Chapter Text
It is the same tireless refrain every time.
One trick is all the Templar's have. One gambit that they parade proudly as if it is their god-given right to strip power from the world and impose their own will upon it. It takes little goading to bait them out, they will resort to a holy smite before enemy blades can be drawn; a mocking laugh is often enough to incense them.
No one is laughing now, but Erys' shields shriek a discordant protest as the Templar's will explodes against them, drowning out the Fade in a torrent of piety and lies.
She lets them drop with a bloody gasp, diving away at the very last moment from the downward thrust of a greatsword that misses her shoulder by a hair. She is faster now, stronger, but the Smite seeps deep beneath her skin, crushing against her spirit and smothering what magic she can reach for. It sputters like a dying flame, choking before it can answer her summons, and in that terrible silent eternity the sound of her brethren dying around her is all she can hear.
She spits blood from her mouth, bares her bloody teeth in a feral grin. The dagger at her belt is sacrificed to a savage strike against her own bicep, shearing flesh and sinew into a bright, ruby smile. The blood courses thickly down her limb, to the ruined stub of her elbow where scar covers flesh. Rather than dripping free to stain the earth, the blood solidifies, hardens, jagged crystals interlocking in profane mockery of the absent limb. The Templar halts his advance, just for a heartbeat, but it is all the time she needs.
Hilt in hand, Erys thrusts her arm forward. The spirit blade ignites from the crossguard in a conflagration of blood and chaos, ripping through the Templar's chest at the precise moment of formation. He falls like a tree felled, and Erys wastes precious time to spit upon his upturned back. She offers no words, no prideful gloating, instead turns away and sends a ripple of renewed magic through the Fade to bolster Felassan's failing shields, which grants him the opportunity to complete his spell and draw a torrent of wildfire through the Veil.
It is over quickly after that.
The odds weren't terrible in number, but Templars will always be trouble. Magic is a terribly ephemeral thing, and a Smite is an ordeal to break through. There are those precious few among the elves that can manage it when bolstered, but the ability to do so is gained through the ordeal of fighting for one's life when failure means death. Or those, like Erys'enya, who subvert the Fade when needed with the power of their own blood. Suffice it to say, a Smite is more often than not a death sentence, and one that would have spelled the end for each of them today if not for Felassan.
His expression does not invite congratulations.
"Tabris," he says quietly, and Erys' breath hitches.
The clearing is more scarlet than verdant, now. Blood soaks torn leaves, seeps into the soil to poison the earth. It will be some time before the rains wash it away, and even longer before the Veil can recover from the strain of the violent memory. It will take even longer for the survivors to forget, will linger in the mind for whatever years they are lucky enough to endure beyond the here and now, because among the littered, broken bodies of the half-dozen dead Templars lies the mangled corpse of Lian Tabris. Knight, brother, and friend.
"Shit," Erys curses, clutching her head. "I thought I had— He was in my—"
"You couldn't hold through a Smite," Felassan tells her quietly. "It wasn't on you."
Logically, she knows that. Illogically, her mind screams at her that this is her fault, that she is weak for letting the Smite decimate the barriers she laid upon her comrades. If she had been more careful, if she had not charged ahead when she saw Mahariel take that arrow to the shoulder—
Then Mahariel would be dead and Tabris would live. One for the other. A ruthless equation.
"Shit," she spits again, swaying dangerously. Felassan curses, stepping to her side to seal the wound cut into her arm. The moment her skin seals the blood's form releases, sloshing to the ground with a sickeningly wet splatter. She returns her spirit blade to her hip, and offers no thanks. "We need to move."
Felassan nods, grim-faced. Mahariel and Ralaferin rejoin them, bloodied and bruised and caught between horror and rage, in that terrible place where grief awaits the ebbing of shock. It is Felassan who holds them together, who summons the halla and straps Tabris' body to the saddle of his own mount, who bends to offer consoling words to the wolf snuffling desperately at the bloodied greaves of her silent master.
Six dead shemlen warrant no celebration today. Instead all that follows their return to Halam'shiral is exhausted, agonised silence.
They find little comfort on their arrival. The gates raise to permit them, but the forward scouts have done their duty and silence is what greets them. These valiant returned knights with the body of their fallen brother lashed to their saddle, their welcome is downturned gazes and bowed heads. Erys' fingers grip the reins until her knuckles burn white, until tears threaten to score through the dirt and blood on her cheeks. She holds fast, but barely. As Knight Commander it falls to her to bear the news to Lian's family. It is a duty she will never feel strong enough to shoulder.
If the world were kinder, they would be drawn into cheers and laughter, with a mug of ale pushed into her numb grip. The loss of blood has left her dizzy and cold but the grief is what threatens to truly break her. Through it all, though, Mahariel and Ralaferin do not leave her side. Felassan's presence is as unwavering as ever, even with Tabris' cradled in his arms. It might be her imagination, but she thinks she cannot even hear the wind in the trees around them.
In accordance with their customs, Tabris' body will be prepared by the healers before he is interred among their ancestors within Din'an Hanin. For a moment it seems as though Felassan will not surrender the boy, but he does. Jaw clenched and eyes hard, he does, though his empty hands flex as though clutching for a weight he is not ready to release. Silently, Erys slips her hand into his, finding burning warmth to stay the arcane chill of her own, and a tension that thrums through Felassan's bones down to the marrow. He does not weep, Erys isn’t sure she has ever seen him give way to tears, but the depth of his grief is undeniable.
"Come," she says, tugging lightly. "Bathe with me."
It feels unspeakably wrong to avail themselves of the comforts reserved for victors, but one death—in truth—does not obfuscate their success. Templars are dead, their borders protected, they are victors by rights even if their hearts do not accept the truth. Still, they cling to the familiarity of the ritual, the four of them, companionable in their grief-stricken silence and the absence of the one who should be there to join them.
Felassan helps her disrobe without question. Their bloodied armour is handed to the attendants and then there is a welcome reprieve of steam and incense to hide tears and the rush of fresh water to smother sobs. Erys is quick to wash the blood from her skin, her hair, to dig dirt and viscera from beneath her nails with the file held tight between her teeth. All steps she would take to cleanse the battle from her body if Tabris were still alive, damned to bear the unwanted weight of solemnity because he is not.
Felassan steps up behind her to comb the tangles of the skirmish from her hair. This close she can feel the adrenaline-fuelled heat of his body, the tremulous quiver of his broken heart. He touches her with a gentleness he does not bring to the battlefield; he may as well be a completely different man.
It would be nice, she thinks longingly, if they wanted each other. She could lose herself in a haze of lust and let him fuck the pain from her body and heart, but she might as well wish for the sun to rise at night. In all the years they have fought and laughed together, she has never stirred for him and, to her knowledge—which runs deeper than most where Felassan is concerned—he has never stirred at all. This is one realm of comfort they cannot enter together, but he still wraps his arms around her waist and buries his face in her hair.
It will never get easier.
"I had it," Mahariel breathes, staring at some point in time invisible to the rest of them. Her dark eyes are glazed with pain. Her damp hair sticks to her skin. "I was close. I should have— I should have."
The water stirs as Ralaferin shifts close to her. Shoulder to shoulder, the young healer twines their fingers together along the surface of the heated pool. Mahariel permits the touch but she is not even remotely near to a point where comfort can reach her. None of them are, for all their desperate need for it. "Fuck all you could have done."
Mahariel shakes her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I should have."
This nonsensical thing she should have done is to avert Tabris' fate, but Templars care little for the intentions of elves. Chantry doctrine decries them as beasts, traitors, no matter that they follow a pantheon that existed long before Andraste filled her mouth with the lies of the Maker. Their existence threatens order, and Drakon would see them eradicated for that reason alone. These petty border squabbles portend a cataclysm that none of them want to address.
"Do you think they ache for the loss of their own?" Ralaferin asks. "Does it hurt them like it hurts us?"
"There's more of them," Erys mutters. "But even fodder has family, I suppose. Someone to miss them."
"We should have left them alive, then." Ralaferin's lips pull back into a snarl. "Cut their ears and sewn them to points and sent them back."
"For what purpose?" Erys counters. "Galvanise them further against us? What warning would that offer? Will you hold the Dales against an Exalted March?"
"I'll hold the Dales until I die," Rala spits. "We all would."
True as that may be, the elves of the Dales do not possess the martial might to defend against the full might of the Chantry. She is no fool and the elves are not blind. They know what occurs beyond their borders; their isolation does not beget ignorance. Scouts tell of Drakon's fury, the deepening hatred of the people his father had once counted among friends and allies, tell of the whispers he drips like poison into the ears of the Divine. For the moment, peace is tenuous, but Erys is not foolish enough to believe the memory of a bitter alliance will hold. The elves have not been forgiven for letting Montsimmard fall to the Darkspawn. Drakon tests their borders as one might probe the jagged edges of an open wound to search for infection; to see where the inflammation lies and how much rot needs to be excised. The day his scouts return with successful news, the day reports cross his table denoting the true weakness of the elves, they're dead. All of them. They are only delaying the inevitable. Drakon only needs a reason, no matter how flimsy, and in the absence of veracity it is only a matter of time before he invents one to suit his purpose. The next conquest he chooses will be against the elven stain on Thedas and there will be nothing they can do to stay his ire.
They leave the baths cleaner in body, but no amount of water can cleanse the mires of their minds.
The choice, until tomorrow, is tavern or torpor and Erys wavers uncertainly between the two. The warmth of the water has not yet returned the warmth the chill of her casting has left her with, and her body aches with the consequence of her desperation. It is not a matter of knowing better, it never has been. It is simply a matter of necessity, and one she is regrettably addicted to. Her dreams will be closed to her tonight, the Fade trapped behind limits she imposes upon herself, so the tavern seems like her best option for numbness. Sleep will do little for her now, and at least in the drinking halls she will find some company.
The mood is predictably subdued, though. The fire roars in spite of the pall cast over the elves therein, but even its warmth is muted. Honey mead has no sweetness, mulberry wine no delicate aroma to savour. It is bland as ash in her mouth and every glance turned her way is full of pity.
It is infinitely preferable to the loneliness of her chambers.
Felassan does not appear to agree, but he stays beside her anyway. Again she thinks to offer herself, for a chance to feel anything beyond mournful regret, but the request never leaves her lips. If that is the sort of comfort she desires, she will needs find it elsewhere. She doesn’t even particularly want it, she just wants something.
"Stop it," Felassan mutters and she stills, noticing only then that she has driven her nails too deeply into her palm. She unfurls her aching fingers slowly. Deep welts etch the spread of her skin. "Stop chasing pain".
"I’ve stopped," she murmurs petulantly. "I just—"
"Didn’t ask." He cuts her a narrow-eyed glare. "Vent your guilt to someone else. You know I won't hear it."
The kindness is skilfully cloaked but she sighs fondly anyway. "Are you…?"
"No. I don’t know how much longer I can do this."
It is not an unfamiliar sentiment. "We've all thought the same at one point or another."
"And that doesn’t strike you as deeply fucked up?"
"Knights die, Felassan. It's what they do."
"In war," he counters darkly. "Are we at war?"
She'd call him childish if she didn’t know better. Felassan's years of service are many and devoted, but Thedas is vast and even after all this time Erys does not know the shape of the past that haunts him. He shares much of himself freely and without restraint; his laughter, his frustrations, his joys. But the shape of the pain that lurks in his memory is unknown to her. Not for lack of asking, but these are secrets he will not share. She gathers that he was a warrior of some repute, and perhaps far older than he appears, but he will not be impressed upon to admit it. Still, there is obvious pain in the depths of his eyes. Perhaps more so than any of her brothers and sisters could ever conceive of.
"Sleep it off," she suggests, because there's little else to be done. "We'll mourn and we'll cry and we'll remember our rage and then we'll get back up and do it all over again."
"It seems cruel to seek the Fade and leave you to suffer alone."
"I'll be alright," she tells him, flexing her fingers. The numbness has almost fully receded. "I’m used to it."
"Also fucked up."
"Didn’t ask you."
He sighs and leans against her. There's something about grief that softens him oddly. She has seen it warp and harden the kindest of their people, but for Felassan it always strikes somewhere that leaves him open and weak, longing for a comfort she doesn’t know how to give him.
She leans her head against his shoulder and hopes it is enough for her to just be close to him.
It never is, for any of them, but it's all that they have.
She does not dream and can find little relief in the clutch of such fleeting repose, but she supposes that the absence of nightmares is its own relief, in a way. It also means she can rise easily with the dawn and prepare herself with ample time to join the convoy bound for Din'an Hanin. She spares only a passing glance for the dark-sailed aravel that will bear Tabris' body hence, unable to let her eyes linger on it for too long, and finds Felassan and Mahariel standing beside their own mounts shortly after sunrise. Two dozen of their kin will accompany them—they can spare no more—and it appears that the High Keeper chosen to speak the rites for Tabris will be Tanaleth.
Tabris' mother and father do not look at her as she passes, her hart's reins held tightly in her hand. She permits them their grief to however it manifests and if it soothes their broken hearts to blame her she is more than willing to accept that culpability.
"Beautiful day," Felassan comments moodily when he sees her. "Bastard sun."
Mahariel elbows him. "You'd rather make the journey in the rain?"
"I'd rather not make it at all."
Mahariel concedes to his point.
Ralaferin does not join them, which is disappointing but not unexpected. Her duties as healer will resume now that the issues at the border have been put to momentary rest, but her presence would have been appreciated.
It takes two days to reach Din'an Hanin from Halam'shiral on halla-back. As is custom, the procession holds to a vow of silence in mourning. Erys doesn’t know if it's impressive or terrible that they trust in each other enough to be able to coordinate without words, if it is a mark of skill or simply an overfamiliarity with the weight of grief. In her time as a knight in service to Halam'shiral, Erys has undertaken this journey no less than sixty-three times. When she was nineteen, they needed seven aravels to hold all their dead.
The funeral itself is— fine. Tanaleth is a loquacious and kind Keeper, and she spins beautiful, heart-wrenching eulogies for the knights she is chosen to honour. She speaks of the Creators, of Tabris' devoted service, of the Beyond and its welcoming embrace, and none of it does anything for the weight of grief lodged in Erys' chest. Perhaps cruelly, all she can think of through the pretty speech is Tabris' wolven companion—the honour of every Emerald Knight—and the sorry fate that awaits her.
Wolves have walked beside the knights since Maferath bequeathed the Dales to the elves. The bond is ironclad and unbreakable, but by virtue of the strength of that connection, it brings a terrible reality to the event of untimely death. Erys trembles to think of what will become of Inga when her own death takes her, but such things are written too deeply into their culture to overrule. As Tabris is laid into the halls of Din'an Hanin, his lifelong companion offers a low, aching howl, and then settles herself down upon her belly beside his grave. She will not move. If left unaided, she will remain there until starvation claims her; she will not stir to hunt, she will not rise again to her instincts, and her demise will be long, painful, and unnecessary.
Tanaleth is quick and kind with her blade. Erys still cannot bring herself to watch.