Chapter Text
The Herald of Andraste.
The title stuck to her from the very moment the people of Haven first whispered it. It traveled with the speed of rumor, at a hushed whisper, and preceded her wherever she went. At the time, it had felt apropos, the burning that slowly devoured her, that crept through her bones, was certainly the stuff of Andrastian belief. It marked her, that name, and drove her to do terrible things. She lied, almost constantly, killed, and played at judging the souls and minds of the Maker's children. That name consumed her faith, it stripped it greedily until all that remained were fond memories of others, of their belief.
Their faces, the holes they'd left in her heart when they'd been torn away, they haunted her. They were a constant reminder, unfailing and true, of what she had to do. She was not pious enough, she had never been, and she had never intended to change. She wasn't the Herald of Andraste, she wasn't a Hero, a Savior, she was a noble from a land of farmers, buried in the Freemarches, and exiled from what remained of her kin. Divine providence or blind chance had fused the anchor into her hand--she wasn't important enough, good enough, evil enough, for any sort of irony to linger in that event. She was plain, unremarkable, one of so very many...and, like them all, she was scared. She was terrified, every day, every moment.
The anchor was aptly named, it dragged her down, an immeasurable weight, caught on the Fade, and it would one day claim her life. Her every dream was a walk through the Black City, through the maelstrom at the very heart of the Fade, and her waking hours mirrored the nightmare. The pain was unending, though it ebbed to and fro like the tide, and with each day it wore a little more of her away with it.
But that, perhaps, was a blessing.
The less she felt of herself, the more she could focus on what she had to be. For as small and unremarkable as she was, as common and plain, the world was filled with things of such beauty, of such wonder, and they were worth thousands of her. There were people who were truly remarkable that walked beneath the sky, people who deserved the titles she'd stumbled into, people who enriched the world simply by being in it. She owed it to them, to all those who were better than her, to the world itself, to preserve as much of it as she could. To save as much of it as she could.
She couldn't save the world as a person, not as a Trevelyan and certainly not as Evelyn, but she might if she were the Herald of Andraste. If she were an instrument of Divine Will, an object to provide hope, comfort, inspiration, she might save enough of the world. She might save enough that someone else, someone more remarkable, might be able to heal all the hurts that were left behind. Unfortunately, the anchor was too terrible to be real, the power it granted was too much, too remarkable, and no matter how she fought to preserve, all it did was consume. It scarred the sky, drove men to madness, to desperation, and gradually fanned the flames that would burn the world to ash. Because of this thing, this key, so much beauty had been destroyed, so much was lost, and every day it mounted.
This power cost too much, destroyed too much and left the world darker, diminished in its wake.
Long before they'd called her Inquisitor, before they'd even called her Herald, before she'd even known what to call the shard of agony in her hand, she'd known the anchor would take her life. As time passed, as she tried to stay the destruction that she'd accidentally set in motion, as she tried to prevent the encroaching darkness and desolation, she came to a decision. If she could do only one thing, one thing that could truly improve the world, she would take this mark with her when she fell. It would not be used, by anyone or anything, after her time. It was a gift she could give to the world, a deed that was hers alone, but there was work to do before she could destroy it, work that required her, required the anchor.
It was her duty to wield the mark, until this was done, and she did it. She was terrified, to her very core, of failure, of the harm she could do, of the choices she had to make, but she never faltered. She was steady, a rock in a storm, and she tried to be the hero, the savior that they wanted, that they needed. She stood tall, listened to them sing hymns about the coming dawn, and buried the splintering, searing nightmare that wound up her arm. She saw the faces of her family, her friends, among the faithful and she wanted to weep, but she needed to be a hero. It was unfortunate that heroes don't weep.
Symbols don't grieve.
She carried on, always strong, always striving to save what joy and brightness she could, however small, and the Inquisition grew. Remarkable people flocked to her banners; the brave, the courageous, the brilliant, the beautiful, all of them followed her without hesitation and she wanted to scream. They cared for her, these great people, and told her that she inspired them. She helped them, tried to better their lives, assist them however she could, but she would inevitably disappoint them, hurt them, and there was already far too much hurt in the world, far too much disappointment. They presented themselves, shining beacons of potential, of wonder, and waited for the anchor to tarnish them, to consume them as it had her, never understanding that they stood in the flame, that it was just a matter of time.
She chose the strongest of them, time and again, as her companions.
Cassandra was what she should have been; she was the picture of the Herald of Andraste, an icon to uphold for all the ages. She was just, precise, and bowed to the truth, she would understand the need for Evelyn's death, would accept it and move on. Varric saw her as a story, saw the character that she mimed at and recognized it, recognized her function, her worth. Her death would simply be the conclusion, nothing more, and his tale would have an ending as grand as it deserved. Solas saw her as a curiosity, a tool by which to accomplish a task, the means to an end. He wasn't wrong, and when she was discarded, he would be the least affected.
They had seen her at her weakest, when she was merely Evelyn, when she still let the pain bring her to her knees. When she finally fell, her death wouldn't diminish their lives. They would stand long after her, unbent, unbowed, whole in the wake of the anchor; she trusted them with the remains of the world.
...But Evelyn was not as strong as they were. She was scared, and though she never wanted to hurt them, to hurt anyone, all too often she found herself drawing on their strength. When they were friendly, it eased her pain. When they were kind, it stayed her fear. When they told her about themselves, about their lives, about their friends, their loves, she almost felt worthy, like this kinship weren't a farce, a cruel error of fate. They called her friend and she was weak, she hadn't the heart to push them away, and so she knew she would hurt them, in the end. She was selfish and it shamed her, but she couldn't give them up.
They were all she had.
______
"Do we know how many rifts are left?" It was a conversation best had over a war table, but the Inquisitor paid it no mind. She carried herself with more ease around a campfire, with a tin bowl of thin stew and a log to sit at, than she'd ever managed within Skyhold. She settled in front of the fire and looked, over the top of her bowl, at Cassandra. The warrior let out a sharp, pleasant laugh and eyed the shorter woman.
"In total, or in the whole of Ferelden?" Cassandra asked, and it was clearly meant to be rhetorical.
"Oh, I think we can cut that down to the local area, can't we Seeker?" The stew was not to Varric's liking, but the meat itself was alright. Both the Inquisitor and Cassandra watched him as he carefully picked out a few chunks of meat from the pot.
"Use the ladle, Varric," Cassandra reprimanded but made no move to actually stop him. The frown she leveled at him had no bite and, when she turned back to the Inquisitor, it faded to a look of easy humor. "Leliana's scouts report two more on the Coast, and I believe there are reports of one in the Fallow Mire and one in the woods to the south."
"Unfortunately, it is hard to say how many rifts remain, given the nature of Corypheus's machinations," Solas added, his bowl was already empty and a wooden spoon rested against the side of it. He held the dish loosely in his hands, but didn't seem eager to rise and clean it. "My peoples' artifacts have done much to strengthen the veil, but, truly, until Corypheus is defeated it is difficult to take stock of all the damage done."
The Inquisitor paid close attention to the conversation, to each answer provided, and her expression gradually tensed. When she swallowed her mouthful of broth and lowered her bowl, she wore a pinched look of contemplation. Her frown pressed flat and, after a few moments of silence, evaporated to something more neutral. She inclined her head to Cassandra first and then Solas.
"Thank you, both of you," she said, quickly and sincerely, "It's good to know these things, even if it's not exactly as I'd have liked it."
"Hey, c'mon, Sunshine..." Varric leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees, and pointed at the Inquisitor with his makeshift fork. "Can't save the world overnight, might as well revel a little bit. If anybody deserves a pat on the back for a job well done, it's you."
"A pat on the back, Varric?" Cassandra leveled an unimpressed stare at him. "That is a very conservative reward considering your tendency for...excess. Do you really think her efforts deserve so little accolade?"
"Woah, didn't say that," Varric replied quickly and held both his hands up. "But you know the Inquisitor, not really the showy type. I'm just tailoring to my audience."
"Hm," Cassandra hummed and crossed her arms over her breastplate. When she looked back at Evelyn, her head was cocked to the side, just slightly, as though the angle would permit her to see more. "Varric is not incorrect, I suppose," she ceded and ignored Varric as he demanded to get that in writing. "I can understand, neither of us are given to extravagance, but you should enjoy your victories. A bit of revelry will not destroy the world."
"I'd be happy if she'd just take a high five and maybe a pint of decent beer."
"The Inquisitor is merely being prudent," Solas interjected, his tone warm, if slightly defensive. "If nothing else, it is an attitude befitting her position."
"Please, this is more than enough talk about me," Evelyn protested, a mild smile on her face. If anyone noticed that she ate a little faster, that her cheeks were slightly redder in the firelight, they didn't comment. "Can we turn the topic elsewhere?"
"That might be tricky, but it's worth a shot." Varric lanced a piece of meat shot a sweet look at Cassandra. "So, whose tent are you sleeping in tonight, Seeker?"
His flirting, obvious and familiar, got a rise out of Cassandra, as it always did. It was more genial now, but they'd all grown close over long months. There was no lack of fondness among them, and even Cassandra's disgusted huff lacked any real anger. Varric laughed as he continued eating and Cassandra shook her head. The whole exchange brought a shy smile to Evelyn's face, but the expression was fragile, it only ever lasted until it was noticed and, tonight, it was Cassandra that spotted it. The smile that spawned on the Seeker's face, small and subdued, was a reflection of it, and Evelyn's face fell to polite neutrality again.
"Not yours," Cassandra announced in no uncertain terms and motioned to the Inquisitor. "Tonight I will share with the Inquisitor. You two may take the other."
"Well, that sounds like the final decision," Evelyn said as she finished her soup and rose. The others remained seated, but watched her, as they usually did. She clamped the heavy lid atop the pot of stew, saved what was left for the morning, and extended a hand to take Solas's bowl. Before he could give it, Varric shot her a look that was very nearly annoyed. Her expression fell and turned confused, but he didn't relent.
"I tell you to relish your victories and you hear 'volunteer to do the dishes'? How boring was Ostwick?" Varric chided. "Leave it, Chuckles and I will flip a coin."
"It appears I have been volunteered for the cause," Solas remarked, bemused, and took the Inquisitor's dish from her as she stood before him. "Rest well."
"Thank you, Varric," Cassandra added, a note of approval in her voice, and Evelyn watched the dwarf duck his head under the pretense of eating. Silence, comfortable and easy, settled around the campfire and the Inquisitor excused herself.
The Hinterlands were not, by any stretch of the imagination, the most harrowing of Ferelden's lands. The days were often bright and warm, the nights were cool but never bitterly cold, and when Evelyn lingered alone, just outside of her tent, she could imagine that she was just a person again, standing in the wilderness. The quiet of the evening let her savor that, for a few moments, but the conversation around the fire picked up again, soft and friendly, and dispelled the illusion. She ducked into her tent, carefully stripped off her boots, her armor, and tried to settle into sleep. When Cassandra joined her, Evelyn drew herself against the Seeker's side, and rested her head on her breast. Cassandra, in her quiet grace and caring, wrapped an arm around her and did not draw away, despite how stifling the warmth between them became.
When she dreamed, with the Seeker's heart beneath her ear, the streets of the Black City were less terrible, the silence less deafening and cruel. When she woke, it was with a rare stillness, without terror clawing up her back. Her fingers were laced with Cassandra's, her head tucked beneath the warrior's chin, and there was a moment when the burning of the anchor was bearable, something that she could, perhaps, imagine as heartache instead of what it was. Evelyn smiled sadly against the rise of the Seeker's collarbone and was granted the press of lips against the crown of her head.
She always rose early, out of necessity and fear, in equal measure, and her companions mistook it for a curious habit. Cassandra rose just before the dawn, when the chill and darkness had left the world. Often the Seeker tried to wake alongside her, in an effort to be polite, to be friendly, but there was no reason for her to wake while it was dark and Evelyn encouraged her to slumber even as she drew herself away, dressed, and left the tent. She found Solas waiting, by the embers of the fire, and couldn't mask her surprise. He relished his slumber, the night was when he walked the wonders forgotten by the world, and nobody begrudged his taking first watch so that he could make the most of it. To see him awake, now, was startling.
"It is a bit preemptive, I suppose, but good morning." Solas's greeting was soft, hushed to avoid disturbing those asleep, and his hand waved across the embers as he coaxed a low, golden flame from them. The predawn cold was numbing, Evelyn enjoyed it even as she shivered, and though she moved to the fire side, she sat well away from the warmth it threw off. Solas raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.
"Good morning, Solas," Evelyn responded in kind, as was expected, and stared at him, confusion blatant on her face. He smiled and, before she could ask, stretched toward her and tucked a fallen lock of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks burned as he did. She'd not fixed her hair after sleeping against Cassandra. Suddenly, she was glad they were alone. "Thank you. Sorry, I forgot to fix it," the excuse was lame, if honest, and she glanced away from him as she drew her braid over her shoulder. It was crushed and wild, hair askew and jutting out at odd angles. Maker, she looked like a frayed bit of rope.
"It is hardly something worthy of an apology," Solas said, kindly, and Evelyn heard the gentle sound of his robes rustle as he moved alongside her. She'd untied the leather lacing that held her braid and, without a word, Solas's fingers carefully set about untangling the mess that she'd allowed her hair to become. She looked up at him but found his grey eyes casually fixed on the work of his hands. "I admit, similar complications did play a part in determining my current hairstyle...or, should I say, notable lack thereof."
He caught her as she glanced at his head, amused smile fighting the forcibly calm set of her lips. Evelyn folded her hands in her lap, somewhat awkwardly, and tried not to stare as he casually undid the knots that tangled her braid. Solas exuded serenity, being near him was calming and, between his closeness and the chill, Evelyn found enough peace to be distracted. The comment that stumbled out of her was fueled by her own blind curiosity, nothing more.
"I can't imagine how you would look with hair," she said, before she could catch herself, and Solas smiled as though he'd won some victory. His fingers lingered by her ear and a gentle push of his hand on her shoulder had her turning her back to him, so he could unwind the braiding at her scalp.
"When I was a younger man, I used to take great pride in my hair," Solas assured her, and her eyes closed as his fingers carefully slid back along her scalp and combed her hair into a presentable state. "No images remain of me, at least none that I know of, but I had hair...perhaps twice the length of your own."
"What?" Evelyn asked, far more loudly than she should have, shock coloring her voice. His fingers stilled as she turned her head to stare at him over her shoulder. His expression was matter of fact and, unless she imagined it, just slightly smug.
"Yes, though I favored a style considerably more...elaborate than the one you wear," Solas said and his fingertips pressed against the base of her skull, urging her to face ahead again. "I wore it arranged in thick, rolled locks, often twisted at the crown of my head, occasionally adorned with bone decorations, beads, strips of leather, even feathers if the mood struck me." He had worked the tangles from her hair and Evelyn listened, rapt, as his fingers carded through and expertly drew segments of her hair between them. "I was terribly handsome in my youth, a fact I exploited quite mercilessly."
"You are still handsome Solas," Evelyn replied, correcting the slight he'd paid himself so easily as he wound her hair into a secure and complex arrangement.
"Thank you." She could hear the private smile in his voice at her flattery. He let a moment of silence mark the pause in his story, waited for her to respond with her customary 'you're welcome', and continued. "I do sometimes miss the stares of adoration, but I can't honestly say that this style isn't infinitely more practical...if somewhat colder." Once his fingers had moved from her scalp, she had lost all sense of his progress. It wasn't until he touched her shoulder and silently requested the band she held, that she realized he was nearly done.
The moment rapidly approached its end and, with a sense of dread that she might have to give it up, to return to her day and the harrowing nature of it, Evelyn hesitantly asked: "What color was your hair?"
She felt him chuckle and there was a slight tug as he tied the end of her braid. He brushed it over her shoulder and, with the knowledge that she wouldn't interrupt him or complicate his efforts, Evelyn turned back and faced him. He was seated facing her, legs astride the fallen log beneath them, and though his expression had faded back to something unreadable, there was a lightness in his eyes. She was glad to have helped kindle that, if nothing else.
"Would you believe me if I told you I don't quite recall?" Solas asked, amused, and Evelyn nearly laughed. She bit down the sound but, before she could say anything, Solas's forefinger and thumb caught the tip of her chin. They were seated closely, but not so close that she couldn't lean away, couldn't put a stop to this if she desired. Solas leaned forward until his forehead rested against hers, but otherwise made no untoward moves, and Evelyn, as she had a hundred times before, gave into her selfishness and tilted her head until she met his lips. The kiss was chaste and lingering. The warmth of his hand and his breath pushed the chill away, and she hated and craved it at once. When she drew back, he released her without hesitation.
"Why are you awake so early?" Evelyn asked as she once again schooled her face and her posture. Her left arm rested between them and his warmth was already seeping into it, pushing away the numbing chill of the hours that preceded dawn. The sensation of the anchor wasn't anything as comfortable as a throbbing, if anything it felt like the rush of sand in an hourglass. Each grain was bladed, salted, and ate away at her hand without actually devouring the flesh. Some days it trickled slowly but, as her arm warmed, she knew today would not be one of those days.
"I had trouble sleeping," Solas admitted and his expression shifted slightly, as though he were studying her, turning her over in his mind and staring at the facets of her. It was a welcome change, even as it twisted something in her chest, and she settled a genial hand on his shoulder.
"You should try again," Evelyn said, gently but firmly. "Today might be very long." They were closing the rift in the veil that Solas had predicted. Of course, she had no doubt there would be a rift there; Solas was too brilliant to be wrong about the Fade. If it were as large as he predicted, however, she would need him alert. He recognized all of this, if the short sigh he released was any indication, and he leveled a rueful sort of smile at her as he drew himself up.
"Very well, I shall try again. Goodnight, vhenan ara."
"Sleep well," Evelyn added sincerely and was left alone, plunged into numbing cold and solitude again as he moved to his tent.