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The elf was nothing more than a small heap of crumpled cloth lying at the centre of the stone room, the heavy dark manacles around her wrists gleaming dully in the torchlight. She was completely still but for the quick, shallow movement of her chest. Solas knelt beside her, face set in a grim frown. Her eyes rolled ceaselessly beneath her eyelids, brows knitted in a strained crease over her nose. Unintelligible whispers, fast and frightened, fell from her lips. Her condition did not appear to have changed over the past day. The alchemist (what was his name?) had been using elfroot infusions in an attempt to keep her alive—while it seemed to be doing just so, it was not improving her condition.
The anchor thrummed a bright, frantic rhythm beneath the skin of her left palm, almost as though it sensed its host was dying. With gentle hands, he pulled her head to cradle in the seat of his lap as he set to his work. He had given up trying to remove the anchor. Any attempt had aroused only shrieks of pain from her, tortured writhing as the anchor had flared in angry protest. Either he remained too weak from his slumber to remove his mark properly, or it had fused with her life-force so tightly that no power would affect it. Either way, it was now useless to him. Solas shook his head, pushing away the thoughts that clouded him. He was frustrated, afraid and for the first time in a millennia he was truly unsure of what he should do. For now, he tried to focus on keeping this mortal alive. For as long as she lived, some hope remained of undoing the chaos that had been wrought by the Breach.
The elf’s skin burned to touch. Brushing away the licks of hair that were plastered to her face with sweat, Solas placed a damp cloth across her forehead. It seemed to soothe her. The wrinkle in her brow faded and her muttering grew fainter. He pulled her scarf away from her neck, hoping to cool her somehow. Closing his eyes, he pressed his fingers gently against her temples and sent forth a gentle tendril of healing magic into her form. He recoiled almost instantly. The anchor’s energy blazed through her too hotly for his talents, weakened as they were, to have any effect. Solas’s mind ached from the intensity of his brief exposure to it.
Trying to keep from screaming with anger, he concentrated on the elven woman’s face beneath him. She seemed so frail, almost wraithlike, beneath the heap of armour and cloth she had been found in. It was hard to know how old she was—younger than he, certainly, though by how much he could not tell in the prison’s dull light. Ghilan’nain’s antlers were tattooed between her brows in a dark ink. He wondered absently, not for the first time, how a Dalish elf had found herself amidst the Conclave. A fierce pity for her twisted in his gut. She was a mistake, nothing more, an error that had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and she would now surely die from it. A mortal, sent physically through the Fade—no, she would not survive. Solas did not know where he would go. He did not know what he would do, but flee somewhere far from here and hope to rebuild his plans from scratch.
Solas wasn’t sure for how much longer he stayed with her, washing her skin and administering various alchemical concoctions and wards in an attempt to stabilise her. The elf seemed to calm in his presence. How much she could perceive in her current state he didn’t know, but he liked to think his work was a comfort to her. Believing that did something to soothe him. Gingerly, he shifted her head from upon his lap to a soft clean cloth he had folded into a makeshift pillow. He packed his things back into his satchel and stood, making up his mind to find the Seeker, Cassandra. Perhaps she would be willing to try and seal the rifts once more.
Solas cast one more look at the elf, brittle and pale, before leaving the prison.
***
His muscles screamed in protest as he spun his staff overhead, summoning forth jagged shards of ice that flew through the flesh of the shade. It felt an eternity that he and the dwarf, accompanied by a small regiment of soldiers, had been dancing with demons, Solas attempting where he could to affect the rift somehow with his magic. Instead it remained, an ugly rip in the Veil spewing endless waves of monsters. Varric seemed no happier. His broad face was contorted in a grisly snarl as he let loose bolt after bolt from his crossbow. It was no use. They would have to retreat, or die. Panic rose in him, hot and tremulous, as he continued to fight. It was over. Everything was over. The call to fall back was on his tongue, a barrier ready to be cast upon the backs of the fleeing soldiers, when—
A spear of lightning shot through the shade, its form disintegrating into small dark shreds. Solas whipped his head around. He saw a blur of vivid red hair, heard the Seeker’s battle cry, and then a long, clawed hand shot toward him. He ducked, rolled and sent a wave of frost into his assailant before smashing through the brittle sculpture with his staff. He turned. The crumbling courtyard was empty save for himself, the dwarf, the soldiers and the two newcomers; Seeker Cassandra, tall and imposing, and a red-headed elf in bulky mercenary armour. He recognised Ghilan’nain’s vallaslin with a jolt. Alert and upright, the prisoner was near unrecognisable from the fragile elvhen he had nursed on the floor of Haven’s dungeon.
“Quickly!” he cried, seized by sudden inspiration. He started towards her. “Before more come through!”
He yanked her marked hand upward by the wrist, toward the rift. He barely had to coax the energy within for it to escape. Her body could barely contain it as it was, and so it burst from her palm with an eager violence. She screamed, her whole body shaking with effort—the rift pulsed angrily—and, with an impossible flash of energy, the air was clean. Unmarked. The rift was gone.
The soldiers cheered. Cassandra, Varric, the prisoner and Solas stood together, beneath the now non-rift, panting. Solas almost laughed. There was a way. What had been wrought could be undone. His plan could still be carried out. He could start again. Elation mixed with relief, warm and molten, spread through his belly.
She was now the key.
He shifted his gaze from the space where the rift had been and was met with a pair of bright green eyes staring widely at him. Cassandra’s prisoner was taller than he had assumed, though the armour she wore still gave her a scrawny appearance. She had an angular face of strong, proud features. The elf was trembling slightly, whether from the cold or exertion—or both, Solas thought grimly—he did not know. She held her marked hand against her chest.
“What did you do?” Her voice rang out, sharp and clear.
“I did nothing,” Solas replied simply. “The credit is yours.” He inclined his head toward her.
She drew her hand away from her chest, gazing reverently at her scarred palm. “You mean this,” she said. She held her hand out. The anchor thrummed unsteadily.
Though his body still tingled with excitement, he reminded himself to choose his next words carefully. The precarious balance he had struck between revealing what he knew without exposing the truth of who he was had to be preserved. “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorised that the mark might be able to close the rifts that opened in the Breach’s wake.” He grinned despite himself, unable to hide his burgeoning satisfaction. “And it seems I was correct.”
“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” Cassandra interjected, studying him sharply.
“Possibly,” Solas acquiesced, looking from the Seeker to the prisoner. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”
Her brow lifted as she studied the place where the rift had been. She traced the pattern of the anchor with her thumb absently. Wonder softened her features, lips parted slightly as though she were about to speak. It was curious to see her in life, rather than fitful sleep. The prisoner was both familiar and strange to him like this.
“Good to know,” Varric’s husky voice broke Solas’ study. “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” He smiled widely at the elf, showing off broad, straight teeth. “Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller—and occasionally—unwelcome tagalong.” He winked at Cassandra, winning him a scowl and a grunt of disgust from the Seeker.
“Are you with the Chantry, or..?” she trailed off, regarding the dwarf apprehensively.
Solas could not help but laugh. “Was that a serious question?”
“Technically, I’m a prisoner. Just like you,” Varric answered.
“I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine,” Cassandra bit at him. “Clearly, that is no longer necessary.”
“Yet here I am,” he said smoothly. He gestured casually to their bleak surroundings. The soldiers were assisting their wounded in returning to Haven. Formless snowflakes drifted about them, caught in some intangible breeze. “Lucky for you, considering current events.”
“It’s good to meet you, Varric,” the elf said, before adding slightly uncertainly, “That’s… a nice crossbow you have there.”
Varric chuckled. “Ah, isn’t she?” He craned his neck to admire the enormous crossbow slung across his back. “Bianca and I have been through a lot together.”
“You named your crossbow ‘Bianca’?” She asked, a hint of a laugh in her question.
“Of course. And she’ll be great company in the valley.”
“Absolutely not,” Cassandra cut in, face twisted with displeasure. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but—“
“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?” Varric countered incredulously. “Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.”
There was a tense pause. A muscle jumped in Cassandra’s temple as she studied the dwarf, clearly weighing her dislike of him against her need of his skills in their foray closer to the Breach. A disgusted snarl escaped her as she threw up her hands and turned her back from him, a graceless admission of defeat. The elf’s gaze flicked restlessly between the Seeker and the stout dwarf.
“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions,” Solas said, stepping toward her. “I am pleased to see you still live.”
“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,’” Varric offered dryly.
She contemplated him with guarded curiosity, a mix of interest and suspicion on her face. After a beat, she said, “You seem to know a great deal about it all.”
It was both a statement and a question. Solas could not help being taken aback by the pointedness of her words. Her keen gaze never left him, eyes searching. He kept his features smooth and composed—he was practised at this. He was about to make his reply when Cassandra interrupted.
“Like you, Solas is an apostate.”
The elf stiffened. Solas, too, felt an unpleasant wave of unease. She was a Dalish mage, primary suspect for the Divine’s murder, in the midst of Chantry forces. Solas knew he could disappear, if need be, should his position become precarious. This prisoner was not so fortunate as to have such an option.
“Technically all mages are now apostates, Cassandra,” he said smoothly. Cassandra frowned. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade,” he continued, “Far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”
It was not entirely a lie.
“And what will you do, once this is over?” the elf asked.
Solas gave his answer easily. It was the same false reasoning he had given others. “One hopes those in power will remember those who helped, and who did not.”
“I see,” she said, regarding him thoughtfully. Solas had grown accustomed to the suspicion, the disbelief and the outright dislike he had seen in others once they learned of his ‘mission’ in assisting the Seeker. The elf’s seeming perceptiveness was unnerving.
“My name is Zirael, of clan Lavellan. I am pleased to meet you, Solas,” she said, bowing her head. Solas returned the gesture before turning to the Seeker.
“Cassandra, you should know the magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. Zirael is a mage, but I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”
Solas was anxious to reach the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Now that he knew the rifts could be closed, he needed to see that the anchor would also repair the Breach. Even if it did, he thought forebodingly, Zirael could very well die in the process. The idea seemed much more appalling now that she stood before him, awake and very much alive.
“Understood,” Cassandra replied grimly. Her brow settled into a determined scowl. “We must get to the forward camp quickly.”
Gripping the hilt of her sword, she turned and began to make her way along the path deeper into the valley.
“Well… Bianca’s excited,” Varric said with mock enthusiasm before following suit.
Solas caught Zirael’s eye. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“As I’ll ever be, I suppose,” she quipped, clenching her marked hand into a fist. Solas offered what he hoped was an encouraging smile. She returned it, briefly, and made to catch up with the others.
He cast one more look around the desolate courtyard before turning to follow the bobbing head of red hair, hoping against hope that what had gone so terribly wrong could be made right.