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bradie-valentine · 3 years

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To Live in a House That is Haunted

By Bradie Valentine

The afternoon sun bakes me through the windshield as I drive towards Leah’s house. She hasn’t answered my texts in a couple of days. Not that unusual for her, even before this silence. And yet I’m still on my way to check on her. We’ve been basically inseparable since we bonded over our family troubles in grade three and this is the longest we haven’t seen each other since then. The quiet from her side of our friendship has gestated long enough.

When I pull up to her house, a wave of unease washes over me. The house looks almost the same as it usually does, but just slightly off. The grass is way too long and I can see a pile of mush near the mailbox, the storms of summer turning her mail into pulp. As I head towards the house, parting the long grass that tickles my legs, I notice the stack of oak she bought a few months ago. The wood is bloated and full of wet rot, another victim of the January showers.

Don’t get me wrong, Leah has always been quiet, reserved. But this is different. Besides the occasional ‘I’m still alive’ text, I’ve barely interacted with her in the past two months. I can’t exactly blame her though. I can understand why she hasn’t been feeling very social. Her husband, Brian, died two months ago; the death of Leah’s voice immediately following.

I was with her that day, the day cops turned up to deliver the news. We were in the lounge room, chatting about Leah’s upcoming carpentry projects when there was a knock at the door. Leah answered it, there was some muffled chatter and then a sorrowful screech, like an animal caught in a trap. I leapt up from the couch just in time to see Leah collapse in on herself. The strong statue of the woman I knew, reduced to a pile of discarded tissues; delicate and tear soaked.

It was a freak accident that killed her Brian. A bump on the head at work. Rushed to the hospital, and he was dead on arrival. We found out later that the knock had popped a massive aneurysm that was nesting between the folds of his brain.

I take a deep breath and rap on the door a couple times but Leah doesn’t answer. I pause for a few seconds, knock, pause again, and knock again. I pull out my phone and text her, a drop of sweat trickles down the back of my neck. The heat and worry working together to slick my skin. I try calling too, but the phone rings out. Usually I wouldn’t bother worrying over Leah, but since Brian, grief has metamorphosed her, leeching both her light and strength. I think I should go, maybe come back later, but then I notice the sound of music. Leonard Cohen’s deep voice emanates from within the house. I try the handle and it’s unlocked, as soon as I open the door I get hit with the foulest stench of my life, even worse than when I used to get paid to wash down animal cages at the local vet. The stench clogs my nostrils and makes my mouth water with pre-vomit saliva.

I call out to Leah and get no response in return. Covering my nose, I start down the hallway, passing picture frames filled with photos of the happy couple. I call out again and I still don’t get a reply. Oh god, I should have come sooner. As I approach the bedroom, I hear a buzzing. I can’t place it for a second, and then I realise, it’s flies, a swarm of flies.

It’s all making sense, her favourite album playing, their wedding anniversary is coming up. The stench of sickly sweet death crowding the hallway. Leah has killed herself and now a horde insects are busy getting comfortable in the rancid warmth of her lifeless corpse.

I brace myself, a few steps and I’ll be able to see the bedroom, the carnage Leah has made of herself. And then I hear a laugh, Leah's laugh. The fear mixes with confusion and I’m so disorientated, I stumble the last couple steps forward and then I see them.

Leah is lying on the bed, holding Brian’s hand. It takes me a second to realise that the swollen form on the bed is indeed Brian. The flies have made their home here a while ago. There is a split in Brian’s belly where the gasses of rot have burst him open. Maggots spill off Brian and wiggle across Leah, like they can’t even tell anymore where the death ends and the living begins.

I turn away and run for the kitchen. My stomach is roiling and lurching. I only make it halfway and end up vomiting on the floor. Bile and this morning's toast exploding from my mouth.

“Hi”

I look at Leah. She’s knobbly and bony where she used to be muscular. There’s a stain down the left side of her night gown. It’s yellowy thickness let’s me know it’s broken down fat that has leached out of Brian and onto her. As if he was trying to offer back some of the bulk that weeks in bed have taken from her.

I’m still gagging when she starts talking.

“I dug him up, after the funeral. I brought a shovel with me.”

“Why?”

“I was getting ready for the funeral and all I could think about is how he would be so lonely in the ground. You know how much he hated being without me.”

“Leah, this is fucking crazy, you know that right? I love you but holy shit. You need help Leah… you need serious help.”

She just turns away and walks back to the bedroom.

“Leah, stop! I’m serious.”

She doesn’t listen to me. I follow her down the hallway and watch her climb into bed next to the mass of degrading flesh in a burial suit.

The liquid of his body has seeped into the mattress and the carpet beneath their bed. No one is ever going to be able to scrub him from the carpet or the floor below. An oily stain has spread up the wall above him, a halo made from his desecration. Brian now has a permanence he never had before. I wonder for a second what will happen to this house after they’re gone. Who would even want it now?

“Go away,” She says.

“Leah please”

She stays silent, just staring at Brian’s empty face.

“This is beyond fucked up, I’m getting you out of here. If… if you don’t come with me, I’ll call the police. They’ll be able to drag you out”

There is another long pause, and I almost think she has forgotten I’m here. She’s so clearly out of it.

“Please… please just let me say goodbye” She finally replies, “I need to say goodbye. I didn’t get to say it last time, please“

She leans in close to the bloat and starts whispering. I feel like I’m watching something I shouldn’t. I head for the front door, for fresh air. As I’m walking through the house, I realise all of the pictures on the wall that used to be of parents and cousins and nieces have been replaced.

They’re all of Leah with Brian’s body. All taken in the house. In one, Brian is propped up on the couch. Leah is sitting straight, like she’s posing for a portrait. The self timer on her phone capturing a record of her depravity. The photos all vary in poses and states of decomposition. The latest one I find is of them in bed. Brian already shiny and slick, his body bloated and gnarled. Leah has an arm around him and her head on his chest.

The front door is calling to me, fresh air and a reprieve from the incessant vibration of insect life. I reach for the handle when I notice the frame right by the door. The photo is of Leah, Brian and I at their wedding. It was Leah's favourite of the night, the three of us caught in laughter together. I sigh and head for the lounge room instead, climb the couch and slide open the window, pressing my face to the fly screen, breathing deeply the outside air.

The light tap, tap, tap of Leah’s steps announce her presence in the hallway.

“It’s okay now,” she says, “I got to say goodbye. We can put him back and no one has to know. You don’t have to call the police or anything.”

“Leah, you dug up his body, I can’t just pretend like that didn't happen.”

“Please! If anyone finds out, they’ll put me away. I don’t want to be alone. I lost Brian, I can’t lose everyone else as well.”

She’s just standing there in her yellowed nightgown, hands wringing each other. Leah looks so young, so helpless, like she’s in third grade again. Actually, she reminds me more of myself when I was in third grade. Unsure, broken, needing someone to look after me. Leah was the one who took care of me then, she was my person. Now I have to be that for her.

“Alright,” I say, getting up from the couch, “you get the gloves and aprons, I’ll get the rope.”

Standing in the bedroom, decked out in aprons, gloves, and face masks, we stare at the pile of flesh on top of the mattress. Assessing the best course of action, I really stare at Brian. Once a man, a great man at that, he is now somewhere between human and object. Tender and fragile, a bag of rot. Meat, past its use by date. A spoiled egg, one sharp prod and he’ll pop like a runny yolk. We have to be gentle.

Next to the bed, we lay the blue tarp I grabbed from the shed across the floor. Leah climbs up beside Brian, the movement jostles him, shaking the fluid filling his skin, wobbling like an oversized hot water bottle. Bracing myself over the tarp we grab his arms and pull him towards the ground, our fingers sink into his raw sausage meat arms. He slips from our hands a couple inches from the floor, with a wet slap he hits the ground. We rear back, and Leah spews a startled cry. The gash in Brian’s stomach yawns wider and a rush of melted organs spill from his open body; a thick grotesque puff of odour erupting with it. Following closely behind, a swarm of flies and maggots escape his bodily cavity, startled from their reverie.

Shocked still for a moment, we spring to life and scramble out of the room and slam the door shut. Leah slides to the floor, moaning and crying.

“What do we do now?” She asks me.

Dropping to the floor, I gather her gently into my lap. Trying not to think about bits of Brian swill getting all over me, I pat her matted hair.

“We take care of you now, the way you took care of Brian, the way you’ve taken care of me. Whatever that means.”

“Okay,” she says, “okay.”

Once Leah is soundly asleep, I dial triple zero. The operator seems a bit surprised by the situation I describe.

“My friend dug up her husband’s dead body and had been living with it for two months, can you send an ambulance over?”

“Uh, yeah. Right away.”

Once again, Leah and I are startled by a knock at her front door. I’m the one who answers it this time. Leah stands at the end of the hallway, she must look frightening to these strangers. Gaunt and covered in sludge, sticky with the putrid stench of the death that was stewing in that once pristine bedroom. They’re gentle with her, she goes with them willingly. We finally get outside, the freshness of the crisp air disorientating. Leah stops and turns to me.

“I’m sorry for bringing you into this,” she says.

“Anytime,” I say.

We both laugh a little bit.

“Leah?”

“Yes?”

“You’ll be okay. Eventually, things will be better.”

“I know,” She says, “will you be okay, without me around?”

I think it’s a joke. Her, also trying to lighten the mood. I answer her seriously anyway.

“Yes, Leah. I think I will.”

#shortstories #shortstory #bradievalentine #originalwork #originalstory #writer #author

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purkinje-effect · 5 years

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The Anatomy of Melancholy, 19

Table of Contents Go to first. Go to previous. Go to next.

Drugs, decomp, insects/parasitism, myiaisis, emeto, myso, copro TW’s. I’m pretty sure this is the grossest thing I’ve ever written. Enjoy

Skin tight hypoxia gripped Melancholy’s scalp. He wheezed for breath, jerking upright in a coughing fit of salt and rancor. Face still coated in a thick grime, his eyes and nose burned almost as bad as his lungs, and he pulled off his glasses to claw the muck off his face. A rasping coughing fit seized him, only for his stomach to lay out its objections to his activities right into his lap. Everything crawled inside-out with haptic echoes of a phantom myiasis. His diaphragm continued to spasm, adding hiccups to the mix of torture.

The second time he vomited, blood spotted the rejection.

“Fuck, it took you long enough.” Jared snatched him up by the back of his collar and threw him into an office chair. He jammed a shop rag into his hand with bitter, mocking pity. “Does the chemist need some water?”

“--’Zhemoy,” ‘Choly choked out, breathing still unsteady. “I could have-- I could have died.”

“But you didn’t.”

A jar of water found the chemist’s hands, and he immediately without hesitation squinted his eyes and mouth taut and poured some of it down his face. He then poured out a bit into the other side of the rag and did his best to work the ordure loose. Unable to smell anything but the penetrating musk of brahmin dung, he distrusted his ability to gauge the safeness of the water he’d been handed, and did not use it to try to drown the hiccups. Once he got his eyes rid of enough rheum-muck, he opened them, and used the remaining water to wash off his glasses. He dared not look to Jared, to confirm his appearance.

“Look, chemist. You’re going to retain your value to me. I’ve invested too much in you. What’s a more potent dose than the raw source itself? I watched you just now, writhing like the insect you are. That had to be the most intense flight I’ve seen in my life. --Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

‘Choly trembled and shook his head, wringing his hands in his lap and feeling very small. Attentive flies crawled all over him, and diligent maggots did their best to rid his clothing of grime. He squinted his eyes shut and tried his best not to fall into hyperventilating.

“Please, no. No--”

“Do you at least know where you are, you little fuck? You’re sitting in my office. At my terminal. And you’re not going anywhere until you write down everything that you just experienced.”

He slowly picked up his head in the direction of the desk, and stared hollowly at the computer screen. Loathing overwhelmed him in the moment and he shrank from the terminal with a low whine, only to force himself to square up to it, and shrink away, several times. At last he put his glasses back on his face, and recognized at least his hiccups had resolved.

Jared glared at the back of his head until he was goodly confident ‘Choly was committed to the journal entry.

Flies. Flies on everything. Cleaning everything. Righting it all. Devoted. Diligent. I don’t know where they’re coming from. Are they coming from Jared? Jared’s face... He became the largest bloatfly I’ve ever seen. Drooling, adamant mouthparts. Piercing compound eyes. His bloated body teemed with lichinka. Ready for my supplication. Everything was so tight. Flesh sluicing from my belly as they wriggled out to crown my pudenda like a coronation of sex. Appetent. Purifying. Perpetual. Purulent. I was so purulent. But I wouldn’t be for long.

They took me with them when they transfigured into mature bloatflies. A piece of my consciousness arose in each of them, a cloud of rapture. I was present in everything, humble to debride the world of its entropy. Multiplying in a golden mean forever. Everything could be clean.

Sweat drenched him in hard loathing, and he heaved as he saved his draft. He couldn’t get more explicit than that. It hurt his head too much to try to put to words what he had seen. Every time he took Jet, it seemed the conjugating theme was maggot therapy. This was the first time it had brought him a genuine state of entheogeny, and he rubbed at his upper arms in displeasure of coming down from it. Everything felt so... lifeless as the halo of activity faded away. His head hurt. His everything hurt.

In the time it had taken for him to compose the journal requested of him, he found that Jared had excused himself. The wheelchair was still out on the assembly line floor, and divorced of it ‘Choly couldn’t muster the faculty or energy to get himself to it. And he was a combination of too tired and too filthy to simply doze off. So, to keep himself entertained, he turned again to the terminal, only to realize that Jared had left it logged on as the administrator.

He’d never read Jared’s journals before, and he wondered if anyone in the outfit had. Absently biting his lip refreshed the rancid tang that stained his face, and he flinched. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Jared wasn’t even out on the foreman’s mezzanine that overlooked the assembly floor, then went into his journals. He jumped around basing his choices on the titles of each file, and began with one called ‘Setting Up Shop.’

Gunfire’s finally quieted down. Suppose that means either Lonnie or Gristle wiped up the last of the feral ghouls or they’re currently serving as someone’s meal.

But Lexington is secure, I can finally get to work.

Well, ‘Choly thought, somebody sure became the ferals’ meal in the Super Duper Mart. They didn’t look at all the part to belong to Jared’s outfit, though. He opened ‘Subjects.’

It’s not the chems.

They’re just a trigger for the sight. It’s me. I’m the problem. Wish I’d realized before my arms looked like pin-cushions, but at least it’s a new lead.

I need subjects.

The chemist squinted. Jared really did believe that psychedelic drugs could make people legitimately psychic. But injections? 'Choly thought all this nonsense revolved around Jet, an inhalant. ‘Walden’ came next.

The pharmacy across the way lit up like Christmas last week. No clue how that fucker got in my town without anybody noticing, but color me impressed that he managed to restore electricity to that place. I had Jerry case the building, top to bottom, and every way in requires either a key or a password. We’ll have to arrange a little rooftop meeting next time our little showman comes up on the roof to dole out chems with his--rifle? That still slays me.

The part that really gets me is, my outfit tells me he’s in a wheelchair. I’ve only ever seen one other person in the Commonwealth use one. It can’t be a coincidence. I have to talk to him.

Skimming a few more entries, he got a few laughs out of confirmation that Jared didn’t genuinely hate him. At least, not before today. Most mentions of him in Jared’s journals involved wanting desperately to flip ‘Choly’s ‘vision’ the ‘right direction.’ Then there was ‘Experiments Continue,’ and his face slacked.

Still no successes but the rumor of free chems has brought plenty of new recruits. Ranks are nearly back up to where they were before we cleaned out Lexington. Lonnie thinks entertaining the chemist is a waste of time, says we need to spend our time building up our defenses.

But Lonnie doesn’t make the decisions. I do.

She does seem to be enjoying her new position, though. Maybe another dose of Psycho will get her visions firing.

‘Choly’s hand went to his mouth at the mention of cyclomorphine, and he sank back in his seat. Jared had access to Psycho, and was trying to jog hallucinations with it as he’d done of the Jet. The raider leader had told the chemist he’d had no interest in branching out into other drugs until they’d done comprehensive work with Jet first. Knowing what Jared had told him before this most recent trip, had the raider simply gotten impatient without any results yet, or was something more sinister taking place here? Holy God how did he get his hands on that stuff... He hadn’t wanted to find anything compelling, incriminating or otherwise, and he pressed on, haunted, with the most recent entry: ‘Stumped.’

Nothing is working. The old woman, she used to just huff some Jet, pop some pills, then she’d start babbling, spouting vision after vision. And they all turned out true. The Raiders burning the town, killing the parents, stealing the kids. Stealing me. I remember the look in her eyes when she saw my fate. “Kid, you’re gonna be a monster.” All true.

If I could get that sort of power, that sight, the Commonwealth, the other gangs. No one would have a prayer.

But nothing’s working. Maybe I need to try upping the dosages. I’ll have to talk with the chemist and see how potent we can get.

“You’re gonna be a monster,” he mouthed, his soul flying from his body.

There was no other explanation in ‘Choly’s haunted grey matter, than that this soothsaying junkie had seen ‘Choly’s hallucinations of Jared becoming a bloatfly. Of course Jared’s interested in developing psychic abilities for power alone. Of course he is.

'Choly backed out to the main screen, and returned to the ‘Melancholy 8′ entry from the holotape in the disc deck, so the terminal would be open to it. The more rational explanation was that this woman had indicated a monstrosity of character, but ‘Choly just couldn’t quit the thought as he reread what he’d written. Context meant everything. Over... and over... and...

“Hey, chemist, you’re still at it? Fuck, you’re taking forever.”

‘Choly jerked in his seat, snapped out of his lucid horror by Jared’s return.

“I, yeah. Yeah, I’m done.” He looked to Jared, to find him still entirely human, and he sighed out his relief a little too readily. The raider had brought the wheelchair, folded up. Pushing away from the desk in the rolling chair, ‘Choly began, “I very much hope this stuff doesn’t come true, and very much hope it’s ridiculous that it ever could.”

Jared leaned down to skim what ‘Choly had written, and his features alternated from hardened to ridiculous. He barked a laugh and slapped ‘Choly in the head, only to continue laughing, almost in tears.

“You are a horny little fuck...”

“I haven’t gotten any in over two centuries.” He let out a small laugh, realizing he’d inadvertently referenced facts which had precipitated Jared’s prior behavior. “I suppose that has a lot to do with it.”

With a delirious sigh, Jared smiled at him and gesticulated emphatically as he spoke next.

“I’ve been thinking, and I have to ask. In some of your other journals, you’ve talked about using some pistol in the same way you use your rifle. A... Nagant? I know it’s total bollocks that you’d have these... bloatfly maggots or whatever you hallucinate every time. Those things are like a dick joke. Having ‘em in the gun’s like, a metaphor for fucking everything under the sun or something. And you getting intimate, up close and personal, with that thing. Real raunchy. ...Is that a real gun you’re talking about? Or is it a vapor just like everything else in that fucked up little head of yours?”

The chemist straightened, and thought how to reply as he slowly wrung his hands in his lap.

“I... yes, and no. The gun is real, but the ammunition and its ability to fire them aren’t.” He stopped making eye contact. “It’s a Russian revolver I found, some vet’s war prize I guess. Takes 7.62′s, but fuck if you’ll ever likely put your hands on any. I can’t think of any regular issue American guns that use it, and the military only let vets have the weapon itself as a trophy--the ammo itself was considered contraband. I only really know the basics when it comes to actually breaking down and futzing with the mechanics of a firearm, but I suppose it’s... entirely plausible to make it work like my syringer rifle.”

Jared squinted at him, unsure whether ‘Choly was being an idiot.

“You can’t put darts in a pistol, revolver or not. Just the combustion in the chamber will destroy it.”

“The Nagant... is different. It’s a gas-seal revolver. It fires the ammo through air pressure, and relies only partly on combustion. I would imagine there’s a way to rig it to rely completely on a pneumatic mechanism. 7.62mm isn’t too far off from the ammo a syringer rifle uses, either.”

“Where is this... Nagant.”

‘Choly made a funny face and shook his head in a vague confusion. Suddenly, it didn’t feel like Jared was trying to confirm facts about a Jet journal.

“I have it stored someplace safe. What, why?”

“I’m very good with metalworking equipment, and very good with firearms. Been playing around with the assembly plant amenities for close to a year, and I grew up in Quincy. You’ve seen how good I am, from how we cooperated putting together the Jet rig. I could take a look at it. And I could probably make it happen. Give it ammo it can use. Make it proud again.”

‘Choly stiffened, recalling that Jared’s journals indicated he had access to Psycho--at least at one point--and he couldn’t imagine a worse outcome. But gradually, his judgment got the better of him and he nodded, then nodded eagerly.

“I’ll bring it tomorrow. So you can look at it.”

The moment the words came from him, he regretted it. And yet, Jared seemed more pleased with him than he’d ever been. With his help ‘Choly transferred over to the now unfolded wheelchair, and Jared escorted him down the mezzanine ramp to meet Angel.

“My stars you’ve gotten most filthy, Mister Carey!” Its tendrils flailed about in utmost concern before taking up the handles and motoring him along. “Shall I help you bathe upon arriving home? I scarce would think you could scrub all that away on your own.”

As they exited, Jared called out after him, “Melancholy! Don’t you forget your promise.”

He shot Jared an o-kay with one tired hand, not looking back.

“Angel, I... I think this warrants a dip in the river. We’ll stop at the pharmacy for the toiletries, I guess.”

“But Sir, you’ll be soaking wet all the way home. You haven’t come across a change of clothes. I should know. You deserve a freshening up.”

“I... have a change of clothes,” he began, almost reluctantly. “Don’t worry about that much. It’s in your storage compartment, actually.”

They fell silent the rest of the way back to the Lexington Walden, to limit any likelihood of stirring unwanted ghoul attention. On the way to their pit stop, all ‘Choly could wonder was whether Jared were more pleased with the journal entry, or with the promise of a new toy for his inhumane scheming... and he couldn’t help but wonder why he was so attentive to gain the favor of this abomination.

He’d given Melancholy everything he could have wanted. But at what price?

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#fallout 4 #fallout 4 fanfic #fallout fanfic #fo4 fanfic #the anatomy of melancholy #the purkinje effect #melancholy

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ahrorha · 6 years

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Flame of Winter

Hey all,

It is chopping undead time in the Exalted Planes. I am always glad the bodies disappear in the game. Otherwise, you wouldn't be able to walk. Sadly for the Inquisition, I try to describe a more accurate picture of what it would be like if you had to clean up the mess of the Civil War.

Enjoy :)

ps. I wrote Elven in italic

Chapter 15

How quickly a region could be torn apart by war.' Solas thought as they rode deeper into the Dales. Their journey had started surprisingly pleasant a couple of days ago. The sunny warmer weather and greener lands brightening everyone's mood. The laughs and jokes quickly died down however, when they saw the first traces of the civil war. Along the road lay the skeletal remains of burned down farms next to fields of abandoned ripe harvest. The hungry calls of starving cattle were the only sounds left from what had been a busy community just a few months ago. Some of the animals lay butchered in their pens, harvested by hungry soldiers, their bones giving a bleak picture of what they would encounter at the heart of the conflict. Entire villages lay desolated, abandoned by the people that had fled from the violence. The land itself had been scared, trenches had been dug, barricades build and countless trees cut down. They stood out in the landscape like sore open wounds, silent witnesses of the worst part of humanity.

Yes, the region had changed much since he last had been here.

Solas had his reservations returning here. After he had awoken, he had visited these lands to see the attempts of the elves to recreate a false dreams of Arlathan. After centuries of war, imprisonment and slavery, the elves had forgotten what had happened. They had forgotten the truth, the corruption, oppression, injustice and greed that had ruled and ruined Elvhenan. They had forgotten him. His actions, his sacrifices, the reasons why he had tried to create a better world. They didn't even remember how Mythal was betrayed and murdered.

He felt disgusted when he saw the ruins of temples and altars they had build, worshipping those, he had tried to stop. Everything had gone wrong. The Dalish he had met here, only confirmed the cruel twists history imposed on him. They mourned the loss of a heritage, based on fragments of fragments of memory. Like ignorant children, they clung to their lies as the absolute truth. They didn't want to listen to anything he tried to teach them, didn't want to accept the knowledge he wanted to share. They viewed him as a madman. An outsider because he didn't have the slave-markings they so proudly wore. Back then he had left them ireful and disappointed.

“Solas look.”

Solas thoughts were interrupted by Eirlana, who pointed at a ruin on the top of a hill. One of the many that one could find in these lands.

“It must have been a watchtower. The view from up there must be great. Maybe we can visit it once all this is behind us.”

He felt a pang of sadness hearing her speak of the future, their future. What would happen if she knew the truth? Would she even be willing to remain at his side, when she discovered who he was and what he had done? He knew things couldn't stay like this. Everything would change once he got his orb back and with it, his power. It was strange that he didn't know any longer what he exactly would do when his powers returned to him. What once was a clear path had branched into a complicated web.

Seeing Eirlana's curious eyes, sparkling with her desire for exploration and knowledge made Solas smile. He shook his head, knowing she was the main reason he was wavering. She had opened his eyes to look at the world differently. Not long ago he had scuffed at the feeble attempts of what the elves had tried to recreate. Now he understood more of the struggles they had suffered, the challenges they faced. Being cut off from their true selves and after centuries of enslavement, it was remarkable what they had managed to build, even when it was based on legends and falsehoods.

The future was still uncertain, but Solas knew one thing, the current elves deserved better. They deserved to gain back their place in this world. A place not so different from what they had tried to create here before it was taken from them by force. It may be true that he initiated the downfall of the elves, but the humans had finished what he had started. On these lands, they had brought a third crushing blow to the elves, one they hadn't recovered from since. These grounds were drenched in their blood. He had seen the horrors that had been committed here. The total disregard and destruction of what little truth the elves had managed to preserve. What was left to this day, was a suppressed and neglected elven population. He didn't know if he could have prevented their downfall if he would have been awake at that time. But now he was awake, he would do everything in his power to change their lives once again.

Finally, they had reached their destination. The support troops immediately started to set up their camp. Solas and the others gathered around Ryan to hear the reports of scout Harding. It was clear they had reached the centre of the conflict. A heavy smell of smoke and decay hung in the air. The ground was barren, trampled down by carts and countless iron boots. The once lush green bushes and trees had partly disappeared, cut down to feed the never-ending demand of timber and firewood. Patches of dark soil dotted the road, where blood had seeped into the ground. Solas could feel the Fade was restless. The spirits that lived here had been stirred by the recent violence and bloodshed. He could feel their negative energy charging the air. Whatever they would find beyond their camp wouldn't be pretty.

After a short rest, they headed out. Ryan and Cassandra walked up front to one of the statues the Chantry had placed here. They represented their justification of the Exalted March, praising their victory upon the elves. Solas watched silently as they knelt down to pray. His face was neutral, stoic. In reality, he felt nothing but disdain for what had happened here.

Eirlana hesitated when they approached the statues. She had heard and read about the Exalted March. Most of the books containing only the views approved by the Chantry. It wildly differed from the glimpses she had witnessed in the Fade the last couple of days. Seeing the statues now with her own eyes made her uncomfortable. Instinctively she stepped closer to Solas and felt his tension, she wasn't the only one that felt uneasy. Wanting to let him know he wasn't alone, she took his hand. Solas looked at her, their eyes sharing an understanding, exchanging that what they couldn't say out loud. He squeezed her hand, it was strangely comforting to know he wasn't alone here this time. Though he wished it were under different circumstances.

He brushed her cheek. “Stay close and watch your step. War brings out the worst in men, and there is no telling what we will encounter.”

“You also best stay close to me.” the Iron Bull added, shouldering his axe when he saw Ryan and Cassandra had finally finished. “There are a lot of battle-weary badly trained soldiers out here. A dangerous and unpredictable bunch. Especially for pretty elves.”

Eirlana felt herself shiver, knowing all too well what he was referring to.

Making sure Bianca was secured, Varric sighed in agreement. “All men are pigs when they are away from home. And this is as far away from home as they can be.”

Swallowing down her fears Eirlana just nodded, hoping that their protection wouldn't be needed.

Even with all the battles and memories of conflicts, Eirlana had seen in the Fade, it hadn't prepared her for the true face of war. It was like she was walking through a living nightmare. With every breath she took the stench of burned flesh, oil and wood burned her throat. The ground smelled sour and sickly sweet, a foul muddy mixture of earth, human waste, blood, filth and rotting flesh. The stockades the Orlesians had build, were mazes of death and decay. The landscape had been razed, houses destroyed, trees burned. There were craters where flaming boulders had come down. Beside the roads lay rotting corpses next to perished pack animals, partially eaten by maggots and crows. Demons and angry spirits were slipping through the scared Veil, feasting upon the terror, violence and fear. The most horrifying were the pits.

They had been warned about the dead that had come back to life. As soon as they entered the stockades, they were attacked by the bloated rotting corpses. Eirlana could feel the foul dark magic that trapped the spirits in this place. It bound them, forcing them into the bodies of the fallen. In pain and panic, they lashed out, only to be trapped again when they were cut down. They were imprisoned in a never cycle of pain and suffering. This foul magic was centred around massive pits, filled with hundreds of decaying and mangled bodies. She felt sick seeing so many lives lost, discarded like broken tools as if they meant nothing.

That evening Eirlana returned to the camp exhausted, she felt numb and filthy. The images of the dead, mangled bodies, bloated corpses and rotting undead kept flashing through her mind. The stench of death and decay still lingered around her, as if it had permeated her. The fighting had worn her down, and she wanted nothing more than to leave this place. Normally she would find rest in the Fade, but that wouldn't be possible here. The nightmare of the day would follow her. With so many raving spirits already slipping through the Veil it would be hard to evade them. She would be sucked into the vivid horrible memories that lingered in this place, knowing she wasn't strong enough to block them.

“Vhenan.”

Eirlana looked up at Solas kneeling in front of her. Smiling at her, he took the bowl of stew that had gone cold out of her hands. Too tired to object she let him pull her away from the fire towards their tent. Like a doll, she followed him which made Solas only more worried. He had watched her all day and noticed she became more withdrawn and quiet as the day went by. Now he wanted to take care of her. Gently he set her down in front of their tent and removed her footwrappings. That she didn't object his touches made it only more clear to him that she had seen enough for one day. After they had washed and changed into their evening linen, he brushed her hair, placing light kisses on her shoulder and neck. Slowly she began to relax, shivering slightly from his soft touches. He re-braided her hair, and Eirlana turned towards him.

“Thank you.” she mumbled and kissed him tenderly. Leaning her forehead against his, she let out a long sigh. Lying down Solas pulled her closer. With her nestled safely against his chest, he let his magic flow, warding their minds, before he guided her into the Fade. He brought her back to the beautiful gardens of Arlathan.

For hours Eirlana and Solas explored the gardens, listened to the songs and music, and spoke softly with each other. Dawn was already approaching when Solas began to explain the art of warding magic. Suddenly Eirlana felt a shift in the Fade and within an eye-blink Solas had disappeared in front of her. Being left behind, she wondered if she should try to follow him. As comfortable she was in the Fade she had never sought out a living person. Solas had told her she would learn giving it more time, but she felt reluctant to try it. Knowing she wouldn't feel comfortable if someone would barge into her dreams. Before she could make up her mind, her body was abruptly pushed to the side. Now wide awake she untangled herself from her blanket, only to see Solas in a state of panic sitting upright next to her. She had never seen him so distressed, his eyes were moving rapidly while he snatched his clothes and put them on. With him not reacting to her she grabbed his hands, forcing him to look at her.

“Solas! What is wrong? What happened?”

For a moment he just stared at her. As if she had frozen him.

“Solas, please talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

He hesitated, his first reaction was to dismiss her, planning to go out alone as he always had done. He couldn't rely on the others to help him, least of all from the Inquisitor.

Eirlana was scared, something serious must have happened for him to act this way. “What happened in the Fade? Tell me what is wrong. Let me help you.” she pleaded with him.

Solas could see he was frightening her. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself down. She was right, she could help him. He knew he could trust her, maybe even more than himself. “I heard a call in the Fade. My friend has been summoned, and she is being held against her will. I have to go and help her.”

Eirlana let go of him and dressed. “Is it far from here?”

“No. It should be close, but we have to hurry.”

It was very early in the morning. The first rays of sunshine had just begun to lit up the sky.

Iron Bull sat alone at the dying campfire. He had woken up after a rough night and sent the guards on a routine patrol so he could have some time to himself. He was surprised when Solas and Eirlana emerged from their tent.

“Everything alright?” he asked when Solas went straight to the mounts to saddle his hart.

“Oh Bull, you are awake.” Eirlana answered him, looking nervous. “Ehm...We will be gone for a while.”

Iron Bull frowned. Whatever they planned, it was clearly not to enjoy themselves. “Do you need help?”

She hesitated a moment looking at Solas riding towards her. “I don't know.” she mumbled while she was pulled onto the hart. “We will be back!” she said holding onto Solas, who quickly rode off.

“Hmrrrr.” Iron Bull's frown deepened, weighing if he should follow them. Whatever had spooked them, it was clear that they didn't want the others to be involved. He shook his head. It had probably to do something with magic or a Fade thing. After giving them a head start, he sighed as he walked to Ryan's tent. He wouldn't be amused by their little getaway either.

Solas stared at what was left of Wisdom. Her body warped, twisted and deformed by the ritual that was done to her. Nothing was left of her radiant spirit. Death, chaos and destruction swept in waves of her as she attempted to break the barriers, that held and tortured her. “No.” was the only word that he could utter in his shock.

They had ridden fast to the location he had seen in the Fade. They found a group of mages desperately battling the demonic form of what once was Wisdom. Their summons must have forced her against her purpose, changing her.

“Solas!” Eirlana shook him. Her heart broke when she saw the look of pure sorrow and anguish in his eyes. They had to do something quickly if they wanted to save his friend.

Noticing them, one of the mages ran towards them. “Please, can you help us. The demon is too strong. We can't hold it much longer.”

Jumping of the hart Solas stormed towards the mage. “YOU!” he sneered. His voice drenched with anger and loathing. “You summoned her. A Spirit of Wisdom. You FORCED her to KILL! You twisted her nature and turned her into a demon!”

The mage stepped back surprised by Solas' outburst. In defence, he raised his hands slightly. “I... You are mistaken. I understand it is confusing, you haven't studied demons as I have. Please, we need help to contain and dispose of it.”

“Dispose of it?” Solas was furious. He wanted nothing more than erase this pathetic excuse of a human from existence, but he still needed him to help Wisdom.

“We can dismantle the binding circle and free her.”

Hearing Eirlana's calm voice, Solas felt some of his anger disappear. He turned towards her. “Dismantle the circle?” He had only a general idea how summoning circles worked. Back in his time, there was no need for them. It was far more convenient to seek the spirits out directly if you needed them.

“Are you completely MAD?” the mage looked shocked at her. “It will kill us all.”

Ignoring the mage, Eirlana explained to Solas. “I have seen several of these in Tevinter. If we break it correctly, she will no longer be bound to the contract they forced on her. Hopefully, she can turn back to her true self once she is free.”

“Tevinter?” the mage looked even more rattled and terrified at them both.

“This is one of the simpler summoning circles. It should not be difficult to reverse, but it will take time. You have to hold her as long as you can. In this state, she will fight us every step of the way.”

Seeing the determined look on her face Solas nodded. “I hold her.”

With an encouraging nod, Eirlana ran towards the circle. The other mages moved back, seeking cover. As she reached the first summoning pillar, the demon lashed out, hitting her with an electrical charge. Her barrier crackled under the impact, this was a powerful spirit.

“I am sorry, friend.” she heard Solas say before he pushed the demon back with a forcefield pulling the demon's attention towards him. Eirlana knew she had to work quickly. Keeping an eye on Solas and the demon she started to break down the pillar, reversing the spell. It was difficult with just the two of them. Not wanting to hurt Wisdom Solas used his least offensive magic and ran around, keeping her focus on him. He took many hits in the process, and if it weren't for Eirlana's healing magic, he would have been forced to use much stronger spells against her.

Solas panted heavily, blocking another attack when the circle around him disappeared. Wisdom's demonic form faded and she fell to her knees. He rushed towards her. The corruption that had taken hold of her covered her like a dark film, eating her alive. Only her eyes shined with her radiant true self.

Seeing her pain, Solas whispered. “I am so sorry.” Knowing they had come too late.

“I'm not. I'm happy. I'm me again.” Wisdom voice sounded strained, it took her great effort to speak. For a moment her eyes wandered over his shoulder to where Eirlana stood. “It gladdens me you are no longer alone.” she smiled at him. “You helped me. You set me free. Now you must endure. Guide me into death.”

Solas closed his eyes, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He knew what she was asking of him, and he wished there was another way. “As you wish.”

Carefully he reached out with his magic, breaking down the essence of her being. Her energy dissolved into the air, returning back to the Fade. “Dareth shiral” he whispered.

“I am so sorry Solas.” Eirlana didn't know what she should do or say. Tears glistened in her eyes seeing Solas grief. Even when the spirit was thankful they had come to help her, they had come too late, they had failed to save her.

“You did it! You defeated the demon.”

Their moment of silent sorrow was rudely interrupted by the mage and his two companions.

“YOU!” Solas stormed towards him. “You tortured and killed my friend.”

The mages backed off. “We didn't know it was just a spirit. The book said it could help...”

Solas' eyes burned with rage. He didn't want to listen to them any longer. How dare they call her just a spirit. They had done this, and they had to pay. Furious he set the mages ablaze, turning them into ash and heaps of coaled flesh.

In shock, Eirlana stared at him. This was a Solas she didn't know. For a brief moment, he was another being. One of vengeance, violence, and harbouring a power she had never seen before. It frightened her. Hesitantly she reached out to him. “Solas?”

Killing the mages did nothing for Solas. Sadness and anger boiled inside of him. His darkest thoughts surfaced, fuelled by his fury. “Damn them all!”

Why was he even trying, when this was what he gained in return again and again. He felt a hand touching his shoulder and whirled around, striking at whoever it was. A startled shriek brought him back. Eirlana held her arm he had just hit looking at him in disbelief.

This couldn't be. What had he done? He never wanted to hurt her. Guild, grief, pain and anger filled him. He needed time to calm down, to think. He needed to get away from here. Feeling guilty and upset he got on the Hart. Without looking at her, he said. “I am sorry. I... I need some time alone.” and galloped away.

What had just happened? Eirlana gazed in the direction Solas had disappeared in. It was quiet, the flowing river and the songs of the birds only emphasising that he had left her behind. For a moment she didn't know what she should do. She was all alone in a region torn by war. She wanted to go after him, but without a mount, it would be difficult to catch up with him.

The vague sounds of hooves coming closer drew her attention. In the distance, she could see the riders approaching, the silhouette of Iron Bull easily recognisable among them. Quickly she looked around. The ground was scorched and burned from their battle, the coaled bodies of the mages were still hot. There was no way she could cover this up. She doubted Ryan would be bothered by some dead mages, but with Solas having killed them in an outburst, was another matter. They wouldn't understand he had killed them in anger to revenge the death of a spirit. She had to do something. With a little magic, she cooled down the lingering heat. Hoping it would be enough to fool the others.

Varric was the first one jumping off his horse. Bianca in hand, he rushed towards her.

“Snowflake are you okay? Where is Chuckles?”

Ryan and the others followed him swiftly. Seeing the apparent signs of battle they spread and kept an eye out for any more enemies.

“What is going on here?” Ryan demanded gruffly.

Using her shock about Solas' actions Eirlana kept staring vaguely in the distance, not immediately reacting to them. She had to wait for the right moment.

“Eirlana?” Worried Varric shook her carefully. “Where is Chuckles? What happened? Why are you alone? Tiny said you went for a ride.”

“Eirlana?”

There it was, the wiggle room she needed. Smoothly the lies formed on her tongue, they had helped her to survive in the past, and it had become second nature to her. She would protect Solas. Focussing on the emotions she felt when he left, she turned towards Varric. Her eyes darted from him to Ryan, looking rattled.

“ I... He left. Solas left.” Tears started to glisten in her eyes.

“Calm down Snowflake. What happened?”

“I... We were going for a ride. We wanted to see the sunrise over the ruins.” Using her shock from what had really happened, she began to talk more quickly, almost rambling. “They called to us. The mages. The mages called to us for help. They were fighting a spirit. We tried to stop them. We tried to help, but we were too late. It turned into a demon. It was horrible, it was in so much pain. It killed the mages.” she bid her lip, almost mumbling to herself. “We had no other choice...”

“What about Chuckles? Why has he left?”

Focussing back on Varric, she shook her head slightly and fighting back her tears. “He... he was upset. How they used their magic, after yesterday. All this dark magic... it is wrong.”

Iron Bull didn't say anything when Eirlana told her story. After she and Solas had left, he had warned the others that they had gone for a morning ride. It didn't take long before he and Varric followed a displeased Ryan and Cassandra on the trail that their elven mages had left behind. While Varric made jokes about some people needed couple time he kept quiet about his suspicions that their trip was anything but a romantic one. Without that knowledge, he would have believed every word Eirlana told them. She was good. Her emotions weren't faked, she was visibly upset, and her lies were more than believable. He already knew there was more to this quiet little mage than meets the eye, but he didn't think she was an expert liar. As a Ben-Hassrath he recognised the value of a good lie and judging by her performance she could teach his colleagues a thing or two.

After Ryan decided that Solas would return on his own, they made their way back to camp. Iron Bull offered Eirlana his horse and choose to walk next to her.

“You alright there kid?”

“Yes. I... Thank you.” There was a moment of silence between them, an understanding that they both knew she had lied to the others. Iron Bull merely gave her a nod that it was alright. He knew better than anyone that everyone had their own reasons to lie. Even when in this case the reason was fairly obvious. He had no doubt in his mind that they didn't simply stumble on a spirit in need. And judging by the absence of Solas something had gone wrong.

With a blast, Eirlana sent the approaching undead flying back. They were fighting their way to yet another pit. It had been days since Solas had left and she was worried sick. Hoping he would finally come back, she tried to sense his energy, something she had done many times the last couple of days. Distracted she barely reacted in time as another undead came at her. Moving back her foot stepped in something cold and slimy. Shuddering, she quickly moved, trying not to gag from the putrid smell of the corpse she had stepped on.

There was no end to this. Her days and nights were fusing together into one great nightmare Eirlana couldn't escape from. Without Solas' protection, she had been forced to witness the fall of the elven lands during her sleep. With the agitated spirits the screams of the dying, the roars of battle and the cries for help were flooding her mind as soon as she closed her eyes. She had tried and failed to recreate the shielding magic Solas used. With the memories overpowering her she was pulled into the cruel memories of the Exalted March. The destruction of innocent lives, humans and elves fighting to the bitter end, revenge and bloodlust fuelling the bloodbath, elves taken as trophies, screaming women being dragged away by groups of soldiers, children crying, families forcefully converted.

Every night and day had been the same. Her only brief moment of rest was in the early morning before they went out again to help the Orlesian troops. Eirlana felt uneasy dealing with them, she didn't trust the men behind the masks, their expressions hidden away. It didn't help either that the support Ryan offered often included her healing skills, giving her even less time to rest. As the days went on the never-ending cycle of battling, healing, barely sleeping continued without any indication that they would be finished anytime soon.

Firing a flaming arrow, Varric set the last of the pits ablaze. After they sounded the all-clear signal, they heard a set of huge doors opening not far away from them. Battle-weary troops came outside, hungry, wounded, tired from the fighting and the burden of war. As always Ryan quickly approached their commander to discuss the situation. Eirlana waited, watching the troops wearily. Her discomfort only heightened when some of the soldiers whispered nasty remarks when they passed her. Trying to ignore them, she wondered what it was that gave them the right to treat elves that way. She could feel some of their eyes lingering on her from behind their masks like she was a piece of meat, another knife-ear they could pray on. With Ryan either not aware or ignoring this, she was glad that either Varric or Iron Bull were never far away from her.

As more troops emerged from their hiding spot, the wind turned, carrying the foul odour of sickness and infection. Having seen the other ramparts, she knew this would be the worst one yet. With a sigh she walked to were the Inquisition's troops were standing by, her work wasn't done yet. Her small team of healers already had gathered what would be needed. Eirlana had to laugh and shook her head at the thought of 'her'. Since when had she started to think in those terms?

Knowing the routine, and with a few of her directions, they quickly set up a small makeshift infirmary on a patch of grass outside the ramparts. With the Inquisition's soldiers already bringing out the first wounded, she hastily sorted through the herbs and salves she would need. With the first patients also came the Orlesian healers, who observed sceptically every action they made. With her getting the worst patients she ignored them snooping around, and focused on her work.

One of the Orlesian healers approached her after she had finished helping her sixth patient.

“Ehm Miss Eilena?” his voice sounded muffled behind his silver coloured mask.

“Eirlana. My name is Eirlana.” she corrected him. Drying off her washed hands.

Not reacting to her correction he merely said. “Follow me and bring your things.” and walked away. Expecting a critical patient that couldn't be transported Eirlana quickly grabbed an emergency pack and hurried after him. To her surprise, she was lead to a couple of men that at first glance seemed fine. Judging by a couple of bandages they had only minor injuries, nothing life-threatening.

One of the men leaning against a crate held out his bandaged arm. “Come on, get to work.” He sounded almost bored as if this whole situation was a slight inconvenience.

Eirlana felt irritated that she had been called away from people that needed her help. Not wanting to cause a scene she said politely. “Sister Agnes will be happy to treat your injury.” and she pointed in the direction of one of the nurses that were treating the minor wounds with bandages and salves.

There was some mumbling among them, and possibly a few eyebrows raised behind their masks. The Orlesian healer stepped towards her, visibly uncomfortable with what she just had said. “I am afraid you don't understand. It is your duty. Treat him.”

She looked anew at the man before her. His beautiful made armor glistening in the sun. His mask decorated with small gems and fine details. He had to be a noble, someone important.

Not used to wait on his servants. “Get on with it elf.” the noble gruffed at her.

“As I said sister Agnes would be happy to treat you.”

“Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked her almost threatening, irritated by her refusal to treat him.

Eirlana stared at him, she was tired of it all. Tired of cleaning up the mess they had created. Angry that rank was more important to these people than helping those in need.

With her not reacting the nobleman stepped towards her, puffing out his chest as if he was some peacock. He was trying to intimidate her.

“I am Lord Dupont, nephew of the Comte de Mourier. Now do your work knife-ear!”

Something cracked in Eirlana. Not backing down she stood her ground. “I don't care who you are.” she declared loudly, her voice firm, commanding, loaded with authority. “You are wasting my time.”

Everything fell silent around her. People had stopped with what they were doing, and she could feel their eyes on her, watching her. For once she didn't care, she had enough.

She didn't see what the people around her saw. Even with the nobleman towering above her it was as if she was looking down on him. Her stance true, determined and confident.

“How....” the nobleman began to stammer, not used to be denied. “How dare you.” His reached for his sword but halted when several Inquisition soldiers with hands on their swords stepped closer.

“Anything I can help you with Snowflake.” Eirlana could hear Varric asking casually behind her, accompanied by the familiar clicks of Bianca.

Not taking her eyes off the nobleman, she smiled phony at him. “Sister Agnes is waiting for you. Of course, you are free to seek treatment elsewhere.”

“You will regret this!” the nobleman threatened her.

The soldiers around them took one step closer.

“I doubt it.” she answered. “Now leave!”

Fuming with anger the nobleman walked away, followed by some of his friends. Other Orlesians only stared, dumbfounded at what just had happened.

Varric, on the other hand, started to laugh hard. “Snowflake you are the best. Hawke wouldn't have done it any better pissing that ass off.”

“Varric can you do me a favour?”

“Anything you need.”

“Could you please check if those who really need help are brought out here?”

“Sure thing. Any tips what to look for?”

She grinned at him. “Look for those who look like shit.”

“I can do that Snowflake. I can do that.” he laughed at her excellent medical description.

In the distance Eirlana could see the soldiers working on the temporary bridge, that would bring them to the last pocket of trapped Orlesians. They had a day of rest after they had explored the swamp in the northern parts of the Exalted Planes. Ryan had decided to retreat from there after they discovered it was home to an enormous storm dragon. Apart from Iron Bull, she was probably the only one who desired to go back there. They had stumbled upon many elven relics and even found an underground burial chamber. She wanted to examine them more closely, especially something that looked like a pathway leading to two statues of Fen'harel. She was most curious what the frame they guarded once held. Hoping she could dream there someday, when the region and the Fade had calmed down she took her soap and towel.

Everyone around her was busy. Varric had pulled his notes out of his bag, writing down his latest observation. Iron Bull was enthusiastic telling about the dragon to a couple of scouts, using grand gestures. Cassandra and Ryan were polishing and checking their gear. Having some time to herself, Eirlana strolled to the river next to their camp. Leaning her staff against a rock, she rolled up her leggings and waded into the river. The water was refreshing and washed away the caked mud from her footwrappings. Kneeling on the shore, she opened her dress so she could wash her face and hair. With a bowl she poured water over her head, trying to get some of the dirt out of her hair.

Out of nowhere a hand covered her mouth, and she was grabbed from behind.

“What have we here? A pretty little rabbit to keep us company. We heard from Lord Dupont that you needed to be thought a lesson. You should know your place knife-ear.”

Eirlana froze. Panic and horror set in as old memories were awoken by rough hands, smelly unwashed bodies and filthy groping fingers digging into her flesh. Parallelized with fear she was dragged further away from the camp.

No! Never again! She would not be taken!

With a loud bang she released a powerful wave, sending her attackers flying off of her. Her bodice ripped as the man holding her tried desperately to hold onto her. Free, Eirlana grabbed her staff and whirled around to face them. She was no longer that helpless girl, she could defend herself. Before the men could get back on their feet, she bombarded them with ice, freezing them to the ground. Coming to her aid, Iron Bull stormed past her. Roaring his battle cry, he crashed his broadaxe into the easy targets. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Varric, Ryan and Cassandra running towards her. No longer in danger, Eirlana started to shake, realising what just had happened. Feeling vulnerable and exposed she covered herself with her torn top.

One of the attackers tried to flee, noticing Cassandra's and Ryan's templar armor he ran towards them.

“Help she is an elven witch.” hoping they would protect him.

Varric seeing Eirlana holding her torn dress close didn't even blink before he pulled the trigger.

“Snowflake, are you hurt?” He checked her up and down for any sign of injury. She shook her head, but he could see she was whey-faced and shivering. On their way back to camp she didn't say a word and headed straight to her tent.

Varric wanted to go after her but was stopped by Cassandra. She shook her head and gave him a pat on his shoulder. “Giver her some time.”

All alone Eirlana buried herself in Solas' blankets. Surrounded by his lingering scent, she started to cry silently. She missed him. She wanted to hide in his arms, to feel safe again, to feel his warmth.

“Solas where are you.” she sobbed. “Come back. I need you.”

#flame of winter #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age solas #eirlana #Solas #solas romance #solas x oc #fanfic

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