Chapter Text
*
As he slept, there had been words and singing. Hands lightly touching him, shaking him awake. He had tried to keep sleeping, to cling to the dreams he had, even the bad ones. At first, he couldn’t stop shaking, mumbling nonsense under his breath. The elf watched him and the dwarf all but fussed over him. And a red-haired woman came in his cell at night and sang to him when he couldn’t manage sleep. Her singing was different than the first voice, but soothing all the same. And he cried out apologies and thanks and hushed only when they told him stories, colorful distractions from how he felt.
Then they went away and the shackles came. And the guards. And another woman. And she was demanding answers from him.
He didn’t know. He didn’t remember. Everything inside and out felt so raw, scratched open and bleeding. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and curled up again. He wanted to savor the colors. To laugh because now he could laugh, and yet all he seemed to be able to do was cry.
There was talking going on around him. Over him. But he felt smothered and shaky. And cold. So cold. There was ice over his hands and it was from him. His magic. He bit down ruthlessly on another sob, and yet the sound still escaped his lips.
A hand touched his shoulder, and Eilan felt the warmth of it even through the wool of his tunic and the leather of the man’s glove. He felt so much. He felt everything.
The manacles clanked to the floor as the man removed them. “We could have handled this better.”
Eilan forced his hands away from his face, managing a nod as he stared up. They could have. She could have.
The man flinched, eyes looking elsewhere as Eilan wiped at his face. “I’m sorry. We’re sorry. You clearly need time to recover and being ambushed this way... Listen, Trevelyan, you need not feel compelled to answer every question.”
“Eilan.”
“Right. Eilan. I remember you. I’m Commander Rutherford but… you can just call me Cullen.”
And somehow that was comforting.
“Can you… Here.” The man grabbed a blanket from somewhere behind him. He ripped it into strips and wrapped them around Eilan’s hands.
“I’m glad you’re not turning the rest of us into icicles, but hurting yourself isn’t going to help either. It’s going to be all right.”
The Seeker sighed. “Cullen.”
“Cassandra.”
“We have no time to coddle the prisoner. And whether it will be all right or not remains entirely unclear. You cannot fix this by simply saying you will.”
“And why not?,” Cullen insisted. “We took a lot of risks bringing him here. We lost a lot of people. If what Solas says is true, we stand a fighting chance. So don’t we owe him a little mercy before we ask so much of him? Isn’t that the entire point of this?”
The Seeker didn’t answer.
“I for one want to try… I want to do this differently. So why not approach the situation with a little optimism? Frightening the man out of his wits is as unkind as it is foolish.”
“I need to know--”
“Back off, Seeker.” The dwarf. Varric. He’d been an oddly comforting presence from stories to sneaking in better food for his ‘fellow prisoner.’ “He doesn’t know anything.”
“We have witnesses to his stumbling out of the Fade, Cassandra. A woman helped him through but he arrived without a scratch or bloodstain on him. There is no evidence to suggest he is a murderer, and you can add me to the list of those who observed him at the Conclave. I saw the mark.”
“What you need, you will not find here.” Solas. As he managed to move into a sitting position, Eilan took comfort in the elf still being in the room. He ought to have felt some shame falling to pieces in front of perfect strangers but that was nothing compared to the shame he felt at what he had become. “You desire an enemy but what you have here is a victim. And a potentially powerful ally if you do not torment him. You are fortunate, just as he is that the magic he possesses, like all magic, is ancient. He struggles only with his emotions. They are new to him.”
“Great but it’s not even that complicated, Chuckles." Varric again. "The kid can help and probably will help if you don’t keep him locked up down here. Honestly, Seeker, your technique could use a lot of work."
Cassandra sighed. “It could at that.”
Eilan looked down. “I’m not… I'm s--”
“Don’t,” Varric said in a flinty tone. “Don’t you dare apologize to her. You didn’t do a damn thing.”
Eilan stared at the green glow of his right hand. He must have done something. How else was he so changed? “I was... Wasn’t I... different before?”
“Tranquil,” Cullen said somberly. “Yes.”
“Is the mark still there?”
Cullen’s hand gently brushed hair away from Eilan’s forehead. “Gone.”
“There’s the obvious changes, of course,” a voice added from the doorway. The woman was hooded, red hair peering out underneath. She was the one who had sang to him. “And adjustments to be made.”
"We do know you are no longer Tranquil. What we think is that the mark on your hand can help with…. Maker, there is much to explain once…” Cullen cleared his throat. “Once you’re feeling… well, once you’re feeling less.”
Never. Painful though it was, he never wanted to feel less than he did at that moment. Or, at least, Eilan wanted the option. He just wanted to be able to manage the feelings properly. “How could this help?”
Solas cleared his throat. “When you’re ready to go out of doors—”
“Outside. Can I go outside?” He hadn’t wanted to be outside since… He couldn’t remember when. There was no real need to be outside of he didn’t need supplies, and it was far easier to requisition them. If he required research materials, they were brought to him. It was more efficient.
Cullen exchanged a look with both women before shrugging. “Solas?”
“Fresh air won’t harm him, however I do not think much more can be asked of him.”
*
“Give me that,” Cassandra demanded. “Now.”
Eilan hesitated, but he had no interest in arguing with her or provoking a fight. He gave her the staff, hands shaking. The bandages he’d been given had come undone during the skirmish, the remnants of them lay tattered on the ground. The man… Cullen… He’d gone on ahead. So had Varric.
Solas was dusting himself off, shivering slightly but he seemed oddly amused by being buried under a small avalanche of snow. The smile faded quickly and the older mage sighed, moving to stand between Cassandra and Eilan. “Well, as I said, he can still do magic although practice would be best.”
“I am terribly sorry, Solas.”
“No harm was done nor was any intended. Now come. More important tasks await us. That is, if the Seeker is finished?”
Solas didn’t wait for her to answer before moving on ahead, but Eilan did. He stood there, watching her fretfully as she gave him a look that was softer than a glare but about as friendly.
Eilan felt only slightly pathetic when the elf came back and took his hand, leading him away. Their hand-holding lasted very, very briefly, contact gone as instantly as it had arrived. Just enough to herd him along the path.
It took everything Eilan had not to thank him. Or cry again. It was… He’d gotten used to a cringing sort of pity. The sort that involved staring and absolutely no touching. Not that he’d craved touch or anything at all. Instead he would smile, trying to put the person or persons before him at ease for what little good it did. He’d accepted their lack of understanding the same way he accepted everything else. And here, even if the Seeker seemed to not know what to make of him, he’d been treated kindly enough.
Cassandra was slow to follow them, perhaps a little confused by the whole exchange. It was just as well.
Solas looked back over his shoulder at Eilan. “You might have kept the staff. Why did you give it back?”
“It wasn’t worth creating a fuss over. It was upsetting her.”
Cassandra offered up a disgusted grunt. “I am not upset. Here is the staff, Trevelyan. I have no use for it and...there are enemies up ahead.” The warrior stalked past them after shoving the staff into his hands. She muttered something under her breath, but Eilan couldn’t make out what it was.
“Should I really… Should I be allowed a staff?"
“Should you not be allowed a staff?" Solas asked.
Eilan stared down at the wooden one in his hands. Simple. Standard Circle issue, really. Wooden. Plain. There was but no blade and very little in the way of ornamentation. And yet holding it in his hands was soothing. He could rest his fingers on the ram leather grip and see a bit of glittering dawnstone. He could even sense the infused lyrium. “I don't know. I didn't learn too many spells before the Rite.”
“You are a mage. Whatever you experienced in the Fade has brought you here and helped to restore yourself to you. Your magic is a significant portion of that along with how you feel. You were born and you will remain a magical being always. It is a blessing and it is a curse, but most importantly, it is what you are. And the person who will decide what you become is you.”
“I can’t help but feel that I’m decidedly going to become a menace if I can’t cast spells properly.”
Solas smiled briefly. “It is fortunate you can cast at all. Save for hitting me with the equivalent of a very large snowball, you did well. It is also true that you require time that we do not have. So the training will come as we work.”
*