Chapter Text
She's running; the cold of the rainy season's damp nights hit her as she runs through trees, caves, between rocks. Adahlen. Adahlen. Where is he? Mythal'enaste, let him be safe. Her protruding stomach makes running difficult, she's sore, slow, weighed down. Her legs burn from friction, her lungs from the biting cold breaths she took and her clothes are drenched, leaving her cold; wet branches scratch her face and arms as she passes through them, roots catching her feet and mud splattering against her as her feet hit the ground; her staff slams into the backs of her legs as she runs, but she refuses to let it go. The hunter who found her and told her what happened is ahead of her, looking back over his shoulder to make sure she’s still there behind him, even if the distance between them is great.
The elven woman sees pillars of smoke rise over the canopy, the shimmering leaves reflecting the red fires burning below and she hears yelling; she prays to the Creators that it’s not her clan; that her family and friends are safe and ignorant, but she knows better. The horrid screeching of halla assaults her ears and she bites back tears; the sound is terrible and sad, more prominent than the shouting of her brethren.
When her feet finally find her clan’s campground, the reality is worse than the imagined tragedy; Templars in silver, shimmering armor fill the spaces between the wreckage, angry yelling frightening the children and enraging the hunters. She sees and smells the burning wood of broken, burning aravels, most halla lay dead in front of them, those surviving screeching in mourning and fear. Elven corpses lay amongst the wreckage, brutally cut down or shot regardless of age, and much of the grass in the area is singed or bloodied.
Why, Creators, why? The woman manages to tear her eyes from the horrific scene before her, her breath coming in bitter, wheezing puffs. Her whole body aches from cold and nature, but she can’t afford to pay it mind. Shuddering, she manages to unfreeze her limbs and frantically searches the destroyed aravels for her husband. Where is he? Where is he? Ma vhenan, please, please...
Upon seeing her husband’s crumpled form not far from the Keeper’s aravel, her blood freezes in her veins. "Adahlen!" Her voice came as a raspy cry, her jellied legs almost failing her as she runs to his side. The Keeper and the remainder of her clan’s voices are drowned out by the sound of her own. She kneels next to him, taking his bloodied hands in hers. "Please, vhenan!" To her surprise, he yet lives; dull green eyes looking up into her own.
"Era?" His voice is strangled with effort, blood flowing freely from a deep wound below his ribs; his shirt black with blood. "Ma vhenan, you have to run!" He cries desperately. "They will spare no Mage, not even the Keeper!" Era shakes her head, holding her husband’s hands for dear life. She’s shuddering and shaking as sobs bubble up from her throat.
"I won't leave you! I can't!" Hot tears burn her cheeks as they flow freely down her face as her whole body trembled with grief. Adahlen’s face changed, contorting with fear and despair and Era briefly wondered why.
"NO! RUN, ERA!" He practically shrieks, but she doesn’t turn; finding an intense heat in her stomach, her eyes widen before she looks down, already knowing its source. Blood seeps from the bloodstained sword protruding from her abdomen, glittering with the reflected light of the fires surrounding them. The only sound Era managed was a startled cry as she turns her head to see the face of a wizened Templar, his eyes wild with anger. She can feel her mana draining from her with her life, but with a steadying breath she brings magic to her fingertips.
The Fade crackles, snaps and pulls around her and with a gesture, she brings forth a cluster of crackling shards, each seeking their target like a pack of wolves upon a nug. She manages to smile faintly as she hears sweet sounds of clattering armor and the shrieking of electrified Templars. Her vision blurs and fades in and out as she crumples to the ground, managing to cast a final glance at her husband. He’s no longer moving; Falon’Din would come for him soon, and Era knew she would very well be next to receive his guidance into the Beyond. She can hear her clan mates yelling and footsteps rushing toward her, but like her vision her sense of sound leaves her and she is floating in mute blackness.
The fact that she accepts it is what frightens her most.
Memories haunt her, hold her like chains around her neck. She’s faltering, falling to fear and pain; she runs but can’t move forward, can’t escape the cold blade that pierces her heart. A name that means dreams but she’s plagued by nightmares instead.
Cole felt himself shiver as the memories flooded his mind and he looked toward the source of the pain, though he needn’t have done so—the Inquisitor was distinctive through all the other cries of Skyhold’s inhabitants. The Anchor drowned out most of Era’s day to day thoughts and pains unless he was close to her; it made her bright and loud in some ways, yet quiet in others.
Tonight was different, however. She was loud despite the Anchor, or maybe louder because of it—he wasn’t sure. Emotionally, the Inquisitor was spent; the lion’s share of Era’s time went to helping others—refugees, soldiers, mages and even her own companions. There was nowhere that she wasn’t needed, where someone didn’t call to her.
Cole loved helping, and loved that the Inquisitor helped people, but he hated to see how she worked herself to death, how no one helped her when she was hurting. No one else could hear like he could, but they had to see it—the little lines that formed around her eyes, the dark circles that formed when she was over worked, fatigued, the way she ached over everything she lost and the emotional whiplash she experienced from losing her family, to being thought a murderer to becoming the exalted Herald of Andraste and finally, the Inquisitor—the woman meant to save the world from certain destruction.
It was a lot for one person to go through so quickly, Cole thought; he hadn’t been there until just before Haven was buried, but he saw reflections of it from everyone else. Overworked, overwrought, help the helpless and feed the hungry; Too much for one woman. All hopes and fears weigh upon Era, millions of lives on her shoulders and the blood of her enemies submerges her in an ocean of guilt and regret. So many wasted lives, people she couldn’t help, couldn’t save.
Another shiver ran through Cole, and he decided he needed to do something—he could hear the screaming of her mind as she relived her darkest memories—it was like a gnarled, thorny root was knotting inside her, cutting everything in its wake as it closed into a ball of wrong. Everyone saw the pain in her eyes, but no one did a thing. Neither did he—he needed to help, and he could, would.
Cole found himself at the bottom of Era’s stairs, her inner stirrings even louder as he grew closer. It was too loud, too much—but he pressed up the stairs.
He had to.