Upon the Strings // Solas

Chapter 8

Rook's dreams linger on the edge of waking — fragmented visions of her Veilguard dissolving into the mountain's cold breath. The fire has long since died out, leaving her curled against the stiff bedroll's protesting seams.

The boots by her head hadn't been there last night.

For a long moment, she stares at them. Worn leather, scuffed at the toes, but sturdy. The kind of boots that could withstand endless hours on mountain trails. Her own shoes — thin, heeled slippers meant for life shuttered away in a Circle tower — lay abandoned, battered, and wholly useless.

"They'll fit," a whisper brushes against her thoughts, soft as a leaf on the wind. Cole. She doesn't see the strange spirit boy, but the absence he leaves is tangible. A quiet gift, his way of knowing.

Making her feel seen without the weight of being picked apart.

Rook stares at the boots a moment longer before pulling them on. Wiping her eyes as she does. They're a size too big, but her feet settle snugly into the leather when laced tightly, relief easing the tension in her calves.

Her gait still comes out uneven. A twinge in her hip nagging when she steps wrong — taunted by hidden rocks under the snow outside her tent. But her body feels better than it has in weeks, despite the beating it took last night. This comes as a reluctant admission to Solas's residual healing, or any magical healing.

Two weeks ago — even two days ago — it had been a fevered survival tactic: avoid healing, avoid touch, avoid the invasive coils of magic rearranging her body, avoid having anyone, especially him, learn an ounce of the truth.

[They might have torn her open again to learn what she is.]

Irrational, maybe.

Now, it seems less important.

She guesses it's entirely more irrational that was sent back in time from a future razed to the ground by elven gods, so it's unlikely anyone will guess the truth.

Her focus thus shifts to survival.

Unfortunately, her skill with mending spells is more a hazard than a help. She'd set herself on fire long before soothing a bruise. A gap in her training she'll have to remedy, preferably soon.

Rook has started walking further. Around her, the Inquisition camp stirs, sluggish and groaning. Dawn's orange glow stretches over the snow-covered peaks, catching on scattered clouds and tinting the world in fleeting warmth. Soldiers move in slow, deliberate patterns, some dismantling tents, others bundling supplies. The mood is subdued, if determined — reflective of the lateness of their start. After last night, Rook supposes no one is going to begrudge another for the extra rest.

She drifts, aimless at first, the enclosed confines of her tent left far behind. Her fingers fidget with the golden latches of her borrowed robes, tracing the sturdy etchings without thought. A subconscious pull draws her forward, a half-realized intent. She's searching for someone.

Fiona, probably.

Rook would feel better knowing she's in decent shape. Rook isn't sure why, or what she wants to say, but the sight of the Grand Enchanter, even from afar, might be...

Well. She's not sure what it might be, but she's not sure what else to do.

"Rook!"

She turns sharply. A brunette woman hurries toward her, face flushed with urgency and unmistakable joy. Rook's immediate instinct is to shrink back, her shoulders stiffening, but the woman barrels through her hesitation, wrapping her in a brief but fierce hug.