The Breach still hung high in the sky, and Elentari knew her Mark was the only thing that could close it. The Inquisition had been formed, and she was known as the Herald of Andraste—just as the dwarf had warned her, days before. Her advisors had suggested she head into the Hinterlands in the Kingdom of Ferelden and seek out a Chantry priestess named Mother Giselle. And that was where the group was now.
Out across the plain, in the distance, a cluster of six young children—perhaps eleven or twelve years old—burst into a sprint, diving around a plateau and vanishing from sight. It struck Elentari as strange, as everything had been since she woke in the middle of this nightmare, but this time it was children. So she didn't wait. Her muscles tensed, and she shot forward like a fennec.
- Herald, wait! - she thought she heard Cassandra's voice somewhere behind her.
But she didn't stop, because as she ran, the crash of another child's sobbing cleaved the flat silence. That forced her to quicken her pace, much to her dismay, because her muscles had been aching without pause since she set foot in this place.
But what else was she supposed to do?
Here, she was a foreigner. She didn't belong. And helping the helpless in this war was the only thing that made her forget where she was—and the feeling of being lost.
Elentari and the others had spent eight days camping under open sky and crossing vast stretches of land overrun by rebel mages and templars, factions locked in war. The scene was devastating—like any war-torn landscape.
Solas traveled at the rear, alongside the dwarf, who seemed to have trouble staying quiet. The elvhen had noticed that the Herald was not an easy leader to follow; in fact, perhaps because of her Dalish origins, the woman kept them on a forced march for nearly the entire day. And he had to admit it: she had exhausted him. After a thousand-year slumber and the muscular atrophy it brought, as well as the deep reduction of his arcane potency, Solas felt weaker than he would have expected.
Or perhaps it was that he was an ancient elf of thousands and thousands of years…
Perhaps he was simply old, and found it hard to admit it.
Of course, the Dread Wolf would never mention that. And though sweat beaded on his face, he ran as fast as the Dalish demanded, leaving the dwarf behind.
When the group caught up to the Herald, they found a child—three or four years old, human and filthy, in ragged clothes—broken with sobs, while those six older children divided two carrots between them that they had, without a doubt, stolen from the one who cried.
The young elf stood before the little thieves, and though she did nothing, Solas could see Elentari's strained breathing, her clenched fists, the way the scene hit her like a blow…
All the children, regardless of age, showed clear signs of dehydration: dry lips, reddened joints—meaning they were weakened by poor food and hardship, ribcages visible under skin that seemed to have no room for fat. Grotesque, yes, but Solas had seen it countless times in another life, in another world, in other ages…
One should never grow used to it…
…but the truth was, he did.
In these days spent at the Dalish woman's side, the apostate had been able to notice a virtue in the Herald: she was benevolent. In contrast, she was also naive. The woman still believed she could change the fate of every wretch in wartime, and that not only stole her sleep—it splintered her spirit. Solas witnessed the Dalish woman's sadness every day. This was no different, nor was the indignation in that exotic gaze.
He knew the elf would do something. That she would not accept those children's fate. That she would intervene…
…and, in the end, achieve nothing...
…except deepen the weight she placed on her own shoulders, day after day.
The apostate took his waterskin and approached the ones who had robbed the smallest, offering them a drink. He knew that, at least, with some water, those children might survive.
The smallest one would not.
There was nothing left to do for the crying child…
He would die.
The older children looked at him without a trace of innocence in their eyes. That did not surprise him either. War, injustice, oppression—these things forced everyone to grow up, regardless of age. Solas knew it was possible these little thieves had already killed with weapons or with their hands.
They had lost their innocence.
One of the boys—the leader, perhaps—pulled a dagger from his belt and squared up to Solas.
- Give me everything you've got, bald man!
- Don't get clever, boy. - the elf warned, then pointed at his mage's staff and made the thieves blanch. - My mercy is not bought with threats.
The conflict between mages and templars had everyone terrified. And mages were usually the "villains" of the story. Solas knew that threat would be as effective as casting a spell and silencing the child forever.
That last option would have been unacceptable.
None of these youths were a real threat to the elvhen.
The Herald used the apostate's distraction to kneel by the small child collapsed on the ground, still crying, and she scooped him into her arms. Varric, at her side, offered the last bread the group had left, and the sobbing stopped—replaced by immediate, desperate eating. The thieves stared at that treasure, their stomachs growling. Cassandra stepped beside the elf, helplessness pouring from her pores—yet also a warning that they would not try to take that bite.
Solas knew there was nothing to be done, not today. They carried no more food, and that bread would not sate every child.
In the end, the dispute ended without violence. The thieves understood they could steal nothing else with a mage standing before them, and they left without further trouble.
The Herald resumed the march—bringing the smallest with her.
Solas found it irrational to carry that long, bony child in the arms of an elf who could barely manage her own strength.
- Perhaps you should let him walk beside you, Herald. - he suggested.
The Dalish turned on him with a sharpened look, and with those witch-eyes told him to mind his own business.
Hours later, Solas understood her reaction when they paused to rest. The child was so weakened it would have been impossible for him to keep pace at all—because when Elentari set him down at her side, the boy's knees buckled, and it was Cassandra who took him into her arms.
That child would die.
Only the Herald still had to accept it.
Elentari knelt before him and held her hands out, pouring magic into him—perhaps trying to heal. Solas stiffened. She would only grant him more days of suffering. He considered intervening, explaining to her that war was like this—infamous and cruel—that she was doing that child no good…
…but he knew it was not his place to interfere.
After all, she was the chosen one of the human god.
Perhaps she'll manifest a miracle, he mocked silently.
Then the air filled with screams before the Herald could do it.
The elf snapped her gaze toward the sound, and Solas saw her jaw tighten—aware she was burdened with a child, understanding at last that this had been a tactical mistake.
- I'll go see. - Cassandra warned, and with shield and sword in hand she ran ahead.
In the distance, green flashes—some rift that had just spilled demons into the world—flickered.
The Dalish clenched the child's bony little hands and lost a few seconds searching for a solution she did not find, of course.
Solas exhaled again, resigned, and stepped toward her. He faced her with an icy stare, and his voice turned harsh—exactly as he wanted it—when he spoke.
- Herald. Go close that rift. I will stay with the child.
Solas knew it was not right to help her "save them all," because it was a foolish illusion—yet hadn't he been the same at the beginning of his own Rebellion? Hadn't he believed he had to save them?
He bent and lifted the child into his arms. The boy weighed like a feather. Now he understood how the Dalish had carried that small body for hours, and he understood, too, why she would not let him try to follow them—because it had simply been impossible.
He looked at him. The bulging eyes seemed to bloom out of their sockets. Too dehydrated. Too starved.
Something inside him shifted…
War was a tragedy.
No one truly won…
The Herald and the dwarf ran to help Cassandra. Solas slipped into the trees with the unfortunate child, keeping watch on the team, aware that if it became necessary, he would leave the boy hidden to go aid them—hoping he would survive.
It was foolish to carry children or wounded people in wartime.
It was a mistake—one that could cost lives.
He knew that too well.
He had made that kind of mistake more times than he cared to count in the past.
And now…
Now she made them too.
The child clutched at his clothing, the small hands barely strong enough to tug—pathetic. They looked at each other. The boy was so weak it hurt to see.
Something stirred in Solas—something uncomfortable, something buried under enormous quantities of icy logic, something he refused to let rise to the surface. There was an abyss of trauma inside him, and he wanted it to remain that way…
…buried under the weight of purpose.
In his time, as the figure of the Dread Wolf had gained prestige among his own, it had been others who witnessed these infamies. It had been centuries since Solas held the helpless in his hands, and he understood, on this day, that he did not wish to do it again. Because when he became the living witness of all this, the desire for justice burned again inside him—rebellion, the urge to protect the innocent, whether they were beings of Thedas or of Elvhenan.
And he knew himself well enough to know his temper was near untamable, and that the wolf within him knew how to bite his enemies with brutality.
Those round eyes watched him, and they seemed to beg for help.
Almost despite himself, the elvhen set his palm to the child's forehead and wavered between healing him… or hastening his death.
In conclusion: to give help…
In the end, he could do neither.
If he healed him, he betrayed himself.
If he hastened his death, he betrayed the Herald.
- I suppose your life rests in the hands of time's caprice, child. Just as mine has since I woke in this world.