The Breach still hung in the sky, and Elentari knew her mark was the only thing that could close it. The Inquisition had formed, and she was now known as the Herald of Andraste, just as the dwarf had warned her days ago.
Her advisors had suggested traveling deeper into the Hinterlands in the kingdom of Ferelden to make contact with a Chantry priestess named Mother Giselle. That was where the group now found themselves.
Across the plain, in the distance, a group of six young children (perhaps eleven or twelve years old) sprinted wildly, darting around a plateau and disappearing from view. Elentari found it odd, as everything had been since she woke in the middle of this nightmare, but this time it involved children. So, she didn't hesitate. Her muscles tensed and she darted off like a fennec. There was no command, no consultation, only the urgency of someone who acts before asking why.
- Herald, wait! - she thought she heard Cassandra's voice behind her. But she didn't stop, because halfway through her sprint, the wailing of another child tore through the still air. It forced the elf to quicken her pace, despite her body aching incessantly since she had first set foot in this place. But what else could she do? Here, she was a stranger. She didn't belong. And the only thing that allowed her to forget where she was, or the feeling of being lost, was helping the helpless caught in this war.
Elentari and the others had spent eight days camping in the open, traversing vast lands ravaged by rebel mages and templars, two factions at war. The scenery was devastating, as bleak as any battlefield.
Solas was at the rear, along with the dwarf, who clearly had trouble staying quiet.
The elvhen had noticed that the Herald was not an easy leader to follow. Perhaps due to her Dalish origins, she pushed the group to march relentlessly throughout the day. And he had to admit, it was exhausting.
After a thousand-year slumber, with all the muscular atrophy and the loss of arcane potency it brought, Solas felt weaker than he expected. Or perhaps it was simply that he was an ancient elf, thousands upon thousands of years old. Regardless, the Dread Wolf would never say such a thing aloud. And though sweat pearled on his brow, he ran as fast as the Dalish woman demanded, leaving the dwarf behind.
When the group caught up with the Herald, they found a human child, three or four years old, filthy and in rags, sobbing uncontrollably, while the six older children divided two carrots they had clearly stolen from him.
The young elf stood before the little thieves, doing nothing, not even comforting the smallest one. Solas could see her breathing hard, fists clenched, and the impact the scene had on her: all the children, regardless of age, showed signs of dehydration, dry lips, reddened joints from poor nutrition, and ribs stark beneath skin that left no room for fat. It was grotesque, no doubt. But Solas had seen it many times before... in another life, in another world, in another age.
In these shared days with the Dalish woman, the apostate had noticed a virtue in the Herald: she was benevolent.
And naive.
She still believed she could change the fate of every wretched soul in wartime. It stole her sleep and broke her spirit. Solas saw the sadness in her every day. This was no different. Nor was the indignation in her exotic gaze. He knew she would act. That she would not accept the fate of these children. That she would intervene… and in the end, accomplish nothing but adding to the burden she carried day after day.
The apostate took his canteen and approached the young thieves, offering them a drink. He knew that at least with some water, they might survive.
The youths looked at him with eyes void of innocence. That didn't surprise him either: war, injustice, and oppression forced everyone to grow up too quickly. These little thieves had likely already killed, with blades or bare hands. Their innocence was long gone.
One of the boys (perhaps the leader) pulled a dagger from his belt and faced Solas.
- Give me everything you've got, baldhead!
- Don't get clever, boy - the elf warned, then pointed to his mage's staff, making the thieves pale. - My mercy is not bought with threats.
The mage-templar war had everyone frightened. Mages were often the villains in the tale. So Solas knew that a simple threat would work as well as casting a spell to silence them forever. The latter would have been unacceptable. None of these youths were a real threat to the elvhen.
The Herald seized the distraction and approached the collapsed child, still sobbing, lifting him into her arms. Varric, by her side, offered the last piece of bread the group had, which halted the tears and was accepted instantly.
The thieves stared at that treasure, their stomachs growling. Cassandra stepped up beside the elf, brimming with frustration and serving as a warning not to try to steal that morsel. Solas knew there was nothing more to be done, at least not today. They had no more food, and the bread would not satisfy all those children.
Eventually, the standoff ended: the young thieves realized they could steal nothing more with a mage before them and walked away.
The Herald resumed their march, taking the little one with her. Solas found it irrational to carry that long, bony child in the arms of an elf who could barely bear her own weight.
- Perhaps you should let him walk beside you, Herald - he suggested.
The Dalish woman turned to him with a sharp glare, and with those sorcerous eyes, told him to mind his own business.
Hours later, Solas understood her reaction. The child was so weak he couldn't even walk on his own. When Elentari had finally set him down at her side, his knees gave way, and Cassandra had to lift him into her own arms.
That child would die. Solas knew it with the same certainty that he knew he was exhausted. All that remained was for the Dalish woman to accept it too.
Elentari approached the boy and held her hands before him to channel magic, perhaps to heal. Solas felt discomfort rise within him. She would only prolong his suffering. He considered intervening, explaining to her that this was war: ruthless and vile. That she was doing no good for that child. But he knew it wasn't his place to interfere. She was the chosen of the human god.
Perhaps she would perform a miracle.
Suddenly, cries rang through the air before the Herald could work her miracle.
The elf turned toward the sound, and Solas saw her jaw tense as she realized she was carrying the child and that it had been a tactical mistake.
- I'll go check. - Cassandra warned, and with shield and sword in hand, ran forward.
In the distance, greenish flashes of a rift opening and releasing demons lit the sky. The Dalish woman clutched the child's tiny, bony hands and took a few seconds to find a solution to her dilemma. She found none, of course. Solas sighed beside her and stepped closer. With a glacial gaze, he faced her, and his voice came out sharp, just as he had intended.
- Herald, go close that rift. I'll stay with the child.
Solas knew it wasn't right to help her "save everyone," because it was a foolish illusion. But… hadn't he once felt the same at the start of his own Rebellion? Hadn't he believed he must save them?
So, the apostate knelt and took the boy in his arms. The child weighed no more than a feather. Now he understood how the Dalish woman had carried him for hours. And he also understood why she hadn't let him walk. It had simply been impossible. Solas looked at him. His bulging eyes seemed to sprout from the sockets. Severely dehydrated, emaciated. Something stirred inside him…
War was a tragedy. No one truly won…
The Herald and the dwarf ran to aid Cassandra. Solas slipped into the trees with the wretched child in his arms, watching over the group, fully aware that if necessary, he would hide the boy to go assist them, hoping the child might survive. Carrying wounded or children during wartime was foolish. A mistake that could cost lives. He knew that too well. He had made those mistakes more than once before.
And now… now she was making them too.
The boy clung to his tunic, the tiny hands barely managing to grasp, it was a feeble pull. They looked at each other. The child was so weak it was heartbreaking.
Something stirred in him. Something uncomfortable. Something buried beneath vast layers of glacial logic. Something Solas was not willing to unearth. There was an abyss of trauma within him, and he wanted it to stay that way… buried under the weight of purpose.
In his time, as the figure of the Great Wolf gained prestige among his people, it had been others who bore witness to these horrors. For many centuries, Solas had not held the forsaken in his arms. And on this day, he knew he never wanted to do it again.
Because when he himself was the living witness of all this, the desire for justice reignited within him. The desire for rebellion. To protect the innocent, whether they were of Thedas or Elvhenan. And he knew himself well enough to know his temperament was nearly untameable, and the Wolf inside him bit his enemies with cruelty.
The spherical eyes stared up at him, pleading. Almost involuntarily, the elvhen laid his palm on the boy's forehead and wrestled with the urge to either heal him... or end his suffering.
In short: to help.
In the end, he could do neither. Healing him would betray himself. Ending his life would betray the Herald.
- I suppose your life rests in the hands of time's whim, child. As mine has since I woke in this world.