Ma Revas
The man with the greatsword lays dead, a horrific hole in chest that you can only guess came from Katari’s giant blade. But Revas had been struck while protecting you… he had taken a blade for you when he’d shoved you over. There is a large gash in his side, one that perversely mirrors the scar you carry on your own stomach. You scramble to him on hands and knees, whimpering.
“No, no, no, no, no.”
You press hands to the wound and Revas lets out a weak, whining moan.
“No, no, no, please no.”
The battle around you is ending. Bandits are rapidly retreating back into the wilderness; every now and then one will sprout an arrow out of his back and collapse. The warriors are making short work of any stragglers. But your eyes are glued to Revas. You whisper quiet prayers to a god that has never answered. Then you remember you’re not alone.
“Solas!” You scream his name as if you were the one who lay dying. “Solas help me!”
Solas quite literally appears beside you, panic burning in his eyes as surely as it must be burning in yours. He drops to his knees beside you; you must be quite the sight. You doubt there is an inch of you not covered in blood. “Are you injured?” His voice sounds strained. How drained is he? Because of you. If he’d been at full power, this would never have happened, this is your fault this is your fault this is your fault.
“It’s Revas, Solas,” you choke out, your hands still pushing against the wound, as if you could stop the bleeding through sheer force of will. “Please, please, please…”
Solas rests his hand on Revas’s neck. His expression is grave as he stares down at the hart. “This wound is serious.”
“Solas, please, please—”
“If the beast cannot move, we must put it down,” Katari says from behind you. “We have people injured, we need to—”
You turn on Katari with a burning vengeance, spinning around and standing. Blood slings from your hand as you gesticulate furiously. Your voice comes out as a blood-filled screech, swearing at him in half a dozen languages before settling on Qunlat. Rage comes out of your mouth in a torrent. You curse him, you curse his nameless parents, you tell him precisely what you will do to him and his Tamassran if he so much as takes a step towards Revas. Katari looks startled, then furious, but you’re too far gone to be cowed.
“I will not risk lives on this expedition for a beast of burden!” he snarls right back. Sataareth looks on in wonder, the only one who can understand what is being said.
“You will be risking your own life if you say one more word, bastard! ” You storm right up to him, shove bloody, shredded, gloved hands against his chest while screaming in Qunlat. “This expedition is mine as much as it is yours! You are in charge of MY books and MY safety! You cannot touch me—no matter what I do—because the Spymistress would have your head, and you know it! So sit down and shut up! Find us a cave to hide in! Do something useful, but stay away from my freedom! ”
It’s Solas’s hand on your shoulder that stops you from striking Katari again. “Lethallin, hamin malan1.”
You don’t have the strength to snap at Solas, or even to glare at him. Your eyes turn pleading again as you face him, your bloody hands fold together in supplication. “Lethallin, vennam! Ar nu’alas!2”
Katari barks orders to someone else to find shelter, which you take to be a good sign. But your eyes are on Solas. He looks weary; how drained is he, precisely? Does he even have the strength to save Revas? Will he even consent to try?
“Emma—” he begins, but Katari cuts him off.
“I do not want the mage exhausting himself on your behalf again,” the Qunari says firmly. You turn to give him another tongue-lashing, or perhaps just a regular lashing, but Solas stops you with a hand on your arm.
“I believe it is my decision, Qunari, not yours.”
Katari glowers, but says nothing.
You clutch at the front of Solas’ vest. “Solas, ar nu’alas. Ar din’solas in ma.3”
“Stop,” Solas says firmly, and you nearly let out a wail before he continues. “I will do what I can.”
You drop to your knees next to Revas, something akin to relief flooding through you and leaving you weak. You watch desperately as Solas places his hands on Revas’s side, as that familiar warm glow overtakes his hands.
You can tell this is straining Solas—your fault—and briefly, you consider outing yourself there on the spot in order to save Revas. You could feed every drop of your mana into Solas, let his expertise manipulate it in ways you could never manage. You could do it. You could save Revas.
But you don’t.
Fresh, hot tears spill down your face. Everyone, including Solas, likely thinks you’re simply terrified for your hart. Perhaps they think you weak. They aren’t wrong. But above all that is a burning self-loathing. Revas would die to save you. He just demonstrated that. But you wouldn’t return the favor? You wouldn’t even risk death to save him?
Apparently not.
You’re a coward.
You’re a wretched, pathetic coward.
You’ve never deserved this. You’ve never deserved any of them. You only hurt the people you’re closest to. Lies and secrets and daggers in the back. That’s all there is to you. Your core is immutable and your core is wrong, wicked and evil and twisted.
A choked sob escapes you. You’re very aware that you’re coated in blood. Yours, several bandits’, Revas’s…You’re responsible for every drop of it. You’re a monster, you’ve always been a monster, you didn’t need anyone else for that—
Please, please, make it stop.
Solas’s hands stop glowing. It’s hard to tell, with Revas as soaked in blood as he is, but the wound seems to have scarred over.
“Solas,” you choke out. “Is he…? Will he…?”
“He should be fine, lethallin,” Solas says gently. His quiet words are more than you deserve. “He will not be able to carry anything, people nor bags, and he will need rest… but I believe he will live.”
You throw yourself at Solas, forgetting for a moment that you’re disgusting and covered in blood from head to toe. You clutch uselessly to the front of his vest, knowing you’re dirtying him but unable to care. You bury your head against his chest and sob burning tears into his shirt. You’re surprised to feel his arms rest gently on your shoulders, and you feel more corrupt than ever to be taking comfort from him when this is all your fault. But you’re weak. You’ve always been weak. You let him soothe you gently with kind Elven words that you’ll never deserve.
“Emma, I must tend to the others,” he says softly after you’ve calmed somewhat. You release him reluctantly.
“O-of course, ir abelas,” you mutter, not capable of making eye contact. Solas squeezes your shoulder, reassuring, but it only makes you feel worse. You let your eyes glance over your companions. No one was injured as badly as Revas, to your relief, but essentially everyone was injured. Kelsie was shot—the arrow still protrudes from her armor—but she is standing. You shift your focus back to Revas.
His breathing is coming slow and easy now, although he’s still letting out soft, distressed little honks and huffs. You run your hands along his neck, whisper words you hope will soothe him. You try to drown out the constant echoing screams within your mind.
Adahlen manages to find a cave nearby where all of you can huddle up and take shelter. The camp is quiet; you’re all like injured animals, curling up to lick your wounds. Fortunately, Adahlen has outdone himself; there is a stream further back in the cave where you can wash yourselves off. You haven’t yet, despite your desire to be clean of the blood that stains you. You remain with Revas, who managed to walk to the cave but laid down again just inside the entrance. The blood drying ruddy stains across your body is a punishment, although not one that comes close to abating your guilt.
Sataareth avoids bathing as well; he’s sticking as close to you as you are to Revas. His only injury is a broken hand. You assisted Solas in setting it, knowing Solas couldn’t spare the magic to attempt to heal it outright. Given a few days rest, he could help speed it along the way he had your broken jaw. Of the others, Kelsie is the worst injured; she had taken an arrow to her shoulder. You listened to her scream as it was cut out of her flesh. She will be fine, fortunately; the arrow hadn’t hit anything particularly important. Everyone else’s injuries are fairly superficial.
You haven’t let Solas look at you yet; you insisted that you were fine and that he examine everyone else first. You’re fairly certain you are fine, at least within your own parameters. The only thing you’re a bit worried about is your hands. You haven’t taken them out of the blood-drenched gloves yet. You don’t know how bad the damage is, only that every little movement with them is fresh agony.
Sataareth does his best to give you comfort while Solas is tending the others. He brings you water from the stream in a large pan, helps you encourage Revas to drink it, and then encourages you to drink some yourself. It’s as sad as it is funny. You might be his sword, but he really is that which upholds. You will be sad to see him go.
After Solas has done what he can to the others, he comes to you. You point to his own injuries, suggesting he perhaps heal himself first. He’s not having any of it, however.
“Emma, you need to clean off so that I can see the extent of your injuries, you are, ah…”
“Absolutely soaked in human blood,” you say hollowly. “Yes, I’m aware. But I need to stay with Revas.”
“Why don’t you take Revas to the stream?” Solas suggests gently. “He is strong enough to move, and you can clean his injuries there.”
You know damn well what he’s doing. But… That’s actually a very good idea. “Will… will you help me move him?” you ask softly, and Solas nods. You, Solas, and Sataareth work together to encourage Revas to his feet and lead him slowly into the cave to the stream. Getting him to step in is even harder, but you do eventually manage it. You roll up your blood-stained trousers and pull off your long-suffering boots, and follow Revas into the water. Solas floats a soft, magical light into the air to allow you to see more easily. You wish he wouldn’t waste his mana, but you thank him nonetheless.
Solas leaves you to your own devices after suggesting you bathe as well. Sataareth stays to assist you. You know why; Solas knows you won’t get naked around him, while Sataareth is more concerned with staying near you than he is for your modesty. You’d stripped near him once already. In truth, it’s easier for you to peel off your blood-drenched top than it should be, given that Sataareth is a Qunari. Perhaps have you Iron Bull to thank for that? And yet the idea of being nude within sight of Katari fills you with nauseated dread.
The water downstream of the three of you is bright red as you wash off. You focus on Revas first, as he’s clearly displeased to be standing in the cold water. You work quickly, washing his wound gently and then scrubbing dried blood out of his fur as best you can. Sataareth assists and also scrubs some of the blood off of his own chest and hands. Then he brings you fresh clothes and sets them by the side of the creek. After you’ve cleaned the hart as best you can, Sataareth helps you get Revas out of the river. He tries to lead Revas back towards the entrance and the warmth of the fire, but Revas simply lays down by the creek.
You finally allow yourself to scrape the blood from your flesh, if only because you’re already soaked. It takes longer than you would like, and you’re going to have to take a very, very long bath once you’re back in Skyhold. You know you won’t feel clean until then. Your hair is the worst part; when you’d stabbed through the bandit’s throat, nearly decapitating him, your hair had been drenched in the deluge of blood. Getting it out is a nightmare, and the water is icy cold. But at the very least, you manage to get the worst of the gore off of you.
And you get to look at your hands.
They’re…
It’s bad.
You wind up actually having to let Sataareth cut the gloves off of you with your knife. Even then, bits of your flesh come off with them. You’ll have to show them to Solas, you realize, but you still want to wait, at least until morning. The damage looks severe, but you’re willing to risk it. Revas is alive, despite you. If your hands are injured permanently due to your own stupidity, than that seems a fitting punishment for your actions as of late.
You rinse your hands off in the water as best you can, despite the pain and the disturbing way bits of your skin float away in the current. You don’t scrub, lest you risk losing even more flesh, but you let them soak a little bit, hoping the moving water will rinse them clean.
In the end, you’re unwilling to be naked around anyone, even Sataareth, who you’re coming to trust somewhat. You bathe with your underclothes on in order to allow him to help you. He keeps his pants on, as well, simply rolling them up to his knees. He scrubs dried blood from your skin where your destroyed hands would have struggled.
When you look back at Revas, you find he has company. Ashi’lana has come to lay down by his side, and is gently rubbing his nose against the back of Revas’s neck. You’re certain Belassan would be able to tell you—
Belassan.
Oh, Maker, Belassan is going to kill you when he finds out how close Revas came to death because of you. The worst part is, he won’t. You know he won’t. This is Belassan; you’re not even convinced he’s capable of holding a grudge. But he entrusted Revas to your care for this journey, and you could scarcely have failed him more utterly.
You crawl out of the river miserably after you and Sataareth are reasonably clean, and the two of you struggle to get Revas to go back to the fire. Ashi’lana helps, prodding firmly at Revas’s ass until he moves. You’re worried about his lethargy, but hopefully it’s just a side effect of the healing. You strip out of your soaked smallclothes and throw on the same dress you’d worn before, too exhausted to wear anything more complicated.
Revas is far back enough from the fire that you have a bit of privacy. You sit by his side, legs folded beneath you, hands freshly bandaged—with some difficulty, thanks to Sataareth’s broken hand—and slowly feed him oatcakes. Ashi’lana and Sataareth stand nearby, giving the sensation like they’re guarding both of you in turn. You’re enthused by how much Revas is eating, despite his seeming exhaustion.
Before long, Solas comes by to check on Revas, or perhaps you, or perhaps both. He looks over Revas first, in any case.
“He will be fine,” Solas assures you after giving the hart a once over. “He is healing well. He will be quick to fatigue for a few days yet, but he is no longer at risk.”
“Solas… thank you,” you say quietly. He hides his own exhaustion well, but you know he must be feeling it. His skin is paler than usual–freckles that are normally nearly invisible now stand out starkly.
“You are welcome, Emma,” he says simply. “Now, will you let me look at you?”
You cringe. There’s no helping it; he’s no doubt already noticed your bandaged hands. But you nod. His hands immediately go to yours, but while he frowns at the bandages, he says nothing about them, only moving to gently unwrap one. “Did you notice any wounds while you bathed?” he asks.
“A few small cuts, but nothing serious,” you assure him. “Sataareth bandaged me up, and—”
“Sataareth?”
“Oh, they uh… the Tal-Vashoth,” you say, gesturing towards Sataareth with your other hand.
“Ah. Did you name him yourself?”
“I… yes.”
Solas chuckles. “Ma ir’hallan4, lethallan.”
You know he’s doing it on purpose. He’s trying to make you feel better. You shouldn’t take pleasure in it, because you know it’s more than you deserve, but Maker, Maker, sweet Maker. Those words from his lips fill you with gentle peace. He’s wrong, he’s so wrong. But you want him to be right. You wish you could make him right.
Solas’s face falls when he finishes unwrapping your hand and sees the extent of the damage to your knuckles and fingers. He sucks in a sudden breath. “Fenedhis, Emma, what—” But he glances up at your face and must see something in your expression. He lets out a long, forceful breath, as if calming himself deliberately. “This will… require healing,” he says, and you almost laugh. No shit, Solas.
“Not tonight, though, Solas. You must be exhausted, and something else might yet happen.”
Solas gives you a long, level look. You suspect he’s attempting to determine the best way to proceed. You can appreciate him not just scolding and lecturing the way he normally does. You’ve no doubt he’s tiptoeing around you do to your obviously fragile state. He acted similarly the last time you’d been in a fight, when Baptiste had died. Then he turns his gaze to Sataareth. “Pardon me, friend, but might we have some privacy?”
Sataareth looks startled to be addressed, as he had when Kelsie spoke to him. He hesitates, looking at you as if for advice. You simply shrug. He wanders nervously off towards the fire, where, you note, he’s intercepted by Katari once again. You’ll really have to seek after Katari’s intentions towards Sataareth. If he’s giving him guidance, Vashoth to Vashoth, that’s one thing. Anything else? Well. You won’t let Sataareth be manipulated.
“I lost sight of you, during the fight,” Solas says quietly, deft fingers beginning to unwrap your other hand. “I felt your barrier go down, and saw you fall. Then I could see nothing at all.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he replies. “In fact, I should—”
“Please, don’t,” you say quickly. You really couldn’t take Solas apologizing to you. He falls silent, and you watch as he finishes unwrapping your hands. The last layer of the bandages is bright crimson, the color of fresh blood.
“You are worried for my stamina,” Solas says finally. “A compromise, then. Let me heal the superficial damage. Stop the bleeding, prevent infection. I will not insist on healing them any more tonight. Then in the morning, after we’ve both rested, you will allow me to repair them more completely.”
You can’t help it; you laugh. Solas looks mildly alarmed, and then simply confused.
“I’m sorry, it’s just… listen to yourself. Negotiating fixing me as if it’s doing you a favor. Most people would bend over backwards for magical healing applied so readily, and yet you have to haggle it out of me.”
Solas smiles, slightly. “If that’s what it takes,” he says simply.
You know you shouldn’t, but you lean forward, resting your forehead against his shoulder. With his hands still on yours, it feels very… intimate. “Ma serannas, lethallin. Your kindness is more than I deserve.”
“It is no such thing.” He pushes a hand against your shoulder, a gentle request for you to sit up straight. You do so, and he begins his work on your hands. You watch carefully to see if he was telling the truth about only healing your slightly, but it seems he was being honest when he made the offer. You can still feel sharp, scorching agony underneath the skin, but little surges of magic burn away pinpricks of pain and encourage recovery. You let your eyes slide shut, exhaustion beginning to catch up with you again.
When he’s finished with your hands, he cuts off the soiled parts of the bandage and re-wraps both your hands with dexterous skill. He seems about to say something, but Korbin appears then, carrying two large bowls of stew. It smells marvelous, or perhaps you’re just only now noticing how hungry you are. A glance towards the fire shows that most of your companions—including Sataareth—are sitting around in enjoying similar bowls. You smile slightly to see him engaging Kelsie willingly, without your prodding. Soon, he won’t need you anymore. That was the goal, but it’s a little bittersweet.
There’s not even a need to discuss it. You’re not leaving Revas. Solas shifts from squatting to sitting on the cave floor, bowl in his lap. The two of you share dinner while watching over Revas, who drifts in and out of sleep. Solas confirms what you suspected, that his drowsiness is a result of the extreme amount of healing magic poured into him. When he is not asleep, he’s ravenous, going so far as to stick his nose into your bowl of stew before you pause in eating to hand-feed him more food. As hungry as he is, you would think he would eat from the floor, but he fusses unless each and every morsel comes from your palm.
“He’s being spoiled,” Solas informs you with an amused expression. “He knows you’ll fuss over him, so he’s taking advantage.”
But you don’t mind. You’re so relieved he’s alive, despite you. The wound on his side will likely scar, Solas informs you. It’s a jagged sword wound across his ribs, and you find your hands tracing across your own stomach when you look at it. If Solas notes the similarity between your scars, however, he doesn’t mention it.
What he does seem to notice, however, is your melancholy. At first, he attempts to cheer you as he had in the past, by simply talking to you. And it works, to a point. But your mind is dull with guilt and worry. Whenever your focus shifts back to Revas, or you have even a second to consider all that’s transpired, it feels like a knife plunging through your chest.
“Emma, what troubles you?” Solas asks finally.
“I’m… worried for Revas,” you half-lie.
“He will be fine,” Solas reassures you. “I’m more concerned for you, at the moment.” Perhaps he’d seen the near-decapitated man, whose hand you can still feel compressing your throat. Obviously, knowing you’d been a bard, he knew the idea of the previous bandit having been your first kill was laughable, but… This had been much gorier, more personal death than most people were accustomed to. He may think you traumatized.
You realize you’ve been silent for some time.
“I will be fine, as well,” you say, extremely belatedly. Solas is, no surprise, unconvinced.
“I will not force you to speak with me about what troubles you, but I will be here if you wish to.”
Maker damn his stupid, perfect voice and concerned blue eyes to the Void. You don’t want to have this kind of a weakness. With a noise between a sigh and a groan, you lean gently against Revas’s shoulder. The hart huffs slightly and shifts in his sleep, but consents to be laid upon. Solas takes your silence for a dismissal, and stands to go. This, apparently, wakes Revas, despite his seeming ability to sleep through being laid on. He lets out a distressed honking sound that echoes through the cave, causing just about everyone to turn and look.
“What’s wrong?” you exclaim, sitting up off of him. “Are you hurt?” As if he could answer. He settles down as you speak, however, laying his head back onto the ground. You send a desperate look towards Solas, uncertain as to what disturbed Revas or what you should do. Could harts have bad dreams? Was he in pain?
Solas kneels down by the hart’s head, running a hand along his neck. “He seems fine…” Solas muses. The two of you are silent for a time, and after a moment, Revas lets out another distressed honk. It echoes unpleasantly through the cave.
“I don’t know what’s wrong!” you fret.
“Nor do I,” Solas begins, but as soon as he starts talking, the hart settles back down. You blink.
“I think he… likes hearing us talk? No, that’s stupid,” you muse to yourself.
Solas laughs, startling you. “You would select the brattiest hart in existence to love, din’samahlen.” The way he says it makes you wonder if it’s become more like a nickname than an insult.
“You don’t think that’s really the case, do you? That he likes our voices?”
“We could test it, but I suspect our companions might protest.”
True. And you’ve tried Katari’s patience enough for one day. Enough for your entire life, more like. You must have been right about him being tasked to get you back to Skyhold alive, specifically, or you suspect you would have been dead or at least lightly maimed by now.
“I suppose I’ll just talk to him all night then,” you say with a chuckle.
“You will only encourage his bad behavior,” Solas points out.
“He’ll settle down once we get back to Skyhold… He probably misses Belassan. Don’t you, Revas? You miss your stable-elf, don’t you?” Revas snorts, shifting his head slightly to aim a stare at Solas, who has begun walking again. He opens his mouth to honk, and you cover his nostrils with your hands, making him stop and snort, shaking his head to dislodge you.
“Perhaps I should stay?” Solas says, sounding amused. “Should I read your hart to sleep?”
The thought of Solas reading aloud again causes a vibrant thrumming in your chest. He had clearly meant it in jest, but when you make eye contact, expression slightly hopeful, the joviality fades to sincerity.
You manage to keep Revas silent by whispering soft nothings into his ear until Solas returns. You expect his tome on the Fourth Blight, but instead, he’s brought one of the books the two of you had purchased, one about Veilfire runes. You perk up immediately at the sight of it.
“It’s very dry,” he informs you as he sits down next to you by Revas’s side. “I believe it will put him to sleep.”
And so Solas reads.
His voice carries away your anxieties and the strain of the day. You curl up against Revas’s side, knees tucked close to your chest. You nestle the side of your head into his fur, resting against him and listening to the slow, steady sound of his breathing. Alive. Alive. He’s alive. You’re alive. Solas is alive. Everything else can wait.
Even the pain in your aching body and the agony in your hands seems to fade away as you listen to Solas explain the very basics of Veilfire writing. You barely understand, but his voice is so beautiful. And Revas is so warm, so soft. The soft singing of the Fade calls to you, and your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks as your eyes sink shut.
Peace.
For a short time, anyway.
At first all you’re aware of is the softness of Revas’s fur against you. Then you realize how dark it is… has the fire gone out? And it’s so quiet. You shift slightly, running your hands against Revas’s side. His breathing—
You can’t hear it.
You sit bolt upright, hands pressing against him frantically. He’s not breathing! He’s not breathing!
“No, no, no, no,” you murmur, horrified, voice choking. Your hands are wet. Why are they… Blood! He’s bleeding again! You try to call for Solas, but suddenly your voice is catching, your throat constricting. You can’t make a sound. Why? Why?
Revas’s eyes are open. Cold and dead, no life. Not breathing, he’s not breathing, his life’s blood is pooled around you on the cave floor.
Your fault your fault your fault. An endless chant that seems to emanate from all around you, from your very head. You try again to scream for Solas. For anyone. For help. You struggle, feeling heavier and heavier, your throat tight as if there’s a fist around it. Where is everyone? Why isn’t anyone coming to help? How could Revas die without anyone noticing? Without you noticing?
The sensation on your neck grows tighter, and you realize it’s the bandit from earlier, the man whom you’d killed so viscerally. His throat is still torn open, blood pouring from it onto you, but his hand is tight around your neck. Squeezing, tighter, you can’t breathe, you can’t—
“You’re going to die just like the rest of them.”
You break your throat trying to scream, louder and louder, higher and higher until finally a sound pierces through you, loud and harsh and brutal. You can’t move your body; are you dying? You scream again, trying to thrash. You’re in your tent, but the murdered bandit is still on top of you, holding you down, choking the life from you. Dead, dead, dying. You scream Solas’s name, and he’s there, somehow, somehow, and he pulls the bandit off of you and, and, and—
You collapse against his chest, aware now that you’re screaming, that you’re sobbing… and that his enchanted blanket still entangles your legs as he finishes peeling it the rest of the way off of you.