Chapter Text
I have not aged. That alone is confounding. Solas could never make heads or tails of it, but then again, I didn't think he would. I came here from a different world, possibly even a whole other dimension. There's no telling what the Fade did to me when I was 'rewritten'. I only know that I no longer age. I'm sure if you cut out my heart, it would stop beating. If I drowned or fell off a cliff or went into the Hinterlands alone and fought a bear or any number of other terribly stupid ways to die, I would be dead. But old age no longer counts among the ways to achieve it.
I foresee a lonely existence for myself. There will come a time when everyone I know will be dead and burned. Everyone but the Elvhen of my acquaintance. I suppose that is some comfort. They understand longevity and the variety of horrors inherent in it. But that's not a cheerful thought, not by any means. I will end up alone. It is, perhaps, better to accept that now and begin preparation for it, rather than pretend it will ever be any different. Hope is a fragile thing, and after all I have experienced here, I have little of it left. I will not waste it on that which I cannot change.
~ From the journal of Banal'ras Nydha, the Twice-Born
The letter, when it arrived, came by personal courier, which Nydha thought was a charming touch. Charming in that it invoked a sense of respect for her, for what she meant to the elves of Thedas and to him in particular. But the thought was sarcastic as well, because of course he would send someone in person to deliver a letter. Both to make sure she got it and because she was nearly positive before even seeing it that it was a delicately worded summons.
“On dhea,” she greeted the courier and his entourage. The longer she looked them over – all five of them, each in identical armor and wearing identical carefully blank expressions – the more she knew what the letter said.
The courier pushed back his hood and Nydha was shocked to see it was a face she knew. “On dhea, Mistress Nydha.”
“Abelas. You must have ridden hard to get here. I offer you guest-welcome. I have some fresh ram delivered just this morning.”
If he was surprised she'd recognized him, it didn't show. Then again, from what she remembered of him, very little did. He nodded once and dismounted from the gorgeous white hart he rode, and a simple gesture from him had the rest of the group dismounting as well.
Abelas smirked slightly. “I had heard a rumor that you had become one of the sky worshipers. I had not expected it to be so thorough. Shall I call you Thane Twice-born?”
“No. This is no hold and I command no folk. The legend mark granted to me by the Avvar is just another name, much like the one granted to me by...him.”
He cast a sideways glance at her, so reminiscent of the man he was here representing that she jolted for a heartbeat. But his eyes were gold, not stormy silver. And his face was thin lipped and tanned, not angular and freckled. Still, it made her remember who she was dealing with. Immortals in her garden, what would come next? The falling of the Veil?
Ahh, but that had already happened. Many years ago, in fact.
“A meal is not necessary,” he said, answering her initial question. “We have our own provisions.”
“Tea then?”
“Ma nuvenin. I will gladly join you. The others are merely here to...”
“To make sure I don't slit your throat and run off?”
From the corner of her eye she saw the guards stiffen at her words. As if she could kill Abelas. As if she would. It was ridiculous and they both knew it, even if his guards did not. They all appeared to be modern elves to her – admittedly untrained, but not inexperienced – eye. They carried themselves too stiffly in their armor, and their expressions didn't carry the patience and weight of ages the way his did.
Long years had passed, for all of them. She had always been an enigma to Thedas, and probably now a rather forgotten one, save the few ancient beings as displaced as she was. That was fine; she preferred it that way. Born on Earth, trapped in this world through a freak accident, now as ageless as they were without the magic to make it even worthwhile by whatever mechanics had brought her here in the first place. At least the elves had a nation to build. She had nothing.
She'd left the Inquisition after the Exalted Council, disappearing into the ether as surely as she had arrived through it. The Inquisitor, Martin Trevelyan, hadn't stopped her. They corresponded for a few years after that, simple things, never talking of the war with Tevinter and the Qunari, never speaking of the Dread Wolf and his plans. Martin knew her well enough to know she would oppose any plan to try and assassinate what amounted to a god. But that didn't mean she'd sided with the elves either.
Nydha brought herself back to the present as Abelas approached. “I am only a messenger.”
“I know. But you must admit, four armed guards for a single delivery is excessive.”
“It is a long way from Rosama'an.”
She gave him a sardonic look, not believing him for a second. “Fen'etunash.” He scowled at her profanity, but didn't comment on it. She held out her hand for his letter and he put it in her hand. She saw his perfect, tidy handwriting on it and her heart squeezed. “Come inside while I read it, hahren,” she sighed. “I'll put the water on.”
She laid the letter down on her table and bustled around the small cottage, filling the kettle from a pump, hanging it on a hook in the hearth, reaching for a pair of heavy mugs and her tin of Orlesian tea and a sturdy pot to brew it in. There was something almost perverse in the idea of serving Abelas, General of Fen'Harel, human tea. It helped dispel the heavy feeling in her throat at the thought of the words she was about to read. She wasn't quite sure why she was putting them off. The sooner she read the letter, the sooner she could give her answer to Abelas and he and his guards would be on their way.
But that would also mean confronting things she'd locked away for nearly twenty years.
“Will you sit?” she asked as she got the tea things ready and prepared to sit down herself. She wouldn't stand on ceremony in her own house, no matter that her unlikely guest was a Sentinel and the closest thing she knew of to elven nobility these days.
Abelas pulled out a chair and lowered himself into it, his armor whispering around his limbs as he did. It was similar but lighter to the armor she remembered. It hugged his form and appeared to have few, if any, weaknesses. The Elvhen always did know how to craft well, she mused. The kettle hissed and she carried it from the hearth to the earthenware pot to pour before setting it down on an iron trivet so it didn't burn the table. And then there was no more procrastinating to be had and she lifted Fen'Harel's letter and cracked the heavy wax seal.
I will not pretend that this is easy, for me to write or for you to read. I ask no forgiveness for it. Nor will I plead for your understanding or, indeed, take much of your time.
I wish to see you. It is a matter of great importance to the future I am building, and perhaps to your own. I ask only that you come to Rosama'an with this escort, that we may speak in person and in private.
~ Fen'Harel
Nydha set down the letter and looked at Abelas. The Sentinel regarded her placidly as she let her expression turn wary. “Why?”
“He requests your presence for his own reasons, Mistress Nydha. I cannot imagine they are nefarious.” He said it as if it was perfectly reasonable that she would go to the Elvhen city and see Solas again. As if nothing had changed, that the world hadn't changed.
“He could have sent a request by raven. And 'request' implies that I can say no. Sending an armed escort makes it feel like more of a compulsion.”
“Not that I am aware of. Perhaps it is in regard to the knowledge you carry?”
“Then why didn't he just say so?”
“I cannot speak to Fen'Harel's reasons, Mistress Nydha.”
She sighed and knew she shouldn't take out her mood on Abelas. It wasn't his fault, after all. And even if he knew more than he was letting on, which was likely, it would be unfair of her to poke at him for it. Nobody liked being put in the middle of someone else's troubles.
She had drunk from the Well. Not Martin or Morrigan. Neither of them were elf blooded, and honestly, neither was she. But her circumstances were unique. Knowing that the humble apostate advisor to the Inquisitor was really an ancient Elvhen demigod carried that sort of leverage. Solas had gotten Abelas to agree to let her drink, and then later, she was the one who had invoked Mythal's help. She was the one who had tamed a dragon to fight on Martin's behalf when they took down Corypheus. She was the one who knew when Solas had absorbed Mythal into himself.
She poured the tea and handed Abelas a mug and a spoon. Then she sat and thought, watching as he poured a bit of milk and scooped a single, spare spoonful of sugar into it. It was...mundane. Normal. She sipped hers black, needing the acidity to coat her tongue so she knew she hadn't lost her mind entirely.
“Can I say no?”
“Of course.”
“Should I?”
Abelas regarded her with his calm golden stare. “It is an invitation made in good faith.”
She snorted. “Ah, yes, an invitation. What makes him think I want to see him again? What makes any of you think I will choose sides now? What's in it for me, hahren?”
“Whatever you decide.”
Nydha snorted into her mug. “Has the mighty Fen'Harel figured out how to send me home, then?”
He looked remorseful and his gaze slid away from hers. “Ir abelas.”
Nydha sighed again, this time with exasperation. Mostly aimed at herself. “Tel'abelas. It's not your fault I'm stuck here.”
“I understand what it is to lose your home and everything you know.”
He was right. And she felt duly put in her place at the reminder. “That's true.”
Her cottage was snug and tidy and held all the things she'd felt like saving in her long years here. Her bow was hung up over the door, her armor packed away in a trunk. She had a shelf lined with books collected from all corners of Thedas. She had a carved ivory statuette of a halla, as well as one of a lion. A dragon carved from some smooth green stone. She had dwarven plates, Dalish woven rugs, Orlesian quilts and Fereldan furs for the winter nights.
Her furniture, and the cottage itself, were of sturdy Avvar make. She grew her own food, hunted for meat, traded with the nearest clan-hold in spring and autumn. She was known well enough by them that they'd given her a name, and she was welcome among them when life on her own was too lonely. The human who spoke perfect Elvish, communed easily with spirits and had the ear of the Dread Wolf. For all the good it did her when she hadn't spoken to him in twenty years.
And now he wanted to see her. Two decades of silence, ended. If she was brutally honest with herself, she was curious. What could there possibly be left to say to each other? It seemed there was only one way to find out.
“All right, Abelas. Let me pack, and I'll go to Rosama'an.”
“Ma nuvenin, Mistress Nydha.”