[ again, and this time he does not take it back. They were that. He was that. Solas, her friend, his friend, Wisdom.
He raises the ghostly suggestion of a hand to the mural, to the snow beside the shape of the wolf. His hand passing through the wall would not be so strange. Ghostly, as stated, and this is the Fade. But because it is the Fade, his hand doesn't pass through anything. There's space ahead to accept it, though it's more paint than snow, the figures still flat and unmoving. The mural is still a mural, and the mural is a doorway.
He withdraws his hand. Snaps out of it, a little, to give clearer confirmation. ]
That is where I saw him last. Will you come with me, lealathe?
[ Bright one,
And he is not proposing a trip to the wilderness of Orlais. Not really. What happened to him happened here, in the Fade; it doesn't have to be so far a journey. ]
[ she watches the spirit manipulate the fade with the ease of breathing, molding it like so much clay, and her heart catches in her throat.
ennaris wasn't raised as a mage. until the conclave, she was nothing but a hunter, and even now what magic she does have is stunted, blunt and vestigial and only awake at all by grace of the anchor. shallow as her pool of mana is, she's still heard and experienced enough to know trusting spirits is a dicey endeavour at the best of times. her friend hasn't been a danger to her yet, and he doesn't feel like a threat—but she lacks a mage's faculty with the beyond to even be sure she knows what a threat would feel like. solas would know if she could trust this spirit. solas would know its name. solas
isn't here. there's only her, and her friend, and she has to make her own decisions.
there's only a moment of hesitation before she takes a fortifying breath and smiles at the spirit at her side. no time to question this, no time to second-guess herself—she makes her decision, and lays her anchor hand on the mural. it's cold beneath her palm, solid and yielding at once—
[ The cold that swirls around them isn't cold, but the idea of it, as if remembering a snowy evening from the safety of a warm bed. Remember how your ear tips ached? Remember how the wind slipped past your hair to chill your scalp? Remember the ground beneath your knees, snow packed down tight enough for twigs and rocks to prod your shins, and the woods felt like they felt when the world was whole, and the herbs burning in the fire cut through the air with the scent of summer.
Remember the sense of a presence at your back? That's all there is β the idea of something dangerous just out of sight. Dangerous and familiar, loved, mourned for. If Ennaris tries to turn it turns with her, uncatchable by even the corner of an eye. Behind them is only a sliver of wall, the room they left behind painted there in flat and angular fresco, and a sea of tall and ancient trees.
The spirit does not try to turn to look back. He drifts forward to the fire, partway, held back near to Ennaris by the same sort of urge that keeps a child within easy reach of its mother. By the fire something more solid but somehow less real than him is kneeling and saying, She reminds me of you. I will not take the eluvians from her. She reminds me of you. I'm sorry, my friend.
That is not how it went β ]
That is not how it went. I said, They're stronger than you think, you know.
[ The form beside the fire recites it with him, two identical voices, and it looks up from the flames to consider its new company, though its eyes slide through and past the spirit to land on Ness instead. Violet eyes, vallaslin, and if he is a haunting he does not look haunted. There's wry, weary humor still written in the corners of his eyes, and it becomes impossible to tell which of them is speaking, elf or spirit. ]
It didn't matter what I said. He was going to kill me either way.
[ everything in the beyond is memory, ness reasons, is susceptible to the whims and opinions of those who first observed the events. she has become comfortable with ambiguity, with complexity, with the tension between known and unknown.
one moment, i see heroic grey wardens lighting the fire... the next, i see an army overwhelmed.
and you can't tell which is real?
it is the fade. they are all real.
her friend remembers fear, and so the memory will be fearful. it's not any more real than any other way to remember it. it's not any more real than how someone else might remember it. it's not any more real than solasβ ]
He wouldn't, [ ness can't hold the words back, reason lost, ] why would he? We had an eluvian. We have it still.
[ she knows because she enters it often, stands in the crossroads and tries to last longer each time, hopes dimly, stupidly, desperately to be something more than what she is:
a dead root of a dying people.
violet eyes and branches of blood stare back at her, implacable, and death stands at her back. ever out of sight, just in the corner of her eye, no matter how quickly she turns. she faces her friend, miserable, arms around herself against the chill of truth. ]
Solas isn't like this, [ she pleads, ] he's warm. He's kind. Please, let him be as I remember him.
As she remembers him, a shadow of him passes between them, Ness and spirit. Indistinct around the edges, more memory than person. His movement only shifts once and briefly, like a flicker of the light, into the furious predatory stalk of someone planning to cut down the fools who bound and corrupted an old friend.
The shape of him lowers onto one knee beside the fire and puts a hand to the elf's shoulder. You will have to explain your logic to me, my friend, he says, and it's as exhausted and skeptical as it is warm and kind, but certainly an improvement to the dead man before him, whose casual defiance begins to melt away. ]
That is better,
[ the spirit says, half-sigh, drifting closer to that imagined memory with a kind of hunger. As she remembers him. As they remember him. The memory of him looks up toward her and more warmth bleeds in. ]
[ it's almost crueler, she realizes, she shouldn't have askedβto get what she wants and to know that she has to be the one to choose to relinquish it.
not yet, though. ]
I don't understand, [ she steps forward, toward the shadow and the spirit. neither react to her getting closer, and she crouches down to look at both of them more closely. ] He wouldn't do this. He couldn't.
[ couldn't he?
youβtortured and killed my friend!
the shadow in front of her flickers, unable to make up its mind. somewhere behind them, a fire crackles to life, and the smell of smoke and burning flesh permeates the scene. ashes fall on her shoulders, only to dissolve in fade-green indecision.
it's such an annoying way to learn this lesson. couldn't it be cassandra instead? dorian? someone else she'd respected, put on a pedestal, anyone butβ ]
Solas, [ ennaris whispers, small and mournful, ] what did you do, vhenan? Who are you?
[ the shadow reaches for the spirit's faceβhis hands burn with magic, and are open-palmed in peace, and hold a dagger, all at once. ]
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no subject
[ again, and this time he does not take it back. They were that. He was that. Solas, her friend, his friend, Wisdom.
He raises the ghostly suggestion of a hand to the mural, to the snow beside the shape of the wolf. His hand passing through the wall would not be so strange. Ghostly, as stated, and this is the Fade. But because it is the Fade, his hand doesn't pass through anything. There's space ahead to accept it, though it's more paint than snow, the figures still flat and unmoving. The mural is still a mural, and the mural is a doorway.
He withdraws his hand. Snaps out of it, a little, to give clearer confirmation. ]
That is where I saw him last. Will you come with me, lealathe?
[ Bright one,
And he is not proposing a trip to the wilderness of Orlais. Not really. What happened to him happened here, in the Fade; it doesn't have to be so far a journey. ]
no subject
ennaris wasn't raised as a mage. until the conclave, she was nothing but a hunter, and even now what magic she does have is stunted, blunt and vestigial and only awake at all by grace of the anchor. shallow as her pool of mana is, she's still heard and experienced enough to know trusting spirits is a dicey endeavour at the best of times. her friend hasn't been a danger to her yet, and he doesn't feel like a threat—but she lacks a mage's faculty with the beyond to even be sure she knows what a threat would feel like. solas would know if she could trust this spirit. solas would know its name. solas
isn't here. there's only her, and her friend, and she has to make her own decisions.
there's only a moment of hesitation before she takes a fortifying breath and smiles at the spirit at her side. no time to question this, no time to second-guess herself—she makes her decision, and lays her anchor hand on the mural. it's cold beneath her palm, solid and yielding at once—
she pushes, and allows the mural to pull. ]
three months. THREE months. three months......
Remember the sense of a presence at your back? That's all there is β the idea of something dangerous just out of sight. Dangerous and familiar, loved, mourned for. If Ennaris tries to turn it turns with her, uncatchable by even the corner of an eye. Behind them is only a sliver of wall, the room they left behind painted there in flat and angular fresco, and a sea of tall and ancient trees.
The spirit does not try to turn to look back. He drifts forward to the fire, partway, held back near to Ennaris by the same sort of urge that keeps a child within easy reach of its mother. By the fire something more solid but somehow less real than him is kneeling and saying, She reminds me of you. I will not take the eluvians from her. She reminds me of you. I'm sorry, my friend.
That is not how it went β ]
That is not how it went. I said, They're stronger than you think, you know.
[ The form beside the fire recites it with him, two identical voices, and it looks up from the flames to consider its new company, though its eyes slide through and past the spirit to land on Ness instead. Violet eyes, vallaslin, and if he is a haunting he does not look haunted. There's wry, weary humor still written in the corners of his eyes, and it becomes impossible to tell which of them is speaking, elf or spirit. ]
It didn't matter what I said. He was going to kill me either way.
psls never die
one moment, i see heroic grey wardens lighting the fire... the next, i see an army overwhelmed.
and you can't tell which is real?
it is the fade. they are all real.
her friend remembers fear, and so the memory will be fearful. it's not any more real than any other way to remember it. it's not any more real than how someone else might remember it. it's not any more real than solasβ ]
He wouldn't, [ ness can't hold the words back, reason lost, ] why would he? We had an eluvian. We have it still.
[ she knows because she enters it often, stands in the crossroads and tries to last longer each time, hopes dimly, stupidly, desperately to be something more than what she is:
a dead root of a dying people.
violet eyes and branches of blood stare back at her, implacable, and death stands at her back. ever out of sight, just in the corner of her eye, no matter how quickly she turns. she faces her friend, miserable, arms around herself against the chill of truth. ]
Solas isn't like this, [ she pleads, ] he's warm. He's kind. Please, let him be as I remember him.
really testing that theory sorry
As she remembers him, a shadow of him passes between them, Ness and spirit. Indistinct around the edges, more memory than person. His movement only shifts once and briefly, like a flicker of the light, into the furious predatory stalk of someone planning to cut down the fools who bound and corrupted an old friend.
The shape of him lowers onto one knee beside the fire and puts a hand to the elf's shoulder. You will have to explain your logic to me, my friend, he says, and it's as exhausted and skeptical as it is warm and kind, but certainly an improvement to the dead man before him, whose casual defiance begins to melt away. ]
That is better,
[ the spirit says, half-sigh, drifting closer to that imagined memory with a kind of hunger. As she remembers him. As they remember him. The memory of him looks up toward her and more warmth bleeds in. ]
Maybe we can stay here.
no subject
not yet, though. ]
I don't understand, [ she steps forward, toward the shadow and the spirit. neither react to her getting closer, and she crouches down to look at both of them more closely. ] He wouldn't do this. He couldn't.
[ couldn't he?
youβtortured and killed my friend!
the shadow in front of her flickers, unable to make up its mind. somewhere behind them, a fire crackles to life, and the smell of smoke and burning flesh permeates the scene. ashes fall on her shoulders, only to dissolve in fade-green indecision.
it's such an annoying way to learn this lesson. couldn't it be cassandra instead? dorian? someone else she'd respected, put on a pedestal, anyone butβ ]
Solas, [ ennaris whispers, small and mournful, ] what did you do, vhenan? Who are you?
[ the shadow reaches for the spirit's faceβhis hands burn with magic, and are open-palmed in peace, and hold a dagger, all at once. ]