Chapter Text
This was nothing like the Well of Sorrows. There was no pool of strange water. It was an orb. Andruil's orb. The power of the Vir Tanadhal was so much more than just a simple blessing, she realized.
Her heart hammered in her chest, her palms suddenly slick with sweat. She should have turned back, left her reward unclaimed, because a gift like that didn't come without terrible consequences. But the Well of Sorrow screamed at her, it pleaded, it urged her to reach out.
Touch it. Just once. Just now.
She heard footsteps running towards her. The sentinels had found her. Solas was here. She felt his magic, even before she saw him, she felt it. Even knowing they'd been close behind her hadn't prepared her for the reality. She thought she had more time.
When she touched the orb, the world seemed to blink out. Her vision went black and all she could do was hold on---power unlike anything she'd ever felt cut through her. It was too much. It was too strong. She couldn't breathe but for the feel of it, burning her from the inside out.
And then, blessed relief. The power settled inside her and the pain was gone. She felt no different than before, but she could sense the change.
"What have you done?" Solas shouted. She glimpsed him from the corner of her eye. His face was a mask of horror, of rage, but she was not afraid.
The orb fell from her hand. It cracked when it hit the ground. Now that the power was gone, it was useless.
The stump that had been her left arm seemed to twitch. The skin burned and stretched, bone pushing through, elongating, growing. Magic lashed around it, her magic---her magic. It formed glowing fingers, a hand, and when the light faded, she was whole again. The hand was her hand. The flesh was her flesh. It moved as she willed it to move.
She fell to her knees. Her stomach lurched. The little she'd managed to choke down earlier almost came rushing back up. She just barely kept it down.
She could hold her bow again. She could hunt. She could fight as she wanted to fight.
The sentinels stopped behind Solas. They stared at her, wary, uncertain. She couldn't blame them for their caution. She didn't know the extent of her new powers, but she could bet she'd give them a good fight.
Solas did not feel the same caution. He pulled her to her feet, his fingers curling not so gently around her upper arm. He pressed his lips to hers in the mockery of a kiss. He was brutal, crushing---she could taste his desperation. His lips parted, his hold softened.
He did not touch the left arm, the new arm. He angled his body away from it as though he was a little afraid it would contaminate him. In Andruil's last days, she was said to have be tainted. Perhaps he thought the taint could be carried through her orb.
Perhaps a week ago, perhaps a day, she would have cared. The Well didn't believe there was any danger. She would trust Mythal's ancient priests before she'd trust Solas again.
When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathless.
"How can someone with such a marvelous spirit be so foolish so often?" Solas asked, "Time and time again, you play with forces you can not possibly understand. Why, vhenan? Why?"
"This is your fault, Solas," she said, "If you had left me in peace---" She had begged him. She had pleaded. He had been adamant she return to Skyhold, but how could she? The memories were too strong there. The people she had lost, the death she'd faced---he was cruel to demand it of her.
He had not been able to bring back the world he had lost. He had destroyed the veil. The immortality of the elves had returned. Magic had returned. And when he couldn't restore Mythal, he had gone a little mad.
He thought there was hope to restore the love they had shared. He thought they could be together again. He did not understand.
"Impossible, you know that," he said.
"You walked away before," she said, "It was not impossible then." He should have stayed away. The dead still haunted her. She couldn't forget.
"Things have changed," he said, "I tried to make you understand. It should not have been Andruil. You should not have come here."
She flexed her new fingers, rotated her wrist. She tested the muscles, her tendons. He was still more powerful than she could imagine, but what the orb had given her was enough. The Well whispered its secrets. She could protect her dreams. She could hide her thoughts. He had no way in unless she invited him, and that would never happen again.
The dead outnumbered the living. She could not have said which emotion reigned supreme over her, grief or rage. They were too entwined. How does one even begin to reconcile the truth when their greatest love destroyed the world? How could she even begin to move past the heartache?
"Do not fight me, vhenan," Solas said, "I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I must." There was no doubt in her mind he spoke the truth. He had claimed Mythal's power, Dirthamen's, and she suspected June's power as well. He was more powerful now than the gods had been at the height of their civilization.
The Well cautioned her not to resist. Not yet. She bowed her head for a second.
"Very well," she said, "I will not resist." Solas did not look like he believed her. A testament to how well he knew her, she realized. She almost smiled. Still, the sentinels kept their distance. Abelas looked at her like she was going to crawl out of her skin and eat them alive.
Perhaps later she would. If it came to that. She did not value Solas' ancient sentinels the way he did. They were not any more important than any other elf. She could spill their blood if she had to. Creators knew they had held no qualms about killing her people.
Back when she still had people.
"What is done is done," Solas said, "We will do our best to make the most of this development."
"And what do you propose?" Ellana asked, "Are you going to lock me in the tower until I agree to behave?"
His gaze turned on her, sharp and fast and thunderous. She felt the touch of his mind but nothing more. He could not peel back the layers of her thoughts. He could not read her.
She could not stop herself from smiling.
"Perhaps I should do just that," he said, softly, "Until you are not quite so set on getting yourself killed."
"You will do what you feel is best," she said. And so will I, she thought.