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Bellara couldn’t sleep. This was nothing new for her, but tonight brought a different kind of insomnia: a chest-tightening, pulse-racing, dread-inducing insomnia that froze her solid in her bedroll. Her usually poor sleeping habits were born of restlessness, a potential energy compelling her to move. Some of her best feats of genius came from these sleepless nights. Tonight, however, she felt like the uncharacteristically starless sky above their camp in Arlathan Forest.
Yesterday was an extremely trying day for the entire team. Her focus was singular for the first time since Cyrian came back from the dead; the kidnapped Dalish could not become another casualty in this war against the gods. Her gods. It was the only thought keeping her legs pumping as they raced against the clock to rescue them from the Venatori’s grasp.
She had hoped that feeling of dread would dissipate upon finding them safe. However, she could feel every pair of eyes on her as she moved about camp helping Strife and Irelin tend to the injured. Neve had told her that they were just on-edge with tomorrow’s confrontation with the gods looming over them, but Bellara knew better. Why does everyone feel the need to coddle her? She handled her grief over Cyrian in her own way; it wasn’t the best way, but it was hers.
Bellara’s fists tightened around her bedroll as she worked up the mental momentum to rise. She grabbed her blue scarf and threw it around herself, intent on forcing another moment of ingenuity. Surely she could come up with something that would be helpful in their fight tomorrow, something to prove that she is doing her part to fight the good fight against Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain.
Bellara had no idea where she was headed, but that did not matter to her. She needed air; she needed motion. She needed to watch where she was going.
“Mhf— Bellara?!”
“Ow! My head…” Bellara nearly saw stars as she collided with the wall that was Davrin. “Oh, shit! Davrin, I am SO sorry!” She steadied herself on his shoulder before her vision stabilized.
“It’s rare that someone gets the drop on me,” Davrin smirked. He has a laugh that resonates through your chest and warms your soul like cinnamon whiskey. Her face burned hot as she reeled her wandering thoughts back in.
“I didn’t mean to— dammit,” Bellara stammered as she finally released her grip on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she tried again.
“No harm done, Bellara. Really— I was just getting back from a walk,” he nodded in the direction he came from, “ I needed to clear my head after this afternoon.” Bellara readjusted her scarf and prepared to run as fast as possible away from the embarrassment. Davrin raised a hand to stop her.
“Though I could use another lap before I turn in for the night,” he said. Bellara swallowed thickly.
“Aren’t you worried they’ll send a search party for you?” She summoned the courage to joke.
“Nah,” Davrin shrugged, “though I’m sure Assan will if we don’t get to walking.” He turned on his heels once he saw she would follow and began down the path.
“Right.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the relative stillness of Arlathan at rest. The cool night air helped to soothe Bellara’s still-rosy cheeks. The trail wound around the camp and down a gentle slope to the water’s edge. She remembered a night like this, wandering around with Cyrian as he tried to gather fireflies in jars. Really, he just needed someone to carry all of the jars, Bellara laughed to herself. Davrin looked over to her, eyes returning ahead when he realized she hadn’t wanted to share whatever it was she was laughing at. The memory hung too heavy in her heart now.
She had set out to prove that she could do things without someone’s help, but here she is needing another escort. If I’m going to waste his time, she thought, I might as well make it worthwhile.
“Hey, Davrin,” Bellara asked suddenly, “Did you ever, you know… believe? In our gods, I mean.” His pace slowed down a touch and for a split second she worried that she had said something wrong.
“In our gods, huh?” Davrin folded his arms behind his head. “I never saw a point in believing in something I can’t see for myself— can’t touch with my own hands or stab with my sword.” The gears in Bellara’s head began to turn at his response.
“But, that doesn’t make sense,” she said, catching Davrin by surprise once more. Dammit, I did it again. Why can’t I just keep my mouth shut? She stared intently at his face for any sign of discomfort before she dug her grave even deeper.
“I just mean that— well, you named Assan ‘arrow’, like in the Vir Tanadhal.” The look on Davrin’s face was unreadable; Bellara felt the blush creep up her face again and shook her head. “Nevermind, it was a stupid question—”
“Bellara, slow down,” Davrin grabbed her shoulder before she could run ahead of him. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” he admitted, “But I’d like hear your thoughts, if it’s all the same to you.” Bellara’s pulse screamed in her head and her heart threatened to explode in her chest. It isn’t often that someone wants to hear her ramble like this.
“I’ll try,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I just meant that, everything about you screams Andruil— what we were taught about her as kids, anyway.”
She pondered what god Davrin’s vallaslin represented since the day she met him. She knew that his Uncle Eldrin clearly had the markings of Ghilan’nain’, which made sense as a halla-tender. Davrin’s, on the other hand, was inscrutible. The sharp lines were too straight to be the serpentine loops of Ghilan’nain. Yet, they were halla-like all the same; not an arrow pointing to the sky like Strife’s.
“Vir Assan… be swift and silent, strike true, and do not waver. That’s you, Davrin.” Bellara was feeling the word vomit rising in her throat again, threatening to reveal more of herself than she felt was acceptable. She kept going anyway. “That can’t just be a coincidence, right? That means something,” she whispered low enough that Davrin wasn’t sure if he heard her correctly.
“Bellara…” Davrin closed the distance between them, just like the knights in shining armor in her serials. He opened his mouth to say something, but the flapping of Assan’s wings cut him short. He flew like an arrow straight over their heads and landed a few feet down the trail.
“Scree!”
“Sorry, boy,” Davrin laughed. “I didn’t realize it was past my curfew.” He bent down to razz Assan’s floppy ears. Bellara exhaled the breath she had been holding way too long.
“I guess we should head back,” she sighed. Assan turned his attention to Bellara, bounding over to see if she had any of those delicious gingerwort treats she sneaks him so frequently. He bunted his beak against her leg. “Sorry, Assan, I’m fresh out of treats tonight.”
Davrin nodded his head in he direction of camp, instructing Assan to head back with them. “I’d like to continue this conversation another time, if you’re amenable,” he said. The two elves set down the path back to camp, Assan’s paws crunching branches the only remaining sounds made in the night.