Tranquil Die Differently | Solas & Varania

The Tranquil are mages severed from the Fade, robbed of magic, dreams, and emotion. Invisible to the demons that prey upon other mages, they are often regarded as little more than empty shells. When Solas' curiosity is piqued by the Tranquil elf Varania, he expects to find only another tragic consequence of the Rite. Instead, what he uncovers challenges everything he believes he knows about Tranquility — and shakes him to his core.

Author's note:
This is the beginning of a tale I've been working on (and obsessing over) for quite some time now and I'm very excited to finally bring it to life! The story begins in the middle of the game "Dragon Age: Inquisition", but I've taken extra care to make it understandable to those who are not familiar with the lore. If some things are still a bit confusing... that's intentional. So, if you're interested in a multidimensional story infuzed with mystery, fantasy, intensity, plot twists, hidden meanings, and maybe even some fateful romance... Read on and let me know what you think!

T h e d a s
Frostback Mountains
Skyhold

Ever since the Inquisition had moved to Skyhold, Varania spent most of her time in Solas' quarters. The rotunda lied right next to the Great Hall of the castle, separated only by an old oak door. It seemed natural to assume that the absence of a low enough ceiling would allow all the noises from the library to drop right onto Solas' head. Thankfully, that was not the case. Most people respected the unwritten rule of absolute silence in a library, and the walls and wooden streams seemed to absorb the vibrations of any commotion above. Not even the thick stone walls would let the echoes of the Great Hall come though. Instead of bursting through the squeaky hinges or the gap underneath the door, all the noise got swallowed by the floors and tiles, allowing everlasting silence to spread through these areas.

But Solas' rotunda wasn't just filled to the brim with silence.

Ancient elven artifacts of all kinds decorated almost every surface in the room. The stacks of papers, books and sketches piling up around them indicated that the instruments and devices were not meant for decoration, but for studying; The never-ending search for knowledge. Buckets of paint and brushes in all sizes were lined up at the high walls, most of them piling up on the small platform of a wooden scaffolding. In the midst of it stood Solas himself, reaching high up with a paintbrush resting in his hand. He was perfecting a line of blood red paint he had just incorporated into his art.

His murals were grand, artistic wonders that seemed to come from an entirely different world, and yet their language was easy to understand. The style was undeniably Elvhen. Almost all ruins of ancient Elvhenan carried murals and frescoes such as these: Enormous imagery, but seemingly simple layouts with proportions fitting the scale of the figures within the stories and tales. May it be the image of the Breach bursting through the sky during the Conclave, having the same dimensions as the foundation of the Inquisition itself; Everything had its purpose.

The geometry between the different motifs — depictions of the Inquisition's history, choices, paths, and alliances — was fluent, but always hiding new stories and meanings from those who only looked once.

A Veilfire spread an emerald and sapphire gleam that illuminated the murals with rippling lights, like the calming waves of Lake Calenhad.

Skyhold is the Inquisitor's fortress. These are his actions.

Varania welcomed the contrast. Although Tranquil were known to have an unmatched ability to focus, the Great Hall — where the other Tranquil worked — was much larger than the entire Chantry in Haven had been. Every spoken word, every footstep and every whisper was amplified at least ten times and would wrap around Varania's ears like the scream of a Despair Demon, the echoes drowning her head.

Tranquil had heightened senses, and elves had sensitive ears. Add both of these things to one being, and it becomes unbearable; At least, in her case. The other Tranquil elf, Avexis, did not seem to have the same problems at all. Varania usually handled a few hours of sensory overstimulation just fine, but after only one day of doing her work at Skyhold's Great Hall, her brother, the Lord Inquisitor Fenris, had to take her somewhere quiet to wash the noises out of her brain. Varania rested for twenty hours afterwards. Needless to say... the change was necessary.






"You feel much better when you work here, don't you?" Solas' voice echoed, his lungs exhaling mindfully to keep his voice low for her.

"My ears are not overstimulated anymore and my heart rate has decreased. It's warm here, I don't need a coat. My body feels content," Varania replied, her tone as flat as a cutting board and equally as tough, but ridden with notches and scratches. Despite the lack of a fireplace, no coats or scarves were needed here, like the warmth and comfort resided in the rotunda long before Solas had claimed it. It seemed almost contradictional; No amount of physical strain would make you overheat. It makes you wonder how much ancient magic was fuzed into every brick and spackle.

Comfortable silence reclaimed the room, along with the smell of burning torches and candles.

"It's very kind of you to let me work here instead of the hall. Thank you, Advisor."

Solas knew her statement was out of politeness. Tranquil like her couldn't feel thankfulness, or the effect of other people's kindness to them; At least, that's what people said. He understood the concept, though still needed to think twice about it every time. Almost everything you say and do is driven by emotions... He would be blind a fool to exclude himself from that fact, no matter how much he wanted to at times. And to have all of your feelings stripped from you, along with your connection to the Fade? He didn't want to imagine what that was like, even more so as someone who loved the Fade. The Rite of Tranquility was among the cruellest of things that non-mages — and people in positions of power — have ever created.

Solas interrupted his project and turned around, looking at Varania through the distance. She was working on the uniforms for Empress Celene's upcoming ball, handling the finest fabrics the Inquisition could acquire, now embroidered with glistening pearl and gold threads. The way her emerald eyes attentively followed the path of her needle was almost captivating. In fact, there was no blinking at all. Her skillful fingers were never getting in the needle's way in spite of her working speed.

"Varania, I told you, you don't have to be polite around me. You don't have to put on a mask when you're here. You can just be yourself," he reminded her.

"It's illogical to be impolite while receiving beneficial favours." Her voice seemed to drift with the current like a paper boat: faint, slow, entirely moved by an external drive that did not seem to live within her heart at all.

"Because those favours could be withdrawn, yes," Solas replied, "but it's not a favour. I don't expect you to make amends. I'm simply perfectly content with you here."
"Which might change if I'm impolite to you."
"No." Solas shook his head. "You wouldn't be impolite, lethallan. You would be unapologetically yourself. You wouldn't be wasting any energy on courtesies that don't matter, and I won't rate your behaviour as impolite because I understand your condition."

Varania's hands stopped moving, disrupted by his words. She looked at him, her thoughts softly shifting behind her eyes.

"My brother said something similar to me. He said he wants me to be true when I'm with him, so that he knows right away when she is here."

When she is here?

Solas paused, watched her stare at the tiled floor. Then, he put his brush away and washed some paint off of his hands before approaching Varania by the desk. It was actually his desk, but as she needed enough space to work with her threads and fabrics, Solas had happily gotten rid of his mess that was on it. Now, it was neatly sectioned; Wool, rolled up fabric, dyes, and threads to the left, knitting and sewing needles along with crochet hooks to the right, and at the top, a box full of scissors in different sizes. The tabletop was big, leaving enough distance between them when Solas chose a vacant spot to sit on — mindful to not throw her order into disarray.

"Who is 'she', Varania?" he wondered, resting his curious eyes on the Tranquil.
"She is... Me. Before the templars have tranquilized her, cut her away."
"You see your true self as a separate person?"
"Yes," she said, "We are completely different people. It's only logical."
"Your origins are still the same. You are both the Lord Inquisitor's sister. You have the same history."
"The origins of twins are the same, and yet they are two."

Well countered, he thought. Solas looked away with a faint but thoughtful smile hanging off his lips. 

"What about your memories? They are the same, witnessed by the same pair of eyes and ears."

"Her memories don't influence my actions as they would if I was her. They don't traumatize me or give me reason to do any differently than what logic suggests. But I understand what she would do in situations I find myself in and why. Still, she is a part of me."

Even to that, Varania had the perfect answer.

Solas usually found challenging people's beliefs to be enlightening, entertaining even. With Varania, it was simply heartbreaking. He wanted to believe that, at least, she wasn't in agony, but it filled him with dread that he couldn't be sure of that, given what others have said about Tranquility; That it was worse than death. That they would rather be skinned alive than be stripped of all their feelings and dreams. Solas could sympathize with that desire if it was true. He made a mental note to talk to the other Tranquil soon.

"You are not a fighter, yet you drew your knife on five strong warriors to protect your brother," he said. "Excuse me for asking, but how was that logical?"
The woman continued her work. "Logic and duty are not the same. I can still differentiate between right and wrong."

Solas sighed. "Of course. I am sorry, I truly didn't mean to imply that you cannot."
"You wouldn't be the first to do so."

He sensed a sudden urge to punch himself, but just about refrained from it. Instead, he thought about how little he wanted to be like the closed-minded rest of the people. He grimaced at the bitter taste on his tongue and glanced at the Mark of the Tranquil on her forehead: The Chantry's bursting sun, branding her as an alleged danger to the world, a warning to those that met her for the first time that she was deemed unfit to resist a demon's temptation. But Tranquil still possessed a voice, even if most didn't want to hear it due to their little minds, their arrogant ignorance, their selfish discomfort. And so, Solas decided that he wanted to listen closer than any of them ever have. He raised his chin as he observed Varania's swift, skilled movements with the needle and thread, and took a breath.

"Lethallan, would you mind if we talk some more about your Tranquility?"

She shook her head. 

"You know you don't have to accept my request."
"I know, but I don't mind."
"Thank you," Solas acknowledged. "You said she is here sometimes. How so?"
"Sometimes, I do things that I wouldn't do, but she would do them."
"Shouldn't she be cut off from your being entirely since the Rite?"
"In theory. I don't know. I can still hear her voice in my head sometimes, when she tells me what to do."

Solas paused, exhaled. "What kind of things does she tell you to do?"
She looked up, merely a moment, before rattling through her other half's commands like a disturbing shopping list. 

"Don't do this, it doesn't make sense. Don't do that, it's illogical. Don't do it like that, either, it's plain stupid. When you are around people, you must keep control. Don't stare into their eyes, it's making them uncomfortable. Don't avoid their eyes, either, that's worse. Sit straight, but not too straight, people will stare at you, and your back will hurt and keep you from working. Relax, but keep in mind that they are watching your every move — or lack thereof. Eat, but not too much. Work until you fall asleep. Sleep, but don't overdo it, or else your insignificance replaces your usefulness."

Solas' features hardened upon hearing this. Something tightened in his throat. This sounded... awful. Like external control, like a caged and abused animal, like a slave to someone else's will, only that this someone was her own self. He sighed and looked her up and down, waiting for a sign that would tell him how to help, but Varania's face remained as cold as the Frostback's glaciers and as tough as the blacksmith's anvil.

"The pressure you must feel from this must be... suffocating," he murmured. She neither agreed, nor denied.
"Can you hear her in this moment?"
"She was louder for a while after the Conclave, almost screaming. Now, she is mostly quiet. Mumbling."
"And... can you understand what she is saying?"

The knot around his throat tightened when she rested her big eyes on him. They narrowed in thought and contemplation, her focus shifting onto this inner voice, and yet, Solas felt like she was staring right through him, trying to figure him out, instead of the other way around. It stopped when she shut her eyes tightly, nudging her head from left to right until her eyes snapped back open. Solas observed her every move, like every twitch of her fascial muscles could offer him more pieces of the puzzle.

Quietly, with her voice drifting into the shadows, Varania answered, "She says... help me."

Solas' grey eyes widened ever so slightly. Varania seemed unbothered and returned to her project, the golden threads of the uniform glistening in the reflection of her eyes. Meanwhile, Solas swallowed.

"How do I help her? Help you?" the man asked. Had he not been whispering, his voice would have sounded as urgent as he had intended.
"You can't," Varania denied.
"Can anyone?"
"No."

He leaned back, shoulders sacking, staring down at his empty hands. How utterly, ruthlessly cruel. He had avoided the Tranquil after joining the Inquisition for far too long, but he already had a damning realization why that was the case. How could he be so uncaring, so willingly ignorant about their fate? Had he been able to see Tranquil in his dreams, he would've had so many opportunities to learn about them, but their stripped connection from the Fade made them invisible in that realm. No, that wouldn't have changed anything. That was no excuse, and he knew it. He could and should have filled these knowledge gaps in his waking hours instead. 

Solas hated ignorance above all else, and here he was, proving to have been so himself. The guilt spreading in his chest was bitter and fierce, yet unrelated for someone who'd had no hand in her fate. 

His voice softened along with his sacked shoulders. "Tell me about her, Varania. About you. What were you like before the Rite of Tranquility?"
"She was kind, emotional, energetic and stubborn, passionate, unrelenting. I am... not. I am just... I don't know what I am on my own."

It sounded like Varania felt inferior, useless, or confused, but in contrast, her voice remained shallow and lifeless. Everyone's passion seemed so tightly knit to the Fade that the removal of its connection stripped you of... everything. Not just your magic and emotion, but your wants and needs, your heart, your soul... Everything that made you whole.

He should not let the dwarves hear these thoughts he carried, lest they would give him an earful. They had no connection to the Fade either, didn't dream when they slept, just like the Tranquil. But at least, they had emotions. Still, he held onto his opinion with a fierce grip, and he saw more and more confirmation in every word Varania spoke in his presence. The world must be healed from this illness.

"You are intelligent, resourceful," he redirected, his eyes softening with hope and appreciation. "You are skilled beyond measure. You learn fast, and well."

She answered, "Minaeve had said the same thing about me."
"And what is it like to receive appreciation?"
"It doesn't matter. Minaeve is dead."
"Try to feel it, Varania. If you focus on the idea, perhaps you can regain some connection with her. With yourself."

Varania halted again, staring straight ahead into nothingness for a while. She didn't narrow her eyes in thoughtfulness or look around in confusion this time; She only stared into the shadows. Eventually, she raised her eyes again to lock her gaze with Solas'.

"It only feels... empty," she said at last. And yet, in the shadow of her words, deep inside of Varania's body and the remnants of her fragmented soul, Solas didn't sense complete emptiness. He sensed something... dark. Something desperate. Alive. The Veil rippled along with it. Faint, but undeniable.

"What about her? What does she feel about appreciation?" he wondered, his upper body's weight shifting forward as he leaned in closer, testing the waters of her comfort. Varania's eyebrows twitched. Solas didn't think it was possible for her face to soften even more into indifference.

"She barely feels appreciation right now. She is very distracted," she remarked.
Solas frowned again. "Why?"
"She's dying."

His entire body stiffened like a lightning bolt hit him right then and there, and sorrow distorted his face, like it absorbed all the pain she could not feel herself. Every of his limbs wanted to lean in closer to Varania, take her hands, her face, look her in the eyes and tell her that everything was going to be alright, but... could he do that? Should he? Was it wise to make promises he couldn't keep just to soothe his own suffocating compassion? Was it kind to her to express such emotionality when Varania was unable to feel it herself? He would be mocking her disability and her disconnection. Her partial death and complete demise.

Solas pushed himself off the desk and turned around, taking a couple of steps away from her. His teeth caught his nails before he could stop them from biting. It prompted him to shut his eyes, to just stand still, and force himself to breathe.

Behind him, a chair creaked, followed by a thud when it fell over and hit the stone floor. Solas hurled back around, staring at Varania's standing figure behind her desk. Her hands cramped around the fabric she had been working with, and her already big eyes were even bigger now.

The contrast was almost bizarre compared to her usual coldness. The dim candlelight that had burned in her spirit before had now ignited into something greater, and the woman stood tall, her whole body tense, almost shaking. Her feet underneath her long skirt were restless, making her body sway gently like soft waves.

"Don't turn away," she urged.
Solas let out a breath. "I—I am so sorry, I will not turn away. Forgive me, da'len. I was— I am... deeply moved by the state of your spirit."
These words alone seemed to help her body relax in an instant. Solas mirrored her by softening his own stance right away, however his muscles would still not move, instead gluing his shoeless feet to where they stood. Varania slowly looked down to the floor.

"No one feels compassion for the Tranquil. People only have pity or distaste for what's happened to us, because we are to blame. Weak-willed, dangerous, a hazard to the people. Everyone say so."

Solas frowned in disbelief and shook his head fiercely. "I do not believe in that, Varania."
"You are the only one who listens. The only one who asks."
"Every living being is worthy of compassion, even the lowliest bug, the ugliest spider—"

"Am I an ugly spider?" she interrupted, once more shifting into resignation, in spite of her urgent questions. "Should I not be trampled on to spare me the agony of existence? Is that not the only kind of compassion you feel for someone like me?"
"No, of course not!" Solas exclaimed, half-desperate, the frown edging deep folds into his forehead. "No, that would be superiority. But you are not inferior. You should not be trampled on. You are not a spider."

"Then why did you turn away?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do... I only meant not to mock you with my compassion."
"You couldn't mock me," she said, tilting her head. "People say you never laugh."

Through the serious tone of their discussion, Solas couldn't help but smile. Even a single chuckle came out of him, the pressure falling off his shoulders like a roofing tile. 

"I rarely laugh, that is true."
"You should laugh as much as possible while you still can."
"A fine point, lethallan... Thank you. I will try to remember that."

Her words helped him regain his focus. At last, his feet carried him a little closer to her. Slow, careful steps, attempting to test the waters with his toes.

"Advisor," she urged, suddenly squirming in her stance. He stood still.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
"I forgot your name."
He smiled softly, continued stepping closer. "You can call me Solas."
"Solas... Solas..." Varania repeated the name a few times, tasting the syllables on her tongue. "Like solace?"

"The 'o' is a little more pronounced in my name, but... in a way, perhaps."
"Soul-less, then?"
"I sure hope not."
"Give me solace then, So-las." The Tranquil made an audible point to say his name correctly, which promptly made him smile again.

"That!" she blurted, surprised about the strength of her own voice in that moment, pointing at his face.
"I think, I like when you do that," she added softly. It was like she seized the opportunity and drew more courage from it, like the paper boat got pushed forward by a wave and she allowed it to happen.

Solas closed the remaining distance between them. The corners of his mouth were still tugging upwards.
"You mean... when I smile?"
"Yes. No one ever smiles at me. Not even my brother."
"I'm sorry, that's..."
"Don't— Not like that. Smile again."

He did as commanded, although it felt like no command at all. It was so much easier this time, infinitely lighter, even if she could not return the courtesy. He reached out his hand towards her, palm up, allowing his smile to rest into a more comfortable position. "May I?"
She nodded, and pulled one of her hands out of the scrunched up fabric to place it into his gentle palm. Her fingers felt cold to the touch, then suddenly hot, then... wet. Sticky. Varania gasped. Her other hand dropped the blue fabric, which now carried dark-purple speckles infuzed with its textures. A large sewing needle chimed like a triangle when it hit the stone tiles, covered in blood.

She must have jabbed the needle right through her palm when she'd urged Solas not to turn away, grasping onto her project for dear life — without noticing the pain. The amount of blood that had seeped into her palm over time trickled down their hands and into their sleeves.

"I'm bleeding on you," the Tranquil uttered.
"It's alright, da'len," he assured her, gently frowning. "Are you in pain?"
"I am now—"

Solas gently turned her wrist to let the back of her trembling hand rest on his palm. Then, he brought his other hand closer, hovering his fingers above her wound. Varania whimpered and hissed, the ache distorting her face, and it filled him with sorrow that the strongest expression he was ever going to see on her face was due to pain.

"I am sorry that my carelessness caused you to hurt yourself..." Solas whispered.

Glowing magic oozed out of his hovering fingers, attaching itself to the small but deep hole in her hand. Varania gasped deeply. Before the air in her lungs made its way out of her, the wound was already gone, and all remaining pain with it. The blood remained on both of their hands and clothes like the grim evidence of Solas' negligence.

He pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his pants, gently wrapping it around her hand to rub it clean. "Is it better now?"
She only nodded and glued her gaze to the blood-speckled uniform on the floor. "I will ruin the colour of the fabric if I use detergent. It's Orlesian. It was expensive."
Typical Orlais, he thought, wiping the blood off of his palm before stuffing the handkerchief away.
"It's still fresh. If you wash it right away with cold water, it should be fine. I can help you, if you want."

Magic was the easiest and most thorough solution here, but Solas thought that it might be insensitive to suggest to a Tranquil, not wanting to accidentally insult her again. He did wonder, though, why a woman — who was also a professional tailor — seemed overwhelmed with getting blood out of clothes effectively. Solas didn't dwell on that thought when he picked up her chair, the fabric, and the needle again and went to get a bucket of cold water from the well outside. It didn't even take a minute for him to return. Still, he found it strange that Varania was still standing exactly where he'd left her. 

Setting the bucket down next to the desk, he eyed her for a moment.

"It's alright, lethallan. I'm sure we can fix this. The uniforms will look remarkable when you are done," he reassured her. Or at least, he attempted to, because she wouldn't react at all. She was as still as one of the statues of the Elvhen Creators; Looking down, judging, gaze hovering with hollow, lifeless eyes.

"Lethallan?"

Nothing.

"Varania?" Solas urged this time. Still nothing. He rushed closer, lowered his gaze to catch the shorter woman's eyes, but there was nothing in them. No light, no life, no drive.

"Varania, what's wrong? Can you hear me?" 

Still nothing. His lungs quivered and his heart sank. Solas grabbed her shoulders to shake her, gently at first, then harder, until her long hair swayed along with her body and her head started bobbing about. But nothing. "Fenedhis," he cursed, his voice letting go of its usually calm rhythm before his vocal cords picked up an unassumed strength. "Varania! Da'len, say something. Come now, speak to me! Varania! LOOK AT ME!"

"What by the Old Gods are you screaming about?!" Dorian Pavus barked from the library above, peaking over the balustrade.
"Get the Inquisitor! Quickly!" Solas shouted.
"But you are closer!"
"GO! NOW!"

Solas turned back around to face the Tranquil, now screaming for her attention. She remained quiet and stared deep, piercing holes into his lilac eyes. Seconds later, a deep force within his spirit took control, guiding his hands away from her shoulders to place them on her cheeks instead. A desperate attempt to make her feel his presence with more intensity, more clarity, while dread filled his chest like water. And then, a spark. Varania looked at him now, not through him. His warm hands remained on each side of her face, calm and steady.

"Are you here with me now?" he whispered. Another spark. This time, it caught his attention: A single, fiery glow, hovering past his vision. And another, before the relief of winning her gaze again faltered as quickly as it came. Varania's scream deafened his senses, shifting into the loudest, most blood-curdling and grief-stricken cry of agony that his elven ears have ever witnessed. Something singed his palms and he pulled them away with a hiss, taking several steps back in surprise. Blisters burned themselves into his fingers. The searing pain drove tears into his eyes, but he was too awestruck by the sight of her to dwell on it.

Varania stood before him, encased in black swaths of smoke and hundreds of fire sparks. Tiny fireflies of embers were scorching through her long-sleeved dress until her skin blistered underneath. The tears never remained on her cheeks as they turned into steam upon contact, and flames were licking at her hair. Her sobs were shaking her entire being from head to toe, beating every breath out of her like the Grey Wardens beat oblivion into their blighted victims. Solas could not see her eyes. She shut them tightly, lost in her howls of agony.

What pulled the focus of his vision instead was the Mark of the Tranquil on her forehead. The usual dark-red colouring of the Chantry's bursting sun had transformed into a deep hole filled with glowing embers. Each of the fire sparks were breaking out of her body through that hole and flying wildly around her, like a flock of birds that have finally broken free to taste their freedom — only to get lost in the storms of the wilderness. Solas felt like he was looking into the depths of an erupting volcano, like the toxic steams and scolding swaths were stealing his breath. Blood collected on the seams of the brand, dragging down her forehead in thick drops.

Where the hell were Dorian and the Inquisitor?!

"Varania, speak to me. What's happening to you?" Solas asked, his voice trembling along with her shaking body.
"I TOLD YOU I'M DYING, AND YOU STILL WON'T LISTEN!"

Her voice was otherworldly, deep and high-pitched at once, like a hundred voices screaming through Varania's throat. The sound resonated deeply inside his chest, quivering. Varania had been cut away from the Fade, all source of her feelings said to be destroyed in the process. She should not have been able to cry so horribly, so emotionally. And yet, here she was, sobbing like the whole world had turned against her.

"I am listening!" he begged.
"WE HAVE HEARD IT ALL BEFORE! YOU NEVER LISTEN!"

Solas shivered at how personal these words felt. Like they were not meant to beg for his attention and to fill him with dread, but to dig out the deepest parts of him that had long been buried. Like they were not spoken by Varania the Tranquil, but by all those souls he had wronged in his existence.

"Tell me what you need. Tell me what I can do."
"DREAMER, SOMNIARI, FADE-WALKER, WHATEVER THEY CALL YOU — YOU CLAIM TO KNOW ALL ABOUT THE FADE, YET YOU ARE CLUELESS! SHAMEFUL!"

Solas froze still when the realization washed over him, only for his muscles to relax again with understanding. Suddenly, he knew exactly what she needed. What they needed.

"This is you, isn't it, Varania? The truest part of you, the part that has been cut away to rot in the Fade... The part that feels... But the connection has not been stripped completely, has it? You are still there, begging for attention, for freedom, for recognition!"

"GET ME OUT OF HERE!"

Now that her bright Tranquil-mark was starting to blind his vision, Solas looked at her eyes. The usual emerald of her irises had turned into homely lilac, a violet that glowed with an intense essence of eternity. And again, it had him draw a breath, everlasting regret dragging at his being until he let his spirit follow along. He frowned deeply at her rage-distorted face.

"But it's not just you, is it?" he uttered, the words trembling off of his lips. "It's all of you."
"AND ALL OF YOU!"
"I know... I can feel it. But I am here now. I can do something."
"YOU CANNOT WIN..."
"I am not here to win, lethallan. I am here to guide the path towards healing."

Varania broke free from the rage and sobbed again, covered her eyes. "How can you heal in me what's already broken in you?"
Solas' breath trembled, feeling pressure behind his own eyes, a knot in his stomach. "I make undone what can be made undone."
"You cannot change the past..."
"No, but I can change the future."

She lowered her hands from her violet eyes and looked at him. The wrath that had controlled her before had started to cease the moment she'd sobbed into her palms, now giving way to the grief and helplessness that had been trapped inside of her. The sparks flying around her slowly died out, one by one, like a swarm of fireflies going to sleep, and the glowing hole in her forehead started closing. Solas stepped closer again, his hand reached out for her.

"You will burn if you keep going, Solas," Varania warned, glaring at his blistered palm with wild, desperate eyes. "Helping me will destroy you..."
He stood still in front of her, allowing her fiery emotions to encase him, and when he placed his palm upon her cheek again, both of them hissed with the searing pain it burnt into their skins. Solas' face malformed from the horrible ache, and yet, he remained right where he was, steadfast, unmoving, relentless. Soon, both of their strained faces softened into each other's eyes, their pain not only connecting, but healing them in shared intensity.

"Then so be it... I deserve no less," Solas whispered, cried out once more as he joined his other hand to her face. Just knowing that she felt the same pain upon their touch made it bearable, made it less, even worthwhile. Her tears no longer turned into steam when they left her eyes and connected with her face. They rolled freely onto Solas' fingers, mixed with the blood from her mark.

"I am so sorry about what has been done to you," he muttered, sorrow edged deeply into every wrinkle of his face. He wouldn't waste another second worrying whether the expression of his own pain would be demeaning to her. Varania clearly needed it; The recognition that she was not lost on her own, that she mattered, that everything of her was still out there and wouldn't rot into madness if he could stop it — even if the Mark of the Tranquil on her forehead kept the separation between body and spirit intact. Solas pressed his own forehead to hers as the mark closed further; A final attempt at speaking through the Veil and into her spirit: "I will find you, da'len, and I will take you home with me."

And the look she gave him thereafter, so soft and hopeful and infuzed with unassuming power, made Solas wonder what the world had truly lost when it made her Tranquil.

However, what he never noticed was that his nose never picked up the smell of burning flesh and fabric, or that the bucket of water from the well was nowhere near where he had put it earlier. He hadn't noticed that anyone had barged through the door from the loud hall, either. That two men were screaming at him to get his attention.

The only thing he noticed was the sudden shift of his weight when someone pulled him away from the Tranquil and the pitchblack, dreamless darkness that followed when the Lord Inquisitor sent his powerful fist into his face.

To Be Continued ...

.