During the night, the group led by Elentari was returning to the nearest Inquisition camp.
This day had been fatal for her. They had found a band of mercenaries who had taken over an old fortress, and they had slaughtered them. The Dalish woman had found a vague satisfaction in spilling her enemies' blood, and she had understood that vengeance was worth little to her when she was sad.
The worst of this day was that she had thought too much. Or rather, she had had too much time to do so. Their only adversaries had been the mercenaries, and the rest of the time she had heard a crushing silence. She had not liked that. She had chosen to ignore every thought that assaulted her, because they simply made her too sad. And she had understood, to her regret, that the more she resisted thinking, the longer the hours became.
It was horrible, the way time stretched to torture her when she longed for the day to die… just like all the victims she had not managed to protect.
Even so, night had finally fallen.
By now, the group was walking very slowly. She had not allowed them to wash the blood off in any lake, and as a result, they were badly demoralized. The stench of blood was beginning to reek. She noted to herself that next time she would not be so inconsiderate. The fact that she felt like death did not mean she had to drag all of them into the Void. On top of that, they were stumbling from hunger, back pain, and fatigue.
Solas had considered Cassandra's effort, and by this point, he was the one carrying the heavy shield. The warrior had spent her whole body in the fight against the mercenaries, and she was limping as she walked. She had twisted her ankle on a small stone and fallen.
It was time to go back to Haven. Elentari knew it.
- Guys… thank you for the effort you put in every day. - the elf whispered without looking at any of them. Being the "leader" sat terribly on her, but well—she was the marked one, wasn't she?
- It's a pleasure, kid. - she heard the dwarf.
Cassandra smiled at her, but fatigue allowed nothing more, and if Solas made any gesture, Elentari did not see it. It wasn't as though she expected anything else from him. The mage was reserved, but efficient. He knew how to support them in battle.
The march continued, steeped in silence. The Herald would have preferred to hear Varric's stories, but it was clear the dwarf was exhausted as well.
Then she lifted her gaze, and in the distance she glimpsed a precarious little house, solitary. Perhaps they would find shelter there long before the Inquisition camp. Perhaps a good leader should look after the welfare of her group—and given that she had failed spectacularly when she had forbidden them a bath, she could redeem herself now. Without a word, she quickened her pace with the hope of finding food, a place to scrub away the filth. Something. Anything.
What she found was worse…
As Elentari approached the little house, she noticed the figure of someone slumped against one of the walls, the door hanging open—possibly dead. Her heart clenched, and instead of avoiding it, she ran inside to inspect the body.
But it wasn't a corpse. It was much worse.
It was an old shemlen—so very, very old that he could barely move.
The mage lit the top end of her staff just as her companions arrived, and the warrior shut the door to avoid drawing unwanted attention from outside.
The group saw that the old man's face was so wrinkled he barely looked alive. His skin had a faint sheen to it, and he spoke slowly. When he spoke, the veins in his forehead showed through the thinness of his skin.
- Everyone left when they heard templars were coming this way. I can't run, and they left me behind. Nobody wanted to carry me, and I didn't want to be a burden to them.
Beside Elentari, Solas clenched his fists—not only at the injustice, but at the uncertainty of his leader. Would the elf carry this relic of a man as well?
- I'm sorry, ser. - the mage intervened almost at once. - Is there anything we can do for you before we continue on our way?
The Herald looked at him quickly, understanding the meaning of his words, and the apostate visibly reproached her when he narrowed his eyes. No. This time he would not tolerate them hauling along a man who would likely die within the next day.
- Oh, you must be hungry. - the old man said politely. - I have some potatoes on the table, and a bit of nug skin. If you like, you could cook something for yourselves, and leave some for me.
Solas felt pity, but there was nothing to be done. He only nodded and looked at Cassandra. The warrior took the shield the mage had been carrying, sighed, and looked at Varric.
- I saw a garden not far from here. We could look for some herbs to give a stew a bit of flavor, and share a meal tonight. - the dwarf nodded.
Solas dragged a hand over his face and smeared dry blood across his skin—stale and foul. He felt filthy (by the Dalish woman's decision), and he was thoroughly tired. Beside him, the Herald could not hide her grief and did not look at any of her companions. She ceded command to him. The mage nodded to the Seeker, and together with the dwarf, they left.
When they did, Elentari sat down on the old man's bed and fell into deep silence. Solas saw her lips tremble, saw tears spill from her eyes—the kind she could no longer hold back. Then he saw her lash out in anger at having been defeated by grief. Yet the tears did not stop, and in the span of a breath they became a soundless sob that shamed her, but could no longer be hidden.
He did not intervene. The young woman's pride was wounded; he would not make it worse. Instead, he gave her privacy by sitting beside the old man on the floor and starting a conversation, trying to fill the space with a sound that was not the sound of those quiet laments.
- Would you like me to help you to the bed? Are you comfortable?
- Son, this kingdom has lost its good heart. - the old man confessed.
The apostate realized the man was blind, because he had not noticed that he was an elf. He sighed audibly, tapped the wall lightly with his head, and fixed his gaze on the cracked old ceiling.
- Wars tend to do that, old man. - Solas replied. - People lose trust in one another.
- And manners. - the elf nodded.
- Yes.
And mercy, apparently, he thought.
He rose and went to the table to fetch the potatoes the man had mentioned.
- What is your name? - he asked, purely out of courtesy—and to drown out the sound of the Herald's tears. He began arranging things quickly, so the other two would find everything ready when they returned to the old house.
- There's no need to know my name, son. - the old man said. - If one day you tell this story to someone, refer to me as the old man who was abandoned.
- That's not fair. - Elentari intervened, her eyes red from crying.
Solas looked at her, reproachful once more, but she did not care.
- Why should you be remembered that way when you are more than that? Just because they abandoned you doesn't mean you should abandon your name.
The old man smiled with kindness.
- Girl, I won't live to see the end of this war. So, so you'll have room in your memories for other things, I won't tell you my name. If you survive the war, remember me as the old man who was abandoned.
- But… that isn't fair. You… - the Herald began to protest again, but Solas stepped in front of her, letting his back block her direct view of the old man, and took her arm gently, drawing her closer.
- Herald, let the dignity he wants to keep remain unbroken. - the young Dalish woman was forced to stand, and she looked at him, furious—not so much at his grip, but because the apostate had witnessed her tears. - Not only for him… but for you as well. - he paused. They met each other's defiant gaze. She was stubborn, but Solas tried to explain, setting aside his own irritation toward her. - The weight of your feelings must not drag down the last spark of his humanity. - he murmured so softly he did not think the old man had heard.
She looked at him, disillusioned, unable to understand how Solas could be so cold.
- He understands his days are numbered. Even so, to spend them beside people who respect him is a treasure not everyone receives in war. Make tonight dignified for him.
Her lips trembled and she looked away. Fresh, treacherous tears wet her cheeks. There was nothing to be done. Solas was right, and that broke her. But she stopped fighting him. The tension in her body loosened. She would not insist.
He sighed and felt regret wash over him for having been so harsh. Perhaps he could still mend it.
- Herald, remember that what we are doing here… is an act of resistance against a world that has broken.
Elentari pulled her arm free of the apostate's hold and nodded, swallowing her tears.
Solas was right, even if it hurt. She would give the old man a dignified night.
Then she went to the table, took the potatoes, and almost at once sat down beside him.
- Do you mind if I peel the potatoes beside you?
- No, my child. I'm grateful for the company.
Solas smiled where she could not see.
Not long after, Cassandra and Varric returned and turned their attention to preparing supper. The dwarf quickly wrapped them in warmth, sharing stories the old man enjoyed—until the old man himself began offering wise counsel to the group of warriors keeping him company that night.
Perhaps his last night.
Time passed, and at last Elentari managed to smile again despite the pain. She could see the old man's happiness. And though it broke her, preserving the dignity that remained to a stranger was worth more.
When sleep seemed to settle over the group, they spread out on the floor to rest (none of them took the bed, perhaps out of respect for the old man who could no longer move).
Elentari moved closer to Solas and lay down beside him.
- You were right… - she whispered.
He did not look at her, and he did not speak.
- It's hard for me to understand you, but I've noticed that even if you don't comfort, you also don't humiliate… and maybe that's worth far more than other gestures. Thank you for stopping me.
Once again, Solas remained silent, but he set a companionable hand on the Herald's forearm so she would know he would be there when she needed him.
Because although he had his own agenda, this young woman was showing him an extraordinary spirit, and it stirred in him the desire to advise her, to guide her… and, to his regret, just as the child of the Stone had said, something inside him wanted to help her bear the crushing weight she carried.
Solas did not dare involve himself too deeply, but the Dalish woman seemed to be a reflection of who he himself had once been… and it disturbed far too much within him.
At last, he released her arm and closed his eyes. He would not sleep, because he was a dreamer, but he would walk the Fade and old memories.
- Rest, Herald.
- You too.