Chapter Text
Rasha stands over the body, her pen and pad in hand as she examines the body. Whoever the poor sod is, he’s slumped against the wall, his eyes shut, an expression of unbridled terror on his face, his hair still in the careful slicked-back style, not a strand out of place.
If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was just a man who’d imbibed one too many and was sleeping the booze off in this dank, dark alleyway.
“What do we have here?” Cassandra, her partner, walks up next to her, a hand on her holster as it always is.
“Human male, late twenties I’d guess. Time of death unknown-” she gets down on her haunches, snapping on a pair of gloves as she does so. “Body’s cold,” she brusquely states, gently tugging his eyelids. His eyes, that would have once been rather a pretty shade of blue, are now white and rheumy. “Been here several hours, I reckon.”
“Cause of death?’
She can smell the blood that she can’t see. It makes her stomach growl, makes her chest clench tight with hunger and yearning. How long has it been since she last-?
“He doesn’t fit in,” her partner grunts, “too fancy for this alley.” It’s true - his well-pressed houndstooth jacket and the starched wine-colored cravat at his throat look incredibly out of place in the dirt-covered, piss-scented cobblestones of the dark passage. “It looks like another drunken buffoon got lost on his way home, stumbled into bad company,” Cassandra exhales. “Still, better to be cautious, I suppose. I’ll radio headquarters, see if there’s a missing person alert out.” Rasha waits till her partner’s back is turned before continuing her examination of the man. Her instinct is to check the neck - and she does - but the wound she’s expecting to see isn’t there.
Strange.
She pulls open the man’s coat, and the scent of blood gets overwhelming. Her tongue goes dry, and she can feel her teeth ache. Clenching her jaw shut, she covers her nose with her elbow and breathes in, letting the bitter scent of felandris sear her nasal passages and block out the temptation. When she feels more grounded, she turns her attention back to the body. There’s a large patch of a very suspicious shade of maroon near the right collar bone, which- she frowns. It looks like- well, like what she thinks it is, but she’s confused. She’s seen his work before, and she knows how he operates. It’s been a while, true, but- surely he isn’t so sloppy ? Has she been mistaken? Maybe this is just a mugging gone bad, like Cassandra seems to think. She pushes the jacket off the shoulder, sucks in a sharp breath.
“Cassandra,” she calls out urgently. She can hear the heavy footsteps before her partner squats next to her. “Look.”
There, marring the perfection of the soft linen shirt, are two perfectly neat, perfectly round holes.
“Andraste protect us,” Cassandra whispers, her hand wrapping around the pendant that always hangs from her neck. “There’s a bloodsucker in Haven.”
“What do we do?” Rasha asks. Her heart drums sluggishly against her ribs, which- is concerning. The lethargic beat only serves to highlight the emptiness of her stomach. When was the last time she ate-?
Her mouth is too-dry again, and she can’t stop staring at the red stain.
Cassandra spurs to action. “Call it in. Get Krem and his crew to take the body in, we’ll have Dorian do the autopsy.”
“What about the-” she jerks her head towards the dead man. “You know?”
Cassandra exhales. Her shoulders slump, and in the dull orange light of the streetlamp, she looks haggard. “I don’t know.”
In truth, neither does she. If this isn’t the work of the- creature - she’s after, then... what is she supposed to do? She didn’t go through the effort of forging documents and credentials and placing herself in right in the center of the very situation she’s avoided for all these years for nothing, damn it. Her gums throb viciously. She can make out the thin green lines on the back of Cassandra's hand, the veins that stand out like beacons. Fuck, she’s so hungry, her stomach feels like a festering pool of acid. She needs to get out of here before she does something- “I’ll let Dorian know he’s got a new shipment coming in,” she abruptly moves away, ignoring her partner’s disgusted huff.
She rests her forehead against the car’s roof, lets the cold of the metal seep into her. Part of her is surprised at that, that something is colder than she is. But that’s why she came to Haven, isn’t it? Because of all the ice and snow and frost? So she could hide in plain sight as she followed the trail, so she could finally enact the cure the Witch of the Wilds promised her?
Slay the creator, even now, she can still remember the woman’s strange yellow eyes, the haunting echo to her words, and end the curse .
Is it a curse if it has made her this way? Can something that was made be unmade? What even were the woman’s motives, that she would offer advice so freely?
She hates not knowing.
Her breath quickens - an instinctual habit - but it doesn’t fog the air the way Cassandra’s does. The way it used to. The way it’s meant to.
She’s going to be discovered. Or worse, she’s going to cave in. That would be bad. Very bad. What is she thinking, testing her control like this? This is madness. She should run. She should run and hide, and- this was a mistake, she shouldn’t be here, she-
Rasha takes a deep breath. It doesn’t do anything for her, but the action is familiar and soothing. In. Out. In, count to seven, out.
She can do this. She can do this. She can do this.
She has to do this. What other choice does she have? Leave? Where would she go? Wycome hasn’t been home for years, and she’s tired of living in the forests, tired of the loneliness that’s sunk into her bones, the hollowness in her stomach that never goes away, never, no matter how much she gluts herself on poor substitutes, but she’s not- she will not be-
“Are you well?” Cassandra’s voice jerks her out of her thoughts.
Rasha flashes the raven-haired woman a weak smile. “Just concerned, that’s all.”
The older woman’s face softens. She places a hand on Rasha’s shoulder. “We’ll find a way,” she vows. “We’ll stop this monster.” In the distance, she can hear the sound of sirens, the heralding of the protectors and the defenders. The bold and the brave. The champions of the just.
Rasha lets out a bitter, mocking chuckle. She knows they can’t help. Only a monster can stop a monster.
She catches sight of her reflection in the glass window. It’s faint, but it’s there, and it does nothing to reassure her.
You are no monster , a voice whispers in her head, a voice that isn’t her own. You can never be one.
She freezes. Her fists clench. Get out of my mind .
Do you really want me to, vhenan ?
Don’t call me that. She tosses the keys to Cassandra and gets into the passenger seat, shrugging when her partner raises her brows in surprise. Cassandra gets behind the wheel and turns the key. It stutters several times before flaring to life.
She can’t afford to drive with distractions, can she?
There’s a soft chuckle in her mind, a familiar, once-beloved sound. Is your anger at me, or yourself, vhenan? As I recall, it was you who said you wanted to be with me forever . Rasha closes her eyes. Memories flash behind her closed lids, of a time when the forests were not so dark and sinister, of pale, soft fingers trailing up her arms and up her neck and fisting into her hair as her mouth was devoured-
She inhales, slow and deep. Replaces those images with ones of her reality. Of cowering in the shadows, watching the golden sun from the chill darkness of caves, stealing what she needed in the dead of night. Of the way she is constantly, endlessly cold, within and without. And the loneliness.
Even now, it makes her catch her non-breath.
You do not have to be alone, ma lath .
Oh, but she does.
I’m waiting for you.
He can wait all he wants. She knows what she has to do to gain her freedom, and nothing will stop her from her quest.
A long silence, but she knows he’s still there. Then, just as Cassandra pulls up to the station-
Ir abelas .
It troubles her more than it should.
The bed is lumpy, the pillows even more so, but what does she expect from an inn that rents rooms at twenty copper a day? The thin woolen blanket scratches at her toes. Someone next door is fighting, their voices raised, the woman hissing at her partner to keep it down, there’s a cop next room over, or d’you want to be locked up again? I won’t bail you out the next time- she sighs and shuts her eyes, tries to go to sleep.
Rasha doesn’t dream. Or, rather, she doesn’t let herself. Dreams are painful; they taunt her, mock her with things that she wants but cannot have. Not since- she yawns. The scar on her neck pulses and throbs.
She sinks into the darkness.
He takes her hand, raises it to his lips, presses an open-mouthed kiss to her skin, light but searing, and for a brief moment she feels the scrape of his teeth. She shivers.
“Do you like that?”
She meets his eyes, blue and silver, like lightning in the daytime skies, and nods.
He drags his teeth along the skin of her inner wrist, nips at the vein that carries her pulse.
“Ma lath,” she whispers, and he draws her to him, their mouths meeting in sweet, languid desperation.
“Vhenan,” he moans into her mouth. Her heart thrills at the sound.. The glen is quiet, and serene, and she can’t hear a sound, not even the rustle of leaves. In this place there is only the two of them, lover and beloved, and if she could she would freeze this moment and store it carefully, like one of those snowglobes she’s seen in the markets of Val Royeaux.
He pulls away from her, and she is bereft, even though he stands in front of her, even though his hands are on her hips, and his gaze is on her face.
“I wish we could be together. Forever. Like this, just you and me.” Her wish echoes all around them before settling, like a shroud, over the two of them.
He cocks his head. She doesn’t know what he’s thinking. “Do you mean that?”
She frowns. Of course she does. Why would he think otherwise? They’ve been together for years now, have they not, has she pressed her naked body to his and welcomed him into her, has she not given him the entirety of her heart? “Do you even need to ask, ma sa’lath? I love you. Intensely and immensely. Is that not why I am here with you? Any price would be worth paying if it meant eternity with you.”
Something in his gaze shifts, turns darker, more predator. It makes her pulse beat harder, faster, prickles the hair on the back of her neck. She tries to step away, but his hand digs into her flesh and holds her still. The other goes to her neck, sliding upwards into her scalp, and grips her hair at the root. She hisses with the way the pain brings desire, and goes slack with expectation.
“Do not struggle,” he says. His voice is a growl, the words striking her skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. “It will hurt more if you do.” What does he mean? She wants to ask, but finds herself unable to do so, unable to even protest.
No matter how many times she re-watches this part, no matter how hard she tries it to be, it’s always in slow-motion. One moment there’s the admittedly pleasurable pressure against her scalp, the next, a sharp, jagged pain, his teeth tearing and ripping her neck, so vicious she can’t even cry out. She can’t move, doesn't dare to, what little function left of her brain is dedicated to self-preservation, and instinct tells her to remain still, so she does. She thinks he mumbles something against her neck, but she can’t make out the words.
He pulls away.
She feels something warm, nearly hot, trickle down her shoulder, almost like a lover’s caress. She reaches up slowly, weakly, and touches it. Frowns at her red-stained fingertips. They smell like copper. She looks at him. Why, the question is on the tip of her tongue, but it doesn't fall.
“Ir abelas,” he says. His eyes are dark now, a shade of black she’s never seen before, like pitch coating the night sky, not a trace of white to be seen. Crimson stains his teeth and lips and his mouth is twisted into a snarl. She would have crumpled to the ground if he hadn’t been holding her. “Ir abelas.” he says again, before lowering his head to her neck again. She doesn’t understand. Everything is bleaker and darker and it’s like something is sapping the color from the landscape around it, turning it mirthless grey.
Then he starts to suck, and she knows she is going to die. She can feel it keenly, felt the blood leave her body with every mouthful he pulls from her. Feels her toes grow numb, then her calves, then she can feel nothing below her waist, and the world is shrinking, the green calm of the glen having given way to something more twisted, more sinister. The trees shake violently as their leaves laugh. The air is filled with the scent of copper, thick and cloying and unpleasant.
The world around her is death, and Solas is its harbinger, its herald, its champion.
Rasha’s eyes fly open, panting even though she does not need to. Her chest rises and falls, and she’s uncomfortably aware of the action in a way she never was when she was truly alive. She shifts, placing her bare feet on the ground. The tile would be cold to anyone else, but her soles seem to meld with it.
She’s still so fucking aware of how she’s breathing. It’s disconcerting.
She should stop - she certainly has no requirement for it - but she can’t seem to. It’s an illusion she grips tightly to - if she just pretends to be normal long enough, hard enough, she can make it come true
How did that popular phrase go? Fake it till you make it ? Surely it applies to her, too.
Doesn’t it?
Fucking void, she can’t seem to get her skin to warm up, no matter how hard she rubs her arms.
I can still be mortal. It’s the first lie she told herself when she rose from death, and it’s the one she’s held onto the longest.
To his credit, Solas hadn’t tried to disabuse her of the notion when she awoke by his side. He’d tried to explain to her, in his careful, cautious way, that she could never again return to the woman she had been the day before, but she hadn’t wanted to believe him - and who could blame her? She’d scoffed, fled to Wycome the first chance she got, ran back to her family. To Deshanna.
Guilt explodes in her chest, so quick, so fierce that she presses a hand to her sternum, half-afraid her ribs will shatter with the force of it.
Her fault. Deshanna always had keen eyes that missed little. It was Deshanna who noticed the way Rasha’s skin was always cold, the way she would vomit immediately after every meal, even her favorite five-cheese lasagna. It was Deshanna who pointed out how pale she was, whose sharp gaze noted the way Rasha no longer breathed.
The last time she saw Deshanna, her all-but-in-name mother had been carrying a dagger, the blade of it forged from tempered silverite.
It had left scars, both visible and unseen.
Self-defense , Solas had tried to soothe her when she returned to him, her hands stained red, gut full but mind crazed. Hunger , his voice had been sorrowful as she stuck her fingers down her throat and tried to expluse the blood she’d ingested.
It had not worked. She hated the way her mind sang with the satisfaction of a satiated stomach.
Monster, monster, monster , her brain chants. She can’t take it. Making her way into the ridiculously tiny bathroom, she carefully avoids the mirror and turns the tap on, splashing water onto her face. The water isn’t as cold as she needs it to be, but it will have to do. Palms on the vinyl countertop, Rasha hangs her head over the sink, and sighs heavily. She isn’t going to get any more rest tonight, she can feel it. The hunger is worse, an acidic burn at the base of her throat and the pit of her belly that’s threatening to get out of control.
She needs to feed.
Monster .
She returns to the room. The dinky clock on the side table proclaims 3.30 in bold green. If she’s quick, she can sneak out into the backwoods. There are rams there, she knows, nugs and rams and druffalo. They won’t satiate her, but they will help the thirst recede. That’s all she needs. Just a few more days of keeping the thirst at bay, till she can reach him. Till she can complete her quest.
She pulls on her running shoes - the ragged, dirty pair with the worn-out tread - and an equally ratty faded black hoodie, and slips out of the window.
You’re not a monster, the voice is there in her head again, sad and sorrowful. Let me show you.
Rasha swallows, pulls her hood up higher and doesn’t reply.
What else can she be?