Up in Smoke [ Solavellan ]

Chapter 1

This can't end well.

Although Solas has a plan laid out in his mind with as much detail he's able to conjure, uncertainty plagues him as he looks down at the elf collapsed on the dungeon floor, their left hand illuminating the ragged stone with a sickly green light.

He sits beside them, legs crossed, hands in his lap, and his staff laid on the floor behind him. The Templars in the room with him have yet to their their hands off the hilts of their swords for even a second. He feels their eyes burn into his skin worse than if he were to put his hands directly into flame.

The tension in the room contributes to his self-doubt, but the circumstances aren't in his favor if there are several men ready to swipe his head off should he even make one wrong move. They are especially tense whenever the prisoner's mark sparks with fury. Even though their swords are sheathed, they may as well be at his neck.

They surely feel no different about their prisoner.

The elf's breath is shallow, their shoulders tremble, and their skin is ghastly pale - little improvement from the state they were in when he first saw them. Sometimes their eyebrows twitch and they mumble something unintelligible. Probably nightmares, or the effect of a piece of the Fade being imbued into their hand...or a combination of both. He can imagine the restless, more volatile spirits that remain in the area find the elf easy prey.

However, Solas can't allow himself to do much more than sit, watch, and wait. He doubts that those who have essentially become his captors as well would permit him to do much more. He wonders how one of the Dalish went about acquiring the mark, but his answer likely waits until they regain consciousness. If they ever do.

The door opens, and Solas turns his head to see th Seeker and the red-haired, hooded woman enter the room. He takes his staff from behind him, rises to his feet, and lowers his head in a small bow. The Seeker's attention is locked on the prisoner as she approaches.

"They still haven't woken up?" Her tone is thick with aggravation.

"As I'm sure you know, Seeker -" Solas straightens the collar of his robes with his free hand, shoulders held high, "- living beings are not supposed to travel the raw Face. It's a miracle they're alive at all; it will be even more of a miracle if they do, indeed, wake up."

She makes eye contact with him. His gaze wouldn't waver if it weren't for the other woman in the room, who stands closer to the prisoner.

The Seeker crosses her arms, glaring at him. "Of course. Has their condition at least improved?"

"A bit of their color has returned, but there have been no other changes. I am doing all that I can."

She frowns, then moves past him to examine the prisoner more closely. Solas tenses as she stops at the prisoner's side, along with the red-haired woman. He grips his staff so hard his knuckles turn white. The prisoner remains inert, unaffected by the chagrin that permeates the air of the dungeon.

He pictures the Seeker attempting to jolt them awake, with her hands around their shoulders or a kick to the stomach. He's not sure what he'd do if that did happen. Even if he were to do anything, he's in no position to get away with it.

Solas shuts his eyes for a moment. Not yet.

His fears prove false as the Seeker turns and steps away from the prisoner with a scoff. Her companion does the same. The red-haired woman raises her head with a grim countenance.

"And if they don't wake up?"

His eyes open, although he does not look at either of them. "To hazard a guess: the Breach will spread until the Veil is no more."

"That means the world would end, at least as we know it," the Seeker says, "which we will not allow."

Fate is not so easily controlled by the whims of men, Solas wants to say, but more than that, he wants the both of them to leave so he can focus. The two women exchange whispered words as they make their way out of the room. The Templars shut the door behind them.

One of the others in the room clears his throat, before silence returns.

Solas sighs as he sets his staff back on the floor and resumes his position next to the prisoner. Perhaps he should try the Fade once more, but he doubts that whatever spirits that haven't been driven away would be willing or even able to help him...and there's still the risk of one of the Templars thinking he's possessed if he tries to commune with them in his regular fashion.

But he has to try something.

He rests his hands in his lap, lowers his head, and lets the gentle crackle of the room's torches guide him to the edge of his consciousness.

As before, the Fade greets him with neither respite, nor answers.

-

A shriek tears Solas back into the waking world, his heart racing and sweat beading on his forehead. He opens his eyes to the sight of the prisoner awake, doubled over, and clutching their hand as it shoots out bolts of green light.

He darts forward without a second thought and covers their marked hand with both his own. His eyes narrow in focus. Green light pours out from his own hands to envelope the prisoner's, but much cooler and softer in shade than what the mark produces. He ignores the clank of Templar armor and weapons. The voice of the prisoner dies into a whimper, than nothing.

Once he's certain the mark has calmed, the light dissipates, and Solas raises his eyes to meet theirs. The expression on their face is twisted in pain, while sweat and the traces of tears trail down their cheeks. One of the Templars mutters something to another, before he promptly leaves the room.

The others don't move, but now their prisoner is awake, just like they wanted. The pressure is enough to form a knot in Solas' neck.

He sits up and gently lets go of their hand. They brace their palms against the floor to catch their breath, and their eyes dart around the room from behind the curtain of their dark bangs.

"What..." Panic livens what he can see of their face, "...where am I? What happened to...to the Conclave?"

"Destroyed," he states.

He may as well be blunt.

Their head snaps up to him. "What did you say?"

"The conclave was destroyed. The exact cause is as of yet unknown. You are the only survivor, and the mark on your hand that was causing you a great deal of pain just now is undoubtedly connected to that."

The prisoner goes still.

"The only..."

They trail off, and their expression goes blank, as if their thoughts have left them completely. They don't say or anything else as they stare at the floor, aside from gulp, perhaps as mentally rattled as they are physically - or even moreso.

The door to the room slams open once more, and the elf is snapped out of their trance as they look to the blinding light of the doorway, where the silhouette of the Seeker and the red-haired woman stand. Solas stands up, not bothering to grab his staff this time.

The Seeker faces him first. "You - wait outside."

Solas opens his mouth to protest, but with the constrained rage in her fists, he thinks better of arguing with her now that their scapegoat is finally awake.

He glances at the prisoner. They look back at him, eyes wide in a silent plea, but his hands are tied. Solas drops his gaze, reaches down to grab his staff, and makes his way to the door.

The coldness of regret hits him as he exists the room, and the Seeker speaks her first words to the prisoner:

"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now."

The door shuts with a bang behind him, and he hears the lock click into place.