Ar lasa mala revas.
It was a blessing in which she could feel the power: cool, bright fingertips that whispered over skin, words that reached down to her heart and bound it up in gentleness, a tender tug at the magic that had seeped into her soul, the hot tingling of the Fade so like a breath of summer wind in the trees. It smelled of a carpet of foliage in autumn, the first sprigs of elfroot and thyme in spring, the bitter breath of deathroot, dry in winter.
You are free.
His eyes, so blue beneath the moon, met hers with such wonder that she might have ducked her head, tried to hide behind the silvery veils that reflected off the pool, but Solas laid his hand upon her cheek, skin buzzing with the touch of magic.
"You are beautiful."
The touch of his lips was liquid silver, the breath of the Fade come to life upon hers. Arms find her body and hold her close until one soul might tip into another—
And then, he is gone.
She stands with her naked face, promises left drying cold on her lips. Apologies fade on the breeze as he disappears beyond the midnight mist.
Enera is alone.
And now, she stands before Thom Rainier's cell, bare face peering through the bars. Enera can feel the absence of the vallaslin like a burn on her cheeks and forehead—cold, searing curves that no longer caress her skin and she peers between the bars, wanting to say: You, too, my friend?
But she does not, for the man in the cell looks as weary and empty as she feels, and, though he understands how he came to be here, alone, Enera will not leave him.
Ar lasa mala revas, ma'falon.