though, to be sure,” Tamlen hums in affirmation and she rests her head under his chin and closes her eyes. Drawing in his scent she swiftly drifts into a deep slumber once more, a smile gently placed upon her lips.
Mahariel drags her hand along the cotton spun rug in the Keeper’s tent, fingers playing with soft dyed fabric. She had been explaining to Marethari her visions. The Keeper had always known Mahariel could dream walk and told her as a young elfling that it was a great gift from the ancient days of Arlathan, just as her silver hair was. But more often than not, Mahariel wished for this gift to have never been bestowed upon her. She’d had them ever since she was but 12 seasons, clear as day the memories still called out to her from the fade. Ashalle would comfort her those nights she could not find rest and tell her she was meant for greatness and hum to her softly the tune of Mir Da’len Somniar. After every dream, however, she did not feel so destined to greatness as doom.
“You keep having this recurring dream, the one of the green fire, yes?” Mahariel fiddles with the hem of the woven rug beneath her. Marethari hums in thought. “Some somniari are gifted with visions of the future, but if that were true I do not sense anything but destitution from these dreams and that is what worries me.”
Mahariel frowns, looking up at her clan’s leader, “What, like a prophecy? That seems a bit…absurd.”
Marethari shakes her head. “No, dalen,” she chuckles, “it is more a promise than a prophecy. Dirthamen may have gifted this power to you specifically. You were born in his temple; it would not be such a foolish notion.” There is a moment of silence between the two women before Marethari clears her throat, “Do not dwell on it, da’fen. If they become unbearable I will give you some herbs to help you sleep peacefully, but it could very well be nothing.”
Mahariel sighs. Could it truly be just a dream? The all-consuming fire devouring the world seemed all too tangible for a mere night terror. She had a suspicion there was something more to this ordeal. It was insidious, burying its way into the back of her mind and let be it very well may swallow her mind wholly. Something still bothered her about what Marethari told her, however. She looks up, face full of incertitude, “You said I was born in the temple of Dirthamen yet no one has ever told me this before. The Dirthamen ruins are far from here, Keeper,” she searches the older woman’s face for any answers to rein in her intuitions.
“That is true. Ashalle was always going to be the one to tell you about your parents and so I will save that task for her, but I can tell you of where you came from if you wish,” Marethari’s expression turns wistful.
Mahariel mulls over the proposal a moment before nodding. "I...I think I would like that, actually."
A gentle smile forms on the Keeper's lips. “We have no proof, but your mother informed us when she arrived that you were born in northeastern Orlais, off the coast of the Waking Sea. We believed she had somehow come across the lost temple of Dirthamen when she went into labor with you. She described this beautiful mosaic on the walls of two ravens and an elven figure covering its mouth. If that is not a symbol of Dirthamen I’m afraid I cannot tell you what is. I believe it possibly to be a cruel sense of fate the Creators have, that you display the Keeper of Secrets’ vallaslin on your face proudly without knowledge of this.” Marethari coughs into her hand, “But that is enough chatter from this old witch for today; I believe you are to help master Ilen today with his craft, are you not? Best not keep him waiting, da’len.”
Mahariel snaps back from her thoughts at the mention of working with Ilen today. She was meant to rope Fenarel into taking her place so she could hunt with Tamlen but she is certain he is trying to hide currently.
“Right, ma serranas Keeper,” she gives a curt nod of her head before sitting up and exiting the tent. A prodigy of Dirthamen she may not be, but a hunter most definitely and so Mahariel pushes aside all thoughts of her ominous visions and decides to hunt down Fenarel to trade work for the day. Hunting with Tamlen always put her mind at ease and she felt the forest call her with the chirping of the birds and the slight breeze tingling her nose with the scent of pine.
She stretches in the sunlight before spotting Fenarel attempting to sneak off from across the clearing. Today was going to be a good day.