The mountain is cold.
In light of everything that's happened since Ennaris woke in that dungeon, it's hardly the most important thing to note, of course. But it's the thing she keeps thinking about, the thing she keeps coming back to: she's freezing.
Probably because it's easier to think about that than to worry about all the ways she could die in the next 24 hours.
Her hand pulses in time with the Breach as they make their way to the forward camp, a reminder and a warning both; and then there are more demons to kill, and it doesn't matter how cold she is. She's better with a bow than with daggers, but Solas is a mage and Varric carries a crossbow, and it was one thing to hold to a bow when it was just her and the Seeker, but now—
So she throws herself forward with her lifted daggers, propelled through each encounter by survival instinct and some bare scrap of her father's training she's managed to hang onto, and every time she looks around and realizes the demons are gone, she survived again, she feels both faint and giddy.
"Your accent is Dalish, yet you are no elf," Solas observes from behind her as they walk away from a dead end and the two shades that awaited them there. "How did such a curiosity make it to the Conclave, of all places?"
She can feel his eyes on her. Varric's and Cassandra's too, probably; they all want an answer, want to know who she is and if she's innocent of the crimes of which she's accused, but the idea of giving one... It would be impossible, she thinks, to distill her history to one easy sentence, given to a stranger like it means nothing.
"What do you know of the Dalish?" she evades, and Solas hums—he noticed.
"I have traveled many roads in my time," he answers, rather than call her out, "and have crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion."
"They would sooner claim a flat-ear as their people than me, I think."
She has no practice in speaking equivocally on this subject; her tone betrays her yearning. Embarrassing, in front of strangers who want her dead.
"I see," Solas says from behind her.
"I think getting to know each other can wait until we're not all about to die up to our necks in demons, Chuckles," Varric cuts him off, and Ennaris can't help but be grateful for it. They continue to the forward camp, and from there to the mountain pass, and on to the Breach itself—
And she feels Solas' eyes on her all the while.
They tell her that she's to go to the Ferelden Hinterlands to recruit a Chantry Mother with Cassandra, Varric, and Solas to accompany her. They leave in two days' time, as soon as their packs are prepared and Leliana's confirmed their route. The journey should take almost two weeks on foot, and not always through the most secure roads.
Ennaris has been awake for less than 24 hours.
She's turned loose into Haven with no more information than that, left to determine how to make herself ready on her own. The Quartermaster is in charge of preparing their packs, so uniform, rations, a tent, are all taken care of—but no one said anything about potions. Surely they'll need potions on this trip, for healing and replenishing energy. There: task decided. Find... the apothecary? Does the Inquisition have one of those?
Ennaris wanders the camp, avoiding speaking to anyone by application of a careful combination of smiling and nodding. Training of long years has convinced her subconscious that it's unsafe to let her guard down around so many humans, so she listens to them instead, catching snatches of conversation near the quartermaster and the tavern. She does a double take every time she hears someone mention the Herald of Andraste in hushed, reverent tones and remembers that's her. None of them seem to know—or maybe care—that she doesn't believe in their Maker. They don't know what she looks like—some of them seem to think the Herald is an elf, or a man, and have to be corrected. It's... surreal. Bizzare. The more she hears, the more it unsettles her, so she hurries her pace toward the apothecary and keeps her head down.
Apothecary Adan is in a cabin in the western area of the village. He's a sour man, but he knows what he's doing and he cares about making sure people don't die, so Ennaris makes note of the things he needs before she leaves the building with a basket of healing potions. The mountain air is crisp in her lungs, the sun reflected off the snow all around bright in her eyes. She shields her eyes, re-adjusting to the light.
"The Chosen of Andraste," comes a voice ahead of her, and Ennaris blinks, squints a little as her eyes search out the source, "a blessed hero sent to save us all."
Solas stands near a cabin by the stairs, eyes on her, keen and curious.
"Is that what you believe, hahren?"
She hadn't intended to use the title with him, but it slips out as she approaches him, bright and almost teasing. Solas doesn't react, merely regards her with an expression unreadable, and then clasps his hands behind his back and raises his chin.
"If I don't, you must make me."
Ennaris laughs, but Solas just looks at her, and after a moment she subsides into a bewildered, awkward silence.
"I must... sorry, what?"
"Posturing is necessary," he asserts. "Your enemies would see you fall, and with you the Inquisition. If you are to withstand them, you must appear unassailable."
Ennaris knows nothing of politics, too young and rustic to have any sense of how to conduct herself in such a situation as she finds herself now. It still, to her uncivilized ear, sounds like solid advice—and coming from a hedge mage apostate, no less.
"How does a wandering hedge mage learn to play politics?" She asks with no malice nor suspicion, but she can see Solas' eyes narrow, his ears faintly twitching the way elvhen ears do that human eyes usually can't see. After a long, unreadable moment, he looks away from her, to the Breach.
"I've journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I've watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten."
Something in Ennaris quivers, or rings, maybe, like a struck bell. Some string of her spirit thrums and harmonizes with Solas' words, and she can only stare at him, enraptured. There are stories shared around the campfire, passed down from their ancestors, from the time of the Dales and before, which have made her feel the same: old, and connected. The rhythm of his speech tugs at something in her gut, and she listens to him in silence, full of a feeling she can't name.
"Every great war has its heroes," he concludes, turning back to her. "I'm just curious what kind you'll be."
"You dream in ruins and battlefields? Is that not dangerous? Don't such places attract—"
"Spirits, yes," he confirms, and then his lips twitch in what might be amusement. "Giant spiders, also, though if you leave out food they are usually content to live and let live."
Ennaris laughs, taken off-guard by the joke, and Solas blinks, surprised—then smiles. He's handsome, she realizes, eye-catching. Tall for an elf, with broad shoulders and a proud bearing that brooks no disrespect. His full lips wear amusement well, and the corners of his eyes wrinkle beautifully. She hadn't noticed while they were on the mountain together, too concerned with not dying to pay attention to that, but now that they're not ass deep in demons, she can see it clearly: Solas is very, very handsome.
Oh, dear.
"I do set wards," he allows after she's been silent for a little too long, "and it is not always safe. The presence of spirits in such places weakens the Veil there, however, and allows for deeper traversal of the Fade. I can go further in these ruins than any living being has dared, and see reflected memories left untouched for millennia. I would not trade that thrill of discovery for anything."
"That's extraordinary," she exclaims, and again Solas looks surprised—pleasantly so, she thinks. "The things you've seen—I can't imagine. I would love to hear about your travels, if there's anything you would share."
Solas doesn't respond for a moment. Quite a long moment, in fact—so long Ennaris begins to worry that her enthusiasm has annoyed him, or that she's said something offensive without realizing. But she sees then that there is something pleased about his expression, surprised as it is, and he nods. Yes, he will tell her some of what he's seen. She smiles, slow and a little shy, and after another moment he smiles back.
"I will stay, then," he says, and Ennaris starts. "At least until the breach has been closed."
It had never occurred to Ennaris that Solas mightn't stay, that she might be left here alone with all the humans and Andrasteans. It's a disquieting thought, but at least he's relieved her of the anxiety as soon as he introduced it.
"Was that in doubt?" she questions, and Solas smirks, just a little.
"I am an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces, and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution."
it's not that it hadn't occurred to her—ennaris is maybe the only core member of the inquisition who could be as aware of the precarity of solas' position as he himself—but she had not thought of it with quite as much clarity as she considers it now, and she realizes how lucky they all are that he hadn't left and saved himself long before now.
"You came here to help, solas. i won't let them use that against you."
Solas doesn't laugh, as ennaris thought he might. he regards her, canny and assessing, and she draws her shoulders back, raises her chin.
"how would you stop them?"
"however i had to," she vows.
the words rest a moment, heavy in the air. she doesn't blink, or look away. solas is helping, and he is an elf, and he saved her life. the least she can do is protect him with whatever power she has.
there's something in solas' demeanour that... shifts, then, or lightens, and ennaris finds herself wondering how alone he's been, and for how long.
"thank you," he says and she nods. "for now, let us hope either the mages or templars have the power to seal the breach."
in the morning, solas wakes her with witherstalk tea. she looks surprised, then a complicated expression overtakes her face—
"you... do not want the tea?" he sounds so terrified ness can't help but laugh, though she doesn't let him squirm for long.
"no, no, of course i do. here," she takes the tea and takes a big sip, making a face at its bitterness. when she looks up, solas is relieved, she can see that, but he is... something else too. his eyes—
maybe she's imagining it. he's not saying anything, anyway, maybe waiting for her explanation.
"maybe one day," she says "when the world isn't ending. but even then..."
She bites her lip and looks down into her tea.
"every elfblood is one less elf in the world. if all elves fell in love with humans, had children with them—there would be no more elves."
it's a thought she's had since she was old enough to understand what she is, in some form or fashion: she represents the very real possibility of a slow genocide of the elves. not an extermination born of violence and hate, but one the elves could willingly walk into, led by love.
she doesn't look at solas, though she can feel his eyes on her.
"the clan was right to hate me for that. it's not a simple difference of country or culture. it's a real threat, one that can only be protected against with intolerance. if they—"
creators, this wasn't meant to be a dissertation on her guilt. ennaris sniffs, steels herself. finishes her mug of tea in one swig.
"i don't want to be part of that. and i don't want to bond with a shemlen. so..."
she looks up finally to meet solas' eyes, to determine the effect of her words—and he looks stricken, somehow, pale and miserable in the cold morning light. perhaps he hadn't considered the implications the way she had, she thinks. perhaps he'd never had to.
perhaps thinking of it now, he's realized what a dead end she is.
"there will be plenty of elven children who will need homes when all this is done," she says, falsely bright, trying not to sound as desperate as she feels, "i can always adopt. and if—"
she swallows, tries to keep her expression encouraging,
"if it is important to my mate to have children of their own, i could—they could do what they need—"
"ennaris," he croaks, cutting her off. she subsides, miserable herself now, and waits.
solas closes his eyes. takes a deep breath. she can see the process of him folding away the things he has no use for, the emotions that do not serve this moment. if this were the beyond, he would be incapable of such subterfuge, but here in the physical world she has little recourse but to watch him shut himself away, to put his pains in a box and discard it.
when he opens his eyes, they are gentle on hers, and she trembles, waiting.
his hands are soft when he cups them about her cheeks. his eyes roam her face, lingering on her dull human eyes, her blunted ears. she feels pinned under his gaze, waiting for her sentence to be passed.
he tilts her head gently with his hands, and presses a kiss to the round of her ear. her breath hitches on a shocked sob, and he tilts her head the other way, to kiss the other ear. his lips travel from ears to eyelids, kissing each in turn. when he pulls away, a tear lingers on his lip.
"you are perfect," he tells her, and her stomach quakes with the weight of it, "exactly as you are. you do no harm by existing, vhenan."
it's an idea so devoutly wished for it can hardly be believed—but solas' gentle eyes are implacable on hers, his hands allowing her to look nowhere but at him. it is the truth, as he feels it. her existence isn't a crime against the people.
let it be enough that he thinks it, she pleads with herself, with the creators, let it be enough that he loves me.
"thank you," she murmurs, unable to agree, and he smiles, sad like he knows it. he presses one last kiss to her forehead, thumbs away the tears gathering on her cheek, and steps away.
she feels it is a crime that she exists, and it is his fault.
he sits with that a moment. lets the unfairness and the ache settle in as he twines the leather of his footwraps around his ankle. she had done nothing but be born with the truth of her hidden, and it was enough to condemn her to a lifetime of loneliness, of loathing—she, whose spirit was as bright and beautiful as any in elvhenan.
solas had not considered what may happen to half-breeds under the veil. he had not known to consider them at all—elves and dwarves did not mix in ancient elvhenan, and humans had not yet reached the continent when he had been forced to lock the sky away. he had seen the possibility of their existence in uthenera, but there had been so much else to grieve, he had not considered...
it's possible any offspring of an elf and a human would always have looked fully human. he tests the thought, hands still in the middle of a loop. perhaps bodies made of lyrium did not mix well with bodies of flesh, and never would. this does not have to be another weight. it can just be a sad truth of the world; there are so many of those.
it does not feel true. he finishes the braid of his wraps, and stands. the veil is at fault—he is at fault.
he has wounded his heart before he ever knew her, and he will do worse before all is done.
before they return to camp, ennaris returns to the stone wolf, and scatters more cured meat between its paws.
"thank you for watching over us, fen'harel," he hears her say, soft, and his heart flutters painfully to hear it. then she reaches up and pets the thing's snout, before returning to his side.
they walk in comfortable silence, shoulders bumping, and solas...
he must ask.
"i have never known the dalish to be so kind to fen'harel."
ennaris looks up at him and blinks—perhaps shocked that he has mentioned the dalish without derision—before looking back to the forest in front of them.
"they're not, mostly. he locked the creators in the beyond, he's the evil in our stories. like... maferath to the chantry, i suppose. jealous and blind to his own faults."
his jaw clenches—their last victory over him, that the evanuris might control the narrative even after they were all imprisoned—but he says nothing, allows ennaris to continue.
"i don't know if i believe any of it. everyone has the stories they tell to make sense of the world, don't they? the creators never felt any more real to me than the maker."
she shrugs, eyes on her feet as they pick through the underbrush. a low-hanging branch sweeps near her head, and solas lifts his hand to brush it out of her way.
"but fen'harel is an outsider. wolves are never alone, but he is, always, without a pack. i always thought he must be so lonely."
it is strange. to feel so distant from the myth fen'harel became, to feel so little ownership of the name—and yet to hear her sympathy and feel some long-buried ache ease, some vise about his heart loosen.
she may yet understand, he thinks. she may see the truth of him, beyond the myth made of his life.
"that is a kind perspective," he says after a moment. "if the wolf exists, i'm sure he would appreciate it."
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