Ma Lath, Da’len
You spend the night hopping back and forth between the desk and the couch, working when you’re too restless to even attempt resting. By the time you head out into the courtyard for your morning session with Bull, you’re damn near a nervous wreck, about to explode from the inside. But there’s no question of skipping training to attempt to escape Skyhold… not only is it still too early to make it out without suspicion, if you miss your training, Iron Bull will know something is up.
Fortunately, the proper sleep from yesterday has your body, at least, in better condition. You’re able to strike and dodge with more accuracy and control than you have been as of late. That’s not the problem, however… the tangled mess of chaotic power you have locked up inside you is the problem. It responds eagerly to violence, struggling to break free of your control. You’re so distracted trying to keep it from bursting free that the physical benefits of getting some proper sleep might as well not even be there—you trip and stumble due to your lack of focus.
You’re so distracted trying to stay in control, in fact, that Iron Bull manages to pin your arms behind your back, something he hasn’t done since the day you had your meltdown. Perhaps you should be angry with him, or proud that he has more faith in your self-control than you do, but you have no time to think. Your mind soars with panic at the sensation, and the hold you have breaks. You can feel the seething, raging chaos, ready to crack across Bull like a whip.
You don’t know how you manage to get a hold on it… luck, skill, perhaps a combination of the two combined with panic and adrenaline. But you do. You grapple with it much the way Iron Bull grapples you, fighting its every movement, struggling with it until it submits.
Iron Bull lets you go when you stop fighting, but you can’t do the same with the chaos. You just flop down into the grass, panting and trying to regain your calm. Iron Bull may never know how close he came to death. As for you, you’ve got a terrible case of the cold sweats at just how close you came.
You have to get out of here.
The panic has to show in your eyes, because as you turn back towards Bull, fingers digging into the dirt, you see he has his hands up, much like he did when you had broken down before. The idiot thinks this is another episode about Seheron. Of course he does; why would he think otherwise? But you have to think, use this to your advantage. You can’t have him babying over you again today.
“I’m fine,” you choke out through a tight throat. “Just, need, to breathe.” Graciously, Bull lets you gasp for air, and just stays back. You manage to get the raging, rolling power just underneath your skin under control, and take a moment to glance around. There’s no one… no mages, no Templars, no one to recognize how close you came to losing it.
“You’re really not good at dealing with that pin,” he says, by way of apology.
“I’m okay,” you repeat, to yourself more than to Iron Bull.
“You’re making a lot of progress, Emma. I wouldn’t have tried if I was sure you would panic again.”
“I’m very proud of us both,” you choke. “Believe me. I’ll be glowing with it in a moment.”
“Sarcasm is good! Means you’re feeling yourself. It’s when you stop being a brat that I’ll worry.”
Din’samahlen.
Another surge of emotion, but not anger. You’re still in control. “Do you mind if we stop here for today? It’s almost breakfast time anyway.”
“Sure thing, kid. You wanna go to the mess…?”
“No, I’m gonna… Just gonna walk around for a little.”
Iron Bull gives you an understanding nod and heads towards the mess. You walk in the opposite direction, towards the tavern and some of the other training yards. Now’s your chance… if you play your cards right. You can’t take the time to get Revas, there’s too much of a chance of Bull or someone else noticing. But you can’t just walk out of the gate, either…
As you approach the gate and the long bridge out of Skyhold, you see your opportunity, as clear and beautiful as if it was surrounded in glowing light. There’s a merchant’s cart beginning to pack up. You give yourself a once over… You’ve been around Skyhold too long to depend on no one knowing your face or your faded red hair. How many redheaded elves could there possibly be in Skyhold, for all the guards to mistake you for a stranger? No need taking the risk. You walk quickly to your room and drag the bundle you’d brought with you to Skyhold out from under the bed.
No time to change properly; you just throw the dress on over your dirty clothes. You yank your hair out of its trademark bun, run a comb through it a few times to get the worst of the dirt off. Off come your prized leather boots, on go some sensible but cheap flats. Finally, your thick traveling cloak wraps around it all, a hood ready to be pulled up to help you avoid detection. You wish you had a mirror to look into, wish you had some way to mark up your face. But it’ll have to do.
By the time you get back to the merchant’s cart, they’re finishing packing it up. You grab a few boxes and begin helping the workers load, listening closely for any shouted names. Bernard. Mistress LaVey, likely the merchant. Donald. You commit them to memory, just in case, as you finish loading the last crate into the back of the cart. Red hair frames your face, and as the carts begin to pull out, you hop onto the back of one and pull your hood up. Men and women alike scramble to do the same as the trail of carts begins to move out, a man shouting orders from the front. You keep your eyes down, not wanting your face nor your over-large elven eyes to give you away. You needn’t bother… as you had suspected, not too many guards are interested in what’s going out of Skyhold.
You don’t breathe, don’t relax, until the caravan clears the long bridge and you feel the comforting rattle of wheels over rough dirt. You glance back towards Skyhold. It’s such a striking thing to see from outside, but you’re happy to see it shrinking into the distance. You stay on the cart for maybe twenty minutes before hopping off. When a man glances at you questioningly, you make a somewhat obscene gesture, indicating your need to relieve yourself. The man flushes and glances away… Fereldans, bless them.
You walk calmly into the woods, but once you’re out of eyeshot, you bolt. Out comes the chaos, and this time, you sing with it. Soon, soon, soon, you promise yourself. You just need to find… ah! As perfect as a picture, a frozen pond. The ice doesn’t look very thick; you’d never attempt to walk on it. But it serves your purpose as well as anything else. You force yourself to wait a few more minutes, to be sure you’re absolutely alone, not even a raven flying overhead. Then, with the power singing loudly in your mind, you thrust your hands against the ice and let loose.
If you weren’t so full to the bursting with mana, you would have more control, but as it is, you just let it pour through you into what comes naturally to you: fire. Burning heat rushes from your hands, arcing through the ice like lightning. You control it just enough to give it some carrying power, creating a rippling blaze that shoots out across the surface of the lake in sparking arcs. Ice hisses and melts in a giant cloud of steam; the water near your hands starts to bubble. You send a silent prayer skywards for any fish you’re boiling, but continue pouring raging, screaming power out of you and into the water until the writhing calms, until your aura is less a raging beast of chaos and more the sedate glow most mages would be used to seeing. Then a bit more… draining yourself is unpleasant, but if this incident has taught you anything, it’s that opportunities to spend yourself will come less often than sleep. You drain yourself down to nearly nothing… Enough that you’re not completely spent, enough to last you in an emergency, but not much further. You’ve no doubt you’ll be resting before you have the chance to do this again.
The energy spent and back to normal, albeit tired, swirling magic, you flump backwards, intending to fall into the snow, only to find you’ve melted all the snow within a meter of you in every direction. Instead, you flop into a puddle. Ugh. Thank the Maker for your cloak. You stand up and brush yourself off as best you can, then take notice of your surroundings. You don’t know exactly where you are, but your footprints are plain in the snow. It would be an easy thing to retrace them back to the road, but it’s too soon to head back to Skyhold. You do head a little closer to the road, however, not wanting to risk a new coat of snow coming down, or a sudden thaw, either of which could ruin your little trail back.
You climb a tree perhaps twenty paces back from the road, enough that you can see it, but caravans or guards on the road would be hard-pressed to see you. You feel better than you have in weeks… months. Most mages hate the sensation of being low on mana, but after so long of trying to wrangle your bucking aura into obedience, the sensation is fantastic. Plus, most mages don’t have your skills in self-defense to fall back on, depending on their magic to do everything for them. You lean back in the tree and stretch, a grin spreading across your face. Freedom. Short-lived… But you’d forgotten what even that felt like. You idly amuse yourself by creating sparks and little bursts of light, fire, and electricity in colorful patterns. A parlor trick, but the ability to use your power as you please is a rare one when you live in a stronghold of goddamned Templars.
Eventually, even that begins to bore you, and you shift to the sturdiest, thickest branch you can find, and lean against the trunk. A nap won’t kill you… you have to figure out how to get back into Skyhold, yes, although if Bull or Leliana notices your absence, they might send out a search and save you the trouble. If they find you asleep in a tree, well, Bull already has an explanation for that. You drift off into a blissful sleep, aura out and free to dream.
Your dreams are pleasant, filled with memories of other times you spent your mana so well and truly. Most would perhaps not think a ship ablaze to be a pleasant dream, but the smell of burning pirates, like so much cooking pork, brings a smile to your lips even in a dream.
It’s the sound of crying children that rouses you from your deep slumber. The shouting of adults, you could have ignored, but screaming children invade your dreams, the memory of guards rushing the orphanage. You couldn’t burn them then; you didn’t know you could, didn’t have the power. You jar awake, hand already on your dagger as sleep fades from your dream. The source of the sound isn’t a fade-tossed nightmare, but a huge caravan heading down the road… refugees. You spot flat wagons of injured, bare feet turned bloody on the rocks and snow. All the gods must be smiling on you today, for such luck. You scramble down the tree, wait at the tree line for a chance, and then–hood up, and aura wrapped neatly inside of you–join the refugees.
What you see makes you cringe. Where they’re from, you don’t know, nor what caused the extent of their injuries. There are burns, yes, but mostly weapon wounds… swords and arrows. Then your eyes fix upon a group towards the back of the progression, the source of some of the crying that had roused you from your sleep. A crowd of children with only a few grown men and women watching them… Pointed ears betray why they’re walking while most children are on what few wagons there are, or being carried by exhausted parents.
You keep with the main progression, but your eyes stay on the elves. You pass inside Skyhold with no one the wiser. You’re almost impressed by their lack of ability to recognize you, considering the Commander is on the scene, shouting orders to scrambling soldiers. You slip away to the side almost as soon as you’re within the walls, stripping out of your cloak and dress and tucking them into a safe, hidden corner to be retrieved later. The wrap tied around your wrist goes back around your hair, a tight, practical bun. Just like that, you’re Emma again.
On light feet, you travel back towards the refugees. The Commander and a woman you don’t recognize are alternatively poring over a sheet of parchment and shouting orders at soldiers and guards. You head towards them.
“We don’t have enough space—“ the woman is saying, but Commander Rutherford cuts her off.
“We’ll make space. Empty the nobles out of the Great Hall; send them to their quarters. We’ll bring out bedrolls and line the place.”
“There’s still only so much-“
“Use the tables,” you interject. “Bedrolls underneath, bedrolls on top. Double your space that way.” Before they can react, you’re moving with purpose towards the huddled refugees. Sure enough, the elves are huddled off to themselves, being largely ignored. You grab the arm of a passing soldier who’s directing the wounded towards the healing tent. He glares at you, but the look you give him is long practiced and has cowed better men than him.
“Are you blind, soldier?” you say acidly, gesturing to the group of elves, several of whom are injured. “Get them to the tent. Now.” You wait only long enough to ensure it’s being done, to give encouraging nods to the few elves who are nervous about going off with an armed shem. People are rapidly being sorted into areas. The Great Hall’s spaces are filling up, as are the remaining barracks and servant’s quarters. You hiss under your breath in frustration. Must the Inquisition be so disgustingly transparent? The Commander is an idiot; he’s not specifying which groups should go where other than “men,” “women,” “children,” and “injured.” If he doesn’t specify “elves,” they will be left with nowhere to go. You eye the remaining elves, mostly children with only a spattering of adults. Fuck it. You raise your voice to a shout, trying to echo as loudly as the soldiers barking orders all around you.
“You lot! Yes, you! You little runts! Come on, with me.” You march them directly past the Commander, herding them like deer into a tiny pack to avoid getting them run over or separated. “Commander, I’m taking these into the rotunda,” you inform him. He blinks, and it’s anyone’s guess whether he’s more shocked by what you’re saying or by the fact that it’s you saying it.
“The rotunda? But…”
“But? Have you already stationed another group there, ser?”
“Erm,” he glances down at the parchment. “No.”
“Then we’ll be in there. They’re cold and frightened, but not severely injured enough for the healers.”
“Very good,” says the woman, scribbling something onto a rather phenomenal device that could only be described as a portable desk; candle and wax included. You want one, but now’s not the time. “Thank you, Miss…?”
“Emma,” the Commander interjects, the expression on his face chilling you to your core. Curious. They’re always curious. But excuses can come later. You know humans, and you know them very well. If you don’t bring these elves to warmth and food, they will be left to freeze and starve in the stables. You herd them up the steps and into the Great Hall, then into the rotunda. They stay bundled up, staring around with wild, terrified eyes. You pull aside the few adults you have… Just three plus you to watch over two dozen children of varying ages.
“Keep them on this floor and away from the doors,” you order. “Don’t touch the items on either desk; I’ll clear them off when I get the chance. Have those with hurt feet sit on that couch, or any chairs you can pull together, and I’ll be back with bandages and blankets.” They nod, eyes wide and still in some amount of shock, no doubt, but they move to obey you, checking the children for less severe injuries.
It’s easier said than done, really… Everyone’s looking for bandages and blankets. You have to throw your weight around more than you’d like, and at one point you simply corner a maid and “relieve” her of her delivery of blankets to the Great Hall. You dart around the castle, intimidating, begging, lying, and even flat-out stealing when nothing else works. You bring everything you can use that isn’t nailed down into the rotunda in small bursts.
In the end, you don’t have as many supplies as you’d like, but you have enough to scrimp by. A final stolen pile of bandages in your arms, you re-enter the rotunda. One of the adults and two of the teenagers have already begun bandaging swollen wrists and bloody feet. You drop the bandages off with them, glad you’re not the only one who knows when action is necessary. You quickly clear off your desk, piling everything up as best you can, and then, cringing, you do the same for Solas’s. It’s in the middle of the room; there’s literally no way the children won’t climb on it. You pile his things onto your desk and beg the Maker for forgiveness; you’ll beg Solas for it later when he inevitably notices his things are out of place. You have no idea how he’d feel about you filling his rotunda with elven refugees, but fortunately, he’s not here to object.
Once the desks are clear, you begin laying down the bedrolls and blankets you managed to procure. Still short… That’s when a thought strikes you like lightning. Where had you pilfered your blanket? Solas’s room, from a cupboard full of blankets, towels, linens… You’re off again like an arrow, darting your way through the crowded halls of Skyhold. You don’t even particularly mind when a maid sees you as you finish picking the lock on Solas’s door. If she needs excuses, you have dozens. You quickly stride through the room, stripping even the blanket and pillow off his bed. It’s not as though he’s using them. Arms full to the bursting with stolen blankets and sheets, you lock the door behind you as you leave and totter unevenly back towards the rotunda. As you’re exiting back into the Great Hall, you pass Madame de Fer, the last person you want to see right then, but you only have to suffer through lingering eye contact—she says nothing.
With the addition of the stolen blankets and pillows from Solas’s room, you manage to cover over half the floor in bedrolls and pillows, with enough sheets and blankets left over to keep the children warm, hopefully. There are some bandages left over after patching up all the children, so you dart to deliver them into the hands of someone who can bring them to the healer’s tent or wherever they’re needed.
By the time you have everything settled, you’re exhausted, and some of the more frantic running about in Skyhold—by the refugees, at least—has settled. Food is now beginning to make its rounds… Maker, another thing you’re going to have to bully for… Or perhaps not. You have some pull in the kitchens. Gaston is an ass, but you know enough of the serving ladies, particularly Celia, to at least get some food brought to the rotunda. It’s worth a try.
You curse your overcompensation—was it really necessary for you to change your shoes?—as you head down the stairs to the kitchen. It is, of course, a frantic bustle, but you manage to pull aside Celia.
“What do I have to do to make sure my people are fed, Celia?” you ask her seriously. “I’ve got maybe thirty mouths that need food, mostly children.”
“I’m sure they’ll be gotten to-“
“They’re elves, Celia, probably orphans. They wouldn’t even have a roof or blankets if I wasn’t doing it myself. How do I get them food?”
Celia’s mouth forms a firm, serious line. “I’ll spread the word… tell the other girls.” She taps her ear to indicate she means the other elven girls. “Where are they?”
“The rotunda. I’ll grab some now… Gaston will have to throw me out by the tail. But we will need more.”
“I’ll do what I can, Emma. We’ll see that those children have something to eat.” You don’t like the desperation with which she says ‘something,’ but you’ll take whatever she can give. She heads out the door and you dart further into the kitchen, grabbing a large basket directly off someone’s arm. You ignore the cry of protest and begin rapidly filling it with anything that holds still long enough; loaves of bread; bottles of cheap, thinned wine; entire cans of pickled vegetables; any single fruit you can snatch. You’re finally chased out of the kitchen by a shouting Gaston, around the time you grabbed an entire roasted chicken, burning your hands in the process. Into the basket it goes as you flee the kitchen, the Orlesian man’s screams about pilfering little knife-ears following you out.
You charge up the steps and across the Great Hall with the large basket, then into the rotunda. The elves are settling in, with children perched upon every conceivable surface, including, as you suspected, all over Solas’ desk. You shoo a few of them off of it so you have a place to set down your basket. The smell of bread and chicken is beginning to waft through the rotunda, and children are staring at you with the kind of unbridled hope that breaks your heart.
“There will be more coming,” you promise. “So make sure you share this, okay?” You plop the chicken directly onto the desk, cringing slightly. Oh, Solas… You’re so sorry. You yank your knife out of its hiding place in the small of your back, causing no small number of gasps, but you use it only to cut through the thick bread and begin sheering off chunks of chicken. The food goes quickly, but you suspect it’s more than the children have had for a while.
True to her word, Celia somehow organizes a small train of elven serving girls, one after another sneaking you food and simple wooden bowls on their rounds. Between a pot of porridge, pilfered loaves and biscuits, even some of the less favored supplies such as pickled meats, you manage to get all the elves fed. After they’ve all eaten their fill, you stuff yourself with any leftover scraps. You skipped breakfast, slept through lunch, and after all that running about, you are starving. Not so much as you imagine the children were, however.
The elves are avoiding you somewhat, and in all honesty, you can’t blame them. You’re a mysterious figure who swooped in out of nowhere, shouting at shems until they submitted. If you were in their position, you wouldn’t be comfortable with you either. You manage to strike up a conversation with one of the older elves, however, and work to pry information out of her. They had come from an Orlesian village closer to the base of the mountains… It had been sacked by bandits after the noble overseeing the land had fled to the capital, likely due to the war. They had been left with no defenses. It was really only a matter of time before this sort of thing happened.
You’re not sure what starts the first child crying. Perhaps a tummy ache, from eating so much after too long without good food. Perhaps the trials of the day catching up with them. A woman rushes to comfort the little girl, but soon, other children are joining in, the young ones wailing openly, those slightly older crying the silent tears of those who have learned it’s safer not to make noise. It shreds at your heart like nothing else. Sometimes it seems that you’ve been surrounded by crying orphans for much of your life… From the orphanage in Denerim, to the slaves of Seheron, and even in Antiva, Rivain, and Fereldan… You always find yourself surrounded by the lowest of your people.
But it means you know how to comfort them. You reach over to your desk, grab your long, tapered candle and its holder, and place it on the floor in front of where you sit on Solas’ couch. You light it with a match, and the flash of fire gets the attention of a few of the children.
You tuck your feet up under your knees, and smile broadly. “Come gather by the fire, and let me tell you tales of our ancestors!” Such a cheesy line, but you’re rewarded by slightly less crying and a few confused hiccups. “Who here has heard of the Emerald Knights?” There’s a long pause, and then one of the teenagers hesitantly speaks up.
“Th… they were the guardians of the elves, back when we had the Dales… right?”
“That’s right! Tonight, I’m going to tell you about Mathalin and his brave squire Sulan.” Tentative feet move towards your makeshift “campfire.” As you continue your tale, more children, and even the adults, move to listen.
“And after Sulan and his brave wolf saved Mathalin’s life, the old knight handed his precious sword, Evanura, forged in the heart of Halamshiral, to his bold squire. This began the tradition of passing down the ancient sword, all the way down to brave Lindiranae. And rumor has it that Evanura is still out there, and always finds its way into the hands of courageous elves, to this very day.”
“But hahren, aren’t wolves scary?” asks a young voice. Your heart aches. Hahren? Really? Do you carry your years so poorly? You hide your displeasure, however, to answer the child’s question.
“Elves have long been friends to the wolves as much as they’ve been friends to the halla,” you inform her gravely. “That doesn’t mean you should run out and pet one, though! Wolves are wild creatures, proud and strong. But so are we Elvhen. Some Dalish still practice the path of the ranger, and befriend animals such as wolves and bears to fight alongside them… Like the Fereldans and their over-large Mabari.”
“Tell us another story, hahren!”
“I want to hear one that has a girl in it!”
“Okay, okay, settle down,” you say with a smile. “Why don’t I tell you the story of Tanaleth, the brilliant smith of Halamshiral who worked to rediscover the lost arts of Arlathan?”
Children begin drifting off as you tell as many stories as are requested of you—you certainly won’t run out anytime soon. Not only are you a linguist with a desperate thirst for knowledge, you’ve been that way your entire life. Many of these stories were told to you by your own mother. As the children fall asleep, the adults tuck them into bedrolls and cover them in large, warm blankets. Finally, there’s only a handful left, sitting around you on the couch, huddled close with Solas’s warm, brown blanket wrapped around the lot of you. You’re reminded of late nights hidden in Seheron, and you teach the children a few words of ancient elven as their eyes grow heavy. Ma lath, da’len. You are loved.
They’re the last to drift off, and you don’t have the heart to move them. You shift only enough to lean back, and try to rest as well, the frantic events of the day finally catching up with you.