#completely overwhelming

She shifts and flies beside Nim for a little while, dipping into the spaces around her antlers. She needs more practice shifting anyways, why not practice now? She billows back to the aravel eventually, tired but a good tired, the kind of tired that lets her sleep without fuss. Her memories are always happier up here. Instead of remembering death and destruction, Ash remembers Nanae’s preferred perfume when they were in Val Rayoux, or how Mama loved to collect books. She remembers a trip to Val Rayoux where she got to wear the prettiest dress she had ever seen, silk spun so fine it draped like water over her.

When she wakes, she finds they have landed in a nice glen, surrounded by tall, old growth trees. The area strikes her as oddly familiar, she thinks…there are wyverns around here? But in the future, and the trees…they were bigger. But still, wyverns are creatures of habit and if they were there in the future, it is very possible they could be around now. She informs the scouts and more than a few of them seem a little too excited by the idea.

“Don’t go purposefully looking for them now,” she warns playfully.

“Would we do that?” Etiras asks, feigning innocence. Ash rolls her eyes and wishes them to be safe while scouting. She isn’t exactly one to stop someone from bending the rules, so if they happen upon a wyvern, at least they’ll be prepared.

The rest of the day is comprised of the typical work needed to secure the clan after travel. Wards need to be put up, aravels need to be properly secured, food needs to be cooked, and specialty workshops need to be set up. Children also need to be corralled and watched, though more…responsible types are trusted with that task than Ash. And since Daern’thal has worked himself into sickness, she becomes the main person responsible for setting up the wards.

It is cooler in this region, farther south and east than where they had been, and the coldness presses particularly uncomfortably against Ash. She shrouds herself in warm magic and furs. Her hair is loose today, partially for warmth, and it spills out from the hood she’s wearing.

Setting up wards is always an odd thing. It makes her think of her Nanae and Uthvir a lot, and in the past it’s graced her with a lingering melancholy. But today is different. She thinks of them and their memories seem to twine in with the wards, lighting in particularly bright displays of activity. They are all connected to her, ready to alert and to deter depending on the nature of the intruder. Animals are tricky creatures sometimes, particularly since they can be in the service of rival clans or the empire, but for the most part, the wards are set up to warn of specific elf-like energy intruders.

She is careful in how she spills her blood, creating a web of blood magic wards. She layers the wards – the outer layer is to simply inform of those wandering closer, while the second is to start discouraging, and the third are more akin to magical traps than just wards.

Ash walks the perimeter of the camp multiple times, checking to make sure that all wards and safety precautions are in place. By the time she is done, the sun is beginning to set, creating soft yet beautiful shadows through the trees. She returns to camp, heading straight to the fire. Blood magic always leaves her feeling cold, combine that with the chill in the air and Ash is too cold for comfort.

Ram soup is for dinner and helps, heating her from the inside out. She leans against Nimronyn while she eats, curling up and basking in her memae’s warmth. By the end of dinner, Ash is warm again, and her magic feels replenished, even after being so utilized during the day.

The hunters return from their hunting activities, a wyvern unabashedly being carried by three of them. Etiras shrugs at her while grabbing a bowl of soup. Well, at least now they have some valuable scales and bone for crafting.

While the camp is winding down for the night, she can’t help but notice Daern’thal’s continued absence. She frowns, he should have been with the rest of them for dinner, but he’s remained in his aravel for the entire day.

Ashokara rises and grabs another bowl of soup before heading into her friend’s aravel. It is dark, and the warming runes need more energy to be activated again. She waves a hand and they all ignite, slowly warming the aravel. She lights the candles and enchanted stones as well, bathing the aravel is soft light. Daern’thal’s prone figure wriggles in his hammock and he pokes his head out from the cocoon of his blankets.

“I brought you soup,” she says, stepping towards him.

Reverie pops its head out from underneath the covers, in its bird form.

“Thank you.”

Daern’thal slowly sits up, his hair clearly trying to free itself in a frizzy array from his braids. He keeps the blankets wrapped around him even as he shifts to the upright position. Two hand peek out from the blankets and take the bowl and spoon. She climbs up behind him and takes his hair gently in hand, slowly untangling it with a comb.

He eats and she helps him in silence. Their words after the battle…had not been nice, nor easy. He has seen her memories, she has let him…know, to understand, and as much as he understands, he has not lived what she has lived. The pain….

All he sees are her actions, and how the clan is affected by them. She knows that she has acted recklessly. And he knows that she couldn’t just stand there and let things happen, but he also feels wronged by her somehow.

“The man who destroyed my world did not think the people of my world were people. He called my people brutes, and only changed his mind when my mother showed him just how compassionate and good we are. He…was incapable of seeing people as people until it was too late, until he was too set in his ways to stop himself from destroying anything,” she says softly. Daern’thal stills and Reverie hops up onto his shoulder.

“I tell you this because I am not like him. I have always seen you as people, just as bright, just as important as the people from my world. My loss…it can never be fully repaired, but that does not mean I am unable to love you or the clan. But it does make me protective. I am sorry to have hurt you, but please do not ever insinuate that I do any of this because I do not love you,” she tells him, letting his hair fall softly down his back.

Reverie stares at her and she wonders if she said more than she should have. She doesn’t want to fight with him, but she doesn’t want to leave this…whatever it is open.

“I’m sorry,” Reverie says, so softly she almost doesn’t hear. A tense breath leaves her and she leans her forehead against the back of his head.

“Thank you.”

They don’t say anything for the rest of the evening. She helps keep him warm after the soup, curling up with him on a pile of blankets and pillows, lending her natural heat to help his recovery. Reverie sneaks into the pile, vibrating happily.

She falls asleep with him, curled up and warm.

After that night, the tension of the battle seems to lessen. And soon, days turn into weeks, which then turn into months. She trains with Sylmae almost daily, honing her abilities, becoming deadlier and stronger.

Sometimes she’ll catch herself in a mirror and hardly recognize herself. She…looks like her mama. She has her nose, and her cheeks. Mama was not a thin woman, she was made of soft curves and strong muscle, and while Ash is smaller, leaner, her body follows very similar lines to her mother, she thinks. Her shoulders are stronger now, able to carry more, not just her sorrow and memories. Ash can see her mama when she looks at herself, but it doesn’t make her sad. Her curls are looser but just as white, a mane of hair that floats around her face and horns, down her back. She is strong like her mama, she is beautiful, and compassionate. Or she at least tries to be.

She lets her memories linger closer to her. It hurts at first, everything seems to remind her of loss, but slowly it begins to shift. She sees things her loved ones would have loved, and she loves those things more for it. She sees wrong as spirits drift into the camps, whispering of the empire’s expansions, and she feels impassioned to right them. Her memories make her strong and she feels closer to herself than she has in the entire time she’s been here.

The months stretch into a year, and Nimronyn takes them deep into a mountain range. Winter holds the region in a cold, dead grip, blanketing the region in a thick blanket of snow. Ash melts snow wherever she goes, blazing trails forward…but also making them rather conspicuous.

The clan remains bundled up and close together, particularly around Nimronyn’s reptilian-like body. Ash sends friendly flames over her memae’s body every now and then, keeping her warm. Sylmae is less delicate and throws several large blankets over the dragon. But it helps. Ash knows that these far reaching places are safer, but they tax Nimronyn too much.

But she also knows not to press the issue.

We need allies. We need safe harbor. We can’t run forever. Every day the empire expands, taking more clans, killing more keepers. Daern’thal tells her of more whispers of the madness growing making Ash grow increasingly worried. There were no tales of this in the future, something so old, people forgot.

There is nothing concrete to blame the madness on, but if Ash had to bet, she’d bet it is the Empire. It the type of sinister thing she could see Mythal doing – the bitch.

What is most troubling, however, is that every now and then there are whispers in the clan that maybe the empire isn’t so bad. Their vision is an attractive one, and it beats constantly running. Ash reminds them that the empire destroys themselves eventually, enslaves definitely, and anyways, after what happened in the valley – any of them will be killed on sight…or worse. They are welcome to leave, but they should know the truth of the empire, to not believe its beguiling lies.

Despite the several feet of snow and freezing conditions, Sylmae takes Ash to the side and sets to train her.

“Conditions will not always favor you!” Sylmae says as they begin.

“Certainly not if we keep running to the mountains,” Ash snipes back, parrying her mother’s strike.

“It is futile to curb your tongue.”

“It is!” She lunges and Sylmae bats her away easily. As strong as Ash has gotten, as good as she has become with combat, she still can’t quite beat Sylmae. Always one step behind.

But then again, Ash does not use her fire in this training.

Nim trains her fire, and Daern’thal improves her defensive magicks.

“Your opinions are no always correct,” Sylmae continues.

“No one’s opinions are always correct – not even yours or Memae’s,” Ash counters, rolling away, only to drop into a particularly deep snow drift. The word is not called though, spar is still in session. Sylmae is dashing after her and in a spur of the moment decision, Ash takes a deep breath and lets a wave of heat seep from her, quickly melting all the snow around her and Sylmae.

Her mamae wobbles on the suddenly new muddy ground. Well, she used to not use her fire in these sessions. The ground is still unstable but at least it’s not snow, and Ash takes advantage of Sylmae’s very slight wobble to dash forward. Their training sticks clash as Ash angles herself low. Sylmae is still significantly taller than Ash, and she’s beginning to think she’s taller than even Mama, but that just means she has a longer way to fall.

Ash is not the quickest, nor the strongest, but she strives to be clever. She does not relent, further destabilizing Sylmae’s base. She could maybe win this won, she could –

A ward goes off in her head and she gasps, suddenly seeing the intruders on the outer ring of wards traipsing through the snow.

When her vision clears, she is on her back with Sylmae standing above her.

“What was that?”

“Intruders,” Ash hisses, rolling to her feet quickly. Seriousness settles over Sylmae as she follows Ash back into the camp, peppering her with questions.

“How many? What were their armaments? Describe them –

“I don’t think they’re part of the empire, they looked more like a clan – but I didn’t see a Keeper.” She tries to hold the image in her head, seeing…an aravel, harts, and young elves that could very well be teenagers.

Sylmae’s face hardens. They’ve run into hostile clans before, though normally they have Keepers. A Keeper-less clan is woefully at risk, that is…if the Keeper isn’t disguised somehow.

Still, they alert the clan, rearranging the aravels into a defensive position and gathering warriors and hunters. Daern’thal taps into the wards and Dreaming, scouting where he can to see if he can learn anything about these elves.

Ash armors and arms herself, slowly working on her breathing exercises to let her magic begin to circulate freely inside of her. Fire requires a spark and a steady supply of fuel, magical fire requires the same, with slight variation. Her will is the spark, her breath and the magical pathways in her body are the fuel. She grabs her spear, two daggers, and several knives. She doesn’t think this clan will pose that much of a threat, but…safer than sorry.

Armed and ready, she joins her mothers at the forefront.

Another ward breaks and Ash is given another glimpse. The clan she sees is not advancing like an army, and she does not know if they can sense they are breaking wards. Exhaustion is written across their faces.

We need to know our enemies, yes, but we also need to know how to spot an ally, Mama’s voice drifts through her mind, a lingering memory. She was speaking to Cullen, something about how he was suspicious of some new mage enclave Mama wanted to bring into the fold. There was concern that they were Venatori agents – they had in fact been young mages who had run from the Circle before the rebellion. Mama had been right.

“I think…this is not a fight,” she says tentatively.

“I agree,” Reverie chirps up. It sits on Daern’thal’s shoulder, his eyes still closed as he searches through the Dreaming.

“They carry weariness with them, not malice,” it continues. Mamae and Memae share looks, Memae’s large eyes blinking slowly as she returns her gaze to the forest around them.

“They can still pose a threat,” Mamae says.

“Yes, but maybe…a friendly initial approach is best?” Ash suggests.

Another ward breaks. The sounds of a moving clan reach them, growing from soft whispers and whirring to actual speech and the plodding of harts, the various plunks and wheezing from moving aravels.

“Mamae? Memae?” Ash asks, wanting to see if they will at least consider her idea.

“Yes, little light, we’ll try. We do not fight if it’s not necessary,” Nim finally answers and Ash relaxes. If she is wrong, they can chew her out – but something tells her she’s not.

The other clan’s scouts are the first to pass through the trees. They are nearly hidden, but the wards chitter with activity.

“Stay there,” Nimronyn commands. The scouts freeze against the trees and soon the rest of the clan follows them.

They halt immediately as soon as they spy Ash’s clan. They watch each other, eyes flitting from one person to the next, gaging the strength of who they’re up against. The people of the other clan’s faces fall as they realize their disadvantage.

The stillness is broken by a small woman striding quickly to the front of the stopped clan. There is a fierceness to her that Ash recognizes, as is the sorrow that seems to fill the space around her. This is a grieving woman, her eyes are hard and she is ready to fight if need be. She has lost much, but she has not lost everything.

A warrior next to Ash grips his axe tighter and Ash reaches out, placing her hand on the haft. Nimronyn puffs up and a taste of her magic suffuses the area.

“There is already a clan here, you have broken many of our wards…what brings you so close?” She asks, her tone as strong as it is questioning. The woman in question raises her chin in defiance, her own magic expanding in the space and Ash suddenly realizes that this must be their Keeper.

“You are Nimronyn, yes?”

Memae lets out a low growl but nods.

“I am Henne’thel. My father spoke of you, he said you were a good Keeper. You are not like the Keeper that attacked my clan and killed him and my mother.”

Her clan does not gasp as much as the emotions in the clearing suddenly turn to shock then to pity then to sorrow. The death of a Keeper…once a rare event has become entirely too common, with the rise of the empire and the increasing boldness in warring clans that have tyrannical Keepers more bent on fighting and death than they are on leading.

“I am sorry for your loss, Henne’thel. I knew of your father as well, he was a good Keeper.”

“I am our Keeper now – I slew the last Keeper that threatened us.”

“As is your right. We do not wish any unnecessary antagonism if you do not,” Nimronyn says diplomatically.

The tension in the grove eases considerably. Ash watches as the other clan’s members relax, tension rolling off of their shoulders and their faces.

“No, we do not wish any unnecessary fighting. We will be on our way if it eases you,” Henne’thel says. Before Ash can think better of it, she steps forward and bends her head towards her memae.

“Perhaps, Keeper, we could invite them to break bread with us. Winters are coldest weathered alone,” she says, hoping the double meaning of her words come across. Memae huffs at her briefly, pausing before turning back to Henne’thel.

“My daughter speaks the truth, you are welcome to share our fire if you promise to keep your clan on their best behavior.”

Henne’thel inclines her head in gratitude, first towards Nimronyn, then towards Ash.

“Your generosity and hospitality is greatly appreciated. I will confer with my clan and give you an answer.”

“Very well. Ashokara, since you seem so invested in this, you may wait for their answer. You as well Daern’thal, keep her safe.”

Ah, she will be reprimanded lightly later then. Fine, she can handle that, because dammit she was right. Daern’thal looks slightly put out as the rest of their clan files back to their camp. Reverie scuttles up to the top of her friend’s head, staring at Henne’thel.

“I agree with you,” it chirps and she smiles at her friend.

“Thank you, Nimronyn and Sylmae may…not be so understanding of it later, though.”

“They’ll see reason, they always do. It’s not like you barreled head first into an army this time.”

“It was a raiding party, excuse you, and everything turned out fine. And this is better than fine. Friends are always good,” Ash says.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Henne’thel says from behind her. Ash turns in surprise, looking down, very far down, at the woman before her.

“I do. I am glad we could avoid any fighting; you and your clan have been through enough.”

Henne’thel frowns at that but she does not press the issue as she returns to her people. She can guess what she seems like to Henne’thel, unknowing of the pain she is going through right now. But maybe…and it’s a big maybe, she will get the chance to understand.

When Ash turns back to Daern’thal he is flushed, and it’s not just from the weather. Ash leans back, raising a knowing brow at him. He shrugs, opting to remain silent. Well, then, perhaps it’s not as big of a ‘maybe’ after all.

Henne’thel confers with her people for at least an hour. In that hour, Ash and Daern’thal communicate mostly in sign, keeping quiet for privacy, for themselves and for the clan heatedly discussing whether or not to accept their offer. She can understand why they wouldn’t – unknown, could be a trap, inviting misfortune. She doubts saying it’s not a trap will assuage any concerns, so she lets them have their debate in peace.

Daern’thal seems preoccupied with how apparently pretty Henne’thel is. She is indeed lovely, Ash can see that, but Daern’thal seems very quickly taken with her.

I should have let you invite her to our fire. Ash teases.

I do not court the ire of the Keeper as easily as you do, He retorts, sufficiently not denying anything. She chuckles.

Everyone seems to forget what my name means.

How exactly did your mother know you would be so annoyingly defiant? He teases and she chuckles.

Lucky guess.

And so it goes for an hour, quip after quip until Henne’thel reappears, looking pleased with herself.

“We accept your invitation, as long as you sit with us.”

Oooh, she’s to be insurance, interesting.

“As long as Daern’thal can sit with us too, then, he’s delightful company.” She grins and Daern’thal almost blushes.

Henne’thel seems unfazed by it however as she nods and returns to her people. After she gathers them, they all head towards the camp. Ash manipulates the wards accordingly, allowing them safe passage. The aravels are still positioned defensively when they arrive and a truce must be reached – weapons are to be confined to specific aravels to help prevent fighting. Both clans consent to it and slowly but surely, Henne’thel’s clan settles down around the large fire Ash’s clan has going.

Ash and Daern’thal are kept as the insurance, but she doesn’t mind. She knows that her clan will not attack, and she is happy to foster diplomacy. Henne’thel’s people do not talk to her much at all however, they keep to themselves and while they are all sharing the fire, the clans remain largely separated into their groups. The only exception to this are the children.

As soon as the situation is deemed safe enough, the children are allowed out of the aravels and allowed to romp. They have no issues with making new friends from a different clan, they see a fellow child and see a potential friend, not a potential threat.

Henne’thel and Nimronyn sit together, discussing Keeper things, Ash imagines. This awkward situation remains until supper, where the hunters from both clans convene and begin to cook the game they had caught during the day. Henne’thel takes a seat next to Nimronyn, while Ash and Daern’thal sit with the hunters from Henne’thel’s clan.

The fire begins to die when a wind billows through the trees. Reflexively, Ash takes control of the fire, turning it a brilliant blue as it waves in place while the wind poses a threat. When the wind shifts, she relinquishes it and settles back in. Henne’thel’s clan is watching her closely.

“I heard a very interesting rumor,” Henne’thel says carefully.

“And what is this rumor?” Nimronyn asks.

“There was a battle in a valley far from here, between the rising empire elves and a clan.”

Ash tenses but Nimronyn seems calm.

“Not such an uncommon occurrence in such times.”

“Hm, true, but it is uncommon when the clan wins.” Henne’thel’s gaze shifts to Ash.

“The rumors spoke of a great blue fire engulfing even the mightiest of the warriors. They call the woman responsible for the slaughter Asha’thylgar.”

“The woman of blue fire? What a descriptive name,” Nimronyn ventures, “and potentially misleading – blue fire is not as uncommon as some think.”

“True…but the rumor spoke of the woman who as the daughter of a Keeper,” Henne’thel says and finally Nimronyn shifts her tone.

“I do not appreciate where you are going with this.”

“I mean no disrespect or harm. I am…impressed, very few who tangle with this so-called empire come out of it alive – and you did more than just survive.”

Ash resists smiling and instead continues to eat her food. Ash’s clan seems unnerved from the conversation, they’re shifting in their seats, looking to one another. Sylmae levels her gaze at Ash while Henne’thel and Nymronyn remain locked into whatever stand-off they’re in.

“The empire is hunting you, Asha’thylgar has a sizeable bounty on her head for what she did to Falon’din, it seems reasonable to warn you.”

“How exactly did you come across this information?” Nimronyn demands. They already know about the bounty and the hunting parties, it’s partly why they’re still on the move.

“How everyone does, gossip-y spirits, including an actual Gossip spirit. We have no interest in collecting that bounty, they’d probably just steal us into their empire anyways.”

“Then why bring it up?” Nimronyn asks.

Henne’thel pauses and her eyes go over Ash, “I wanted to know if it was true. I know what the empire can do, I doubted such rumors that a clan escaped. The tale made it sound…fantastical.”

“Feats that are not believed are often thought of that way,” Ash says softly. It’s how folktales and legends get started, there’s almost always a grain of truth, but time distorts everything – especially stories.

“And do you have the truth of this feat?” Henne’thel asks.

“The truth is subject to perspective,” Nimronyn says, “perhaps that is why your gossiping spirits create such a fantastical story – it’s their truth.”

“Then I ask for your truth,” Henne’thel says, not backing down from this. Eyes flit to Ash, expecting her to tell the tale. She nibbles on her lip and shrugs.

“A raiding party entered the valley where we were camped. I was tasked with leading the clan away from the fighting while my Keeper and the clan’s warriors engaged with the raiding party. I couldn’t bear to watch my mothers die so I entered the fighting myself – I have always had a talent for fire, I used it.”

Dark emotion falls over Henne’thel and she nods, “I know that feeling, you are lucky that you did not lose them.” A bitter smile crosses Ash’s face – she doesn’t know, she tells herself. But she nods her head in thanks.

“Lucky indeed.” It feels like a lie. It wasn’t luck, it was determination and action, to prevent from history repeating itself. Or beginning so to speak. She knows what Henne’thel is feeling right now – anger, grief, jealousy. Ash’s adoptive mothers are alive while Henne’thel’s parents are dead – through no fault of her own.

“I am heartened to hear that the tale is true, it is good to know that not all clans are doomed to suffer Keeper-less fates.”

“And we heartened to know that your clan survived a rival’s attack. How did you manage that?” Ash asks.

“I took the form of a Keeper and assumed my role.”

She is more powerful than she seems, then, good. Allies should be strong. The rest of the dinner is filled with polite, if tense, conversation. But over time, and as the wines and spirits are passed around the fire, the tension lessens and the two clans ease into a more companionable existence.

The next few days are a flurry of activity. Food is a little thin, Ash’s clan was not expecting to be hosting with another clan. But Henne’thel’s hunters are more than happy to assist Nim’s hunters in acquiring food. Children play together, Nim and Henne’thel are engaged in talks the entire week, friendships are made, and by the end of the week, an alliance has formed.

Ash resists the urge to gloat but she does settle for a small, “I was right,” directed at Sylmae who humbles her in training again for it. Worth it, though. One of the best, and unexpected, results is that Daern’thal seems absolutely taken with Henne’thel. Reverie once whispers to Ash that Daern’thal finds Henne’thel pretty, beautiful even.

While there seems to be a lead up into a courtship between Henne’thel and Daern’thal, and the alliance is strong, the two clan go their separate ways in traveling. They set up the routes for communication in the Dreaming, giving Daern’thal even more power to contact his lady love. It’s cute, and it’s a good reminder than even in dark times there are always these little bits of brightness that shine through.

Spring arrives in the mountains in a soggy manner, drenching the area in rain – as if the melting snow wasn’t enough. Aravels get stuck and travel becomes slow as they avoid flying due to the near constant inclement weather.

They are camped out on a small mountain, when a ward goes off. Like it’s supposed to work, Ash catches a glimpse of what broke the ward – but she doesn’t see anything other than the surrounding foliage, maybe a few animals, but nothing that would break a ward. She frowns. Wards do not just spontaneously break. 

She waits several minutes but no other wards break. She alerts the clan to the ward breaking and they agree it should be examined. Several groups are sent out to examine the perimeter while Ash and Etiras leave to examine the ward, armed just in case. They travel quietly through the woods to the broken ward. Ash’s magic lingers in the area, not just activated but blown apart. This was no accident.

She draws her spear and slowly turns, scanning the area. Etiras draws his bow, looking for anything, anyone, who could have blown the enchantment.

Ash looks up too late. A heavy person drops down from the trees, landing firmly on top of her. She falls to the ground with a harrumph, but rolls away quickly. More drop down from the trees and she hears the snaps of a bow as Etiras begins to fight back. Her spear was thrown when the elf landed on her, so she grabs the dagger in her belt and lashes out with that.

The assassin evades her easily and advances quickly. She rolls back to her feet just as the assassin lunges. She moves just as Sylmae taught her, and she lashes out with her fire – but it is raining, and the ground is sopping. Her fire only does so much, only burns so much before it is turned to steam. More steam fills the air as her fire collides with it, thickening the air, making it difficult to breathe.

But the assassins were just warming up it seems. A cloud of magic seeps into the air, sending what feels like knives and shards of glass into her skin. Her arms are soon covered in lacerations, her face, legs. She hears Etiras scream and she realizes that they’ve been outmatched.

It’s a quick decision, but it should work. It’s called a detonation glyph, she normally doesn’t use them because their devastation is too dangerous – too much margin of error. But they are far from camp and the sound of the blast will alert the rest of the clan. She blasts her fire into the nearest assassin. Their barrier takes the majority of the blast but they are left at least stunned enough to grant her the three seconds to whisper the spell into the ground.

The time starts now.

She manipulates the heat of the air to allow her to see Etiras. Wasting no time, Ash grabs him and runs. Then jumps down a ledge. She sends them both into a tucked in roll, doing the best to protect themselves even as they roll down the scraggly side of the ledge and into the brush.

The ward goes off in a brilliant blue explosion, rocking the earth and air. Debris flies down and Ash curls in on herself, protecting her head and neck.

When the air grows calm, she gathers the will to peak out from her position.

“E-Etiras?” She calls softly. A low groan answers her and she pulls herself to her feet. Damn assassins, probably looking to get a bounty on her like Henne’thel had said. Her body is bleeding and hurt, but she can move, keep moving, keep going.

Ash moves to Etiras, who is in a much worse shape. His foot is bent at an unnatural angle and he is already covered in purple and blue marks, bleeding internally as well as from the cuts up and down his arms, his face…

She has never been one for healing. It is not a skill that comes naturally to her, but she knows a thing or two.

“Etiras.”

“Ow.” He can’t move, the pain is too much, it infuses all of the emotion around him. But he’s alive, and that’s all that matters as far she’s concerned. With the utmost care, she reaches down and gently lifts him. He cries out in pain, but this has to happen. It gets worse before it gets better, she remembers that is part of healing.

The foot needs to be set, there’s no way around it, and then she can begin healing. There is a spell for numbing pain, she just need to remember it.

She attempts a spell then checks for numbness, but it doesn’t work. She tries again, but it is on the third try that she manages the right incantation. Etiras goes numb, all pain and some emotion fading from him.

Alright, step one done. She can do this, she may not have taken to healing, but she did train. She did her time with the healers, and she recalls some from her first life, even without magic, it’s possible. She thinks of the surgeon in Skyhold’s infirmary, working to heal the soldiers, and she didn’t even have magic.

If she can do it, so can Ashokara.

She takes gentle hold of his foot and leg and recalls seeing the Surgeon set a bone like this. Know the body and how it connects and you can take it apart…and put it together again.

She jerks. The bones crunch sickening but the foot is in the position it is supposed to be in. She tears off her shirt and wraps the torn pieces around the foot, then wraps two sturdy sticks to his leg, stabilizing it. Then she casts the few healing spells she knows.

The cuts on his arms mend, and some of the bruising eases off. His breathing evens out and she runs a hand over his hair.

“I’m going to get us back.”

“That was some fucked up shit, Ash.”

“I know, I’m going to pick you up now.” She takes one of his arms and helps him into a sitting position, then moves the arm to fall over her shoulders. She adjusts herself so that when she stands, he is slung over both shoulders, foot and ankle untouched. He grunts but makes no protest as she begins to walk towards what she hopes will let her back up to the clan.

She needs to keep moving, there’s no telling if there are more assassins, waiting to strike. Sylmae and the rest are good at tracking so if they need to find her, they will. Etiras is heavy, but not so much that she will let him attempt walking.

Ash wanders down to the river the scouts had found before. Hypothetically she should be able to wander up-stream and to a crossing point where she can then get to the desired elevation where the clan is. And water sounds very nice right about now.

The going is slow, but she eventually makes it to where the trees end and the riverbed beings, dipping in low. She stops immediately, frozen to the spot as she sees it. She has many experiences with spirits, small and large alike, some bright some clinging to shadows, but none have ever shone so brightly, floated so exquisitely as the one before. It large and golden, but not like the ore but as if it were a second sun on earth, light spilling so easily from it as it dangles in the air above the river.

It turns towards her and her heart stutters. She falls to her knees and Etiras grunts, but falls silent of any protests as he looks up from her shoulder and sees the spirit.

It blinks curiously at her as it floats towards her. An arm extends down to her, silent but overwhelming as it touches her cheek. It is warm and comforting despite everything and she leans into it, wanting it to remain just for longer. It is almost familiar, this closeness, and it fills with unfathomable sorrow to have it be gone.

“You are lost,” it whispers, but it is an echoing thing, as if it were a thousand whispers coming from multiple beings rather than just one. She nods in confirmation.

“We are separated from our clan, have you seen them?” Etiras asks. The spirit turns to him and nods.

“Up on the ridge, to the east. But that is not what I meant.”

Ash blinks in surprise and struggles to find a response.

“I am where I can only be,” she finally says and the spirit nods.

“As we all are.”

Etiras lifts his head slowly and takes a breath, “You are Glory.”

“I am.”

Glory. A very suiting aspect for this spirit, overwhelming and humbling and incredible all at once. Grand and shining, something everyone wants, and so few get, fewer that deserve it.

“Thank you for helping us,” he whispers. Several of its wings beat, light shines from them in varying lengths.

“I will accompany you to the path, you should find your way back from there,” Glory says and begins to…float up the river. She follows it, moving as quickly as she can. As Glory moves, the world seems to stretch towards them, as if nothing can get enough of them. Even Etiras seems to lean as much as he can towards them.

But a coldness lingers in Ash that she can’t explain. It is beautiful and great and incredible, but it also brings a heaviness to her memories that she has not felt in a long time.

Glory leads them to the path. Ash was right, it wasn’t far from the river at all, and she can hear Sylmae and the others in the distance calling for her. Before she heads towards them, she turns to Glory and bows her head in thanks.

“Thank you. And if you will accept advice – stay far away from the Empire, all they do is destroy and corrupt things.”

“Your concern is kind. I will remember it,” it tells her. She nods and Etiras gives his own thanks as Glory recedes back into the Dreaming.

Etiras is heavy upon her shoulders, as are her memories, pressing incessantly against her skull. But she sojourns forth towards the sound of her clan, her people. The past weighs her down, but her legs are strong.

She takes a deep breath and calls for Sylmae, directing them all to her. They are there in a flash, taking Etiras from her and whisking him away to the clan’s healers. Sylmae pulls Ash in for a tight hug, only to release her quickly once she realizes how cut up Ash is.