Chapter Text
Then / The First Regret
Trees rustled in the wind, the only sound to break the silence of the still night. Stars glittered like jewels embedded in the blue-black sky, surrounding a luminescent full moon. Nothing else stirred around her. Whatever breathed was silent, and all shadows remained obscured.
Ellana sat with her legs folded under her, hands still in her lap. Torchlight illuminated the grass around her, and though her eyes remained closed, she could still see the light’s imprint beneath her eyelids.
She did not cry out or wince when Keeper Deshanna began the blood writing. She was the youngest in her clan to undertake the rite of gaining a vallaslin at sixteen years old, and she wanted to prove she was not weak. Her mother had tried to discourage her, to tell her she couldn’t possibly be ready, but who was she to say it was too soon?
Ellana knew which god she would honor; whose Vallaslin she’d wear like an award etched into her skin. It was not a decision to take lightly. The blood writing would endure the trials of her life with her and change as she would change. When she grows old, and her skin begins to pinch and sag, so will the vallaslin. But the meaning will always remain the same.
The sharp cry of an owl broke the sacred silence, but the Keeper was already finished. Ellana’s cheeks throbbed and stung, but she opened her eyes and held the other woman’s with complete confidence.
“Well done, lethallan,” Keeper Deshanna murmured, offering Ellana a small smile of encouragement. “Stay and meditate until you feel as though it’s sufficient. Do not itch your face, it will only make the discomfort worse. Dareth shiral.”
Ellana repeated the sentiment before settling back into the silence, alone this time. The air was sweet with the calming scent of elfroot, and she felt anticipation at the thought of crushing some of it to apply on her cheeks. Gods, how it itched! How Yevarin endured the complex design of Elgar’nan’s vallaslin was beyond her comprehension.
It did not take long for Ellana to feel content with her meditations—in fact, they had not been necessary in the first place. Choosing which god to honor had been easier than breathing, or walking, or eating.
She had chosen to honor Mythal.
The Present
Green, near translucent tendrils of magic swarmed above Ellana’s head; disjointed rocks and roads floated around her, dizzying her and throwing her off balance. She never felt sick the way Bull did, but she finally empathized with his plight. She leaned on Solas heavily, her hand still on his shoulder.
Morrigan explained most of the memories that were discovered at the Lighthouse not long before the battle with Ghilan’nain and Elgar’nan. She wanted Ellana to have complete knowledge before choosing this path with Solas; there would be no half-truths or lies of omission this time.
Though, not even Morrigan could have warned her about the Dread Wolf’s prison.
Carefully, Ellana removed her hand from Solas’ shoulder. She had forgotten how tall he was compared to other male elves. He seemed completely harmless once, so kind and gentle. Seeing him holding that dagger aloft, swathed in bloodied Tevinter robes, prepared to bathe her world in demons and fear - it was enough to fully convince her how powerful and intimidating he truly was.
It was never about her, and she knew that; but some part of her still hurt to be rejected once again, even if it was quickly amended. Ir abelas, vhenan. He said the very same thing to her eight years ago. It hurt more than the Anchor ever did.
Solas was watching her now, his eyes communicating a sad language she didn’t want to translate just yet. They were both clearly rattled by everything that had just passed.
Ellana could still taste the salt of his blood on her lips, and that somehow spurred her into action. She untied the red sash from her hips with minimal fumbling and urged him to sit down on a protrusion of rock behind them. He seemed too despondent to resist; between the two of them, he seemed the most shocked.
He winced when she touched the cloth to his brow, but relaxed when she rested her prosthetic hand on his shoulder. How long has it been since he last felt a person’s touch? The thought made her heart break apart even further, ripping through the stitches this reunion had created.
“Once you’re patched up, we should come up with a plan,” she said gently, moving onto the wound beneath his lip. She paused briefly, allowing herself to meet his eyes. They were violet now, not the gray-blue that were once similar in color to her own. “I don’t know how this works, Solas. I know it will not be easy. But I am with you.”
Solas’ brow twitched, just the slightest of movements, and yet it was enough assurance for her. He was exceptional at speaking his thoughts, but never skilled with expressing his heart.
“I lied to you,” Ellana said suddenly, dropping her gaze down to his hand. She was still surprised he willingly chose to bind himself to the very thing he sought to destroy. She gently wrapped the cut with the sash, closing his fingers over the cloth when she was finished. “Well, I took a page from your book. I have forgiven you, but not for everything. But I want to.”
He tensed beneath her touch, but she didn’t relent. She held his injured hand tightly, but could not meet his eyes again.
“Then it seems I have something else to seek atonement for,” he murmured quietly, covering her hand with his opposite one.
Ellana smiled, a sad impostor of her natural one, but it was a start. “Ma harel lasa. More than I ever have.”
“I know, vhenan,” he said softly, brushing her hair behind one of her ears. The cadence of his voice lulled her immediately, forcing her to snap her attention fully back to him.
We make this journey together, always. She had meant it
“Dirthara-ma.”Ellana caught one of his hands and kissed his palm before stepping away, hardening herself and her emotions. “Now, you lead and I will follow this time, Fen’Harel.”