Chapter Text
They were halfway through the Emerald Graves when Ellana realized what day it was. The pale moon, only barely visible under the summer sun, was full. She had hoped the curse wouldn’t affect her in a new world, but she had been irritable, snappish all day. Already she felt the signs.
It was going to be bad.
She had no way to contain herself and there were too many people wandering the forest. Hunters, patrols, and Inquisition soldiers---they were all in danger.
When she reached the camp with Iron Bull, Dorian, and Solas, it was mid-evening. Blackness curled at the edges of the orange sky. Too soon she would be a wild beast, killing everything in her path.
She wanted a room with a solid door or iron bars. She wanted walls so thick no one would hear her howls. But she had been careless and this was the price.
She left her pack by the fireside, taking only enough arrows to fill her quiver. Iron Bull was busy skinning rabbits for the night’s meal, and Dorian was cleaning the cooking pot. Solas, though, was unoccupied enough to notice when she retrieved a bow.
He noticed too much. Always.
“Going hunting?” he asked, “We have enough meat.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She was going to walk as far as she could walk before the curse took her and then she was going to pray no one found her before sunrise. Why hadn’t she sought a cure before she came to this world? Why had she answered Nocturnal’s summons instead of finishing with Hircine? The only answer, she was an idiot.
Solas looked concerned. Of course he did. He had an uncanny, frustrating way of ferreting out her lies.
“There are still red templars about, I’ll join you,” he said.
“No. I need to clear my head,” she said, “I’ll be back by sunrise.”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” Dorian said. He stopped scorching the cooking pot for just long enough to shoot her his patented “you are a complete idiot” look. Normally, she would agree. The Emerald Graves was too dangerous to wander alone.
Tonight though, she was the danger.
“Don’t start with me tonight,” she said. She wondered if she had enough arrows to keep her alive long enough to get her back safely in the morning. Thedas fletchers were a far different breed than the ones in Skyrim. Their arrows did a fraction of the damage. Gods, she missed ebony and daedric metal.
“Inquisitor,” Solas said, his look mirrored Dorian’s, “You are too important. We can not risk your life needlessly.”
“This is not open for debate,” she snapped. She meant to choke out a vague excuse. It’s a Dalish thing or a time for prayers in solitude, but the lies wouldn’t come. She could already feel the pulse of heartbeats, thrumming along her senses. It wouldn’t take much to silence those beats. Paint the ground with their blood, kill, rip, devour---her skin hurt. The thought of killing any of them made her want to cry.
She took a breath and willed her mind to calm. She was not going to get as far as she hoped before it overtook her.
“If you need a friendly ear,” Solas said, “I am happy to listen.”
She slung her quiver and one of the standard issue Inquisition bows over her shoulder (no need to risk losing her bow) and left him floundering. Apologies could always be made in the morning, but apologies to corpses were worthless things.
Every blade of grass underfoot, every fluttering insect, every sound was amplified ten fold. She heard the heart of the Emerald Graves and all she could think about was ripping it to shreds. She ran. She ran until her stomach ached and she couldn’t breathe. She ran until her insides heaved and her legs gave out.
She dropped the bow and quiver somewhere as she stumbled. It didn’t matter. She could find it later. The burn in her skin was too strong. Dark hair sprouted on the backs of her hands, and her bones cracked. She screamed.
Her back rippled. Skin shifted, stretched, tore---she felt every part of her body expand. Her armor split, leather cracking, metal buckles snapping. She could not think. She could not breathe. Only pain. Only hunger.
Her screams gave way to howls. Everything was a haze.
She feels someone nearby, smells blood in the air, tastes fear. She feels the fight and rage burning hot inside them. Their song is sick. A part of her knows when she follows it to the source. She tears. She kills. She eats. Hunger abates for a moment and then it starts again. Kill. Eat. Silence the heart beats.
When she finally woke, naked amidst a too familiar carnage, her body was a mass of deep, deep aches. She had a few cuts and bruises but nothing she couldn’t explain away. She felt as though she had run all night. In a way, she had.
The dried blood on her skin wasn’t hers. Very little of her kills remained, but enough armor was intact to worry her. Pieces of red lyrium crystals glowed in the carnage. Red templars, she realized, her stomach dropping. She had eaten at least three of them.
Three red templars. Three bodies infected with red lyrium. A poison that spreads.
She wretched, her stomach emptying itself. A part of her worried the about contamination. She had seen the future in Redcliffe. Ingesting red lyrium was deadly. She didn’t know if the beastblood thrumming in her veins was enough to protect her.
Her own armor was gone as was the quiver of arrows and the bow. She didn’t know where to begin to look so she picked through the remains of the dead. She found just enough to make herself presentable---she hoped it was still early enough to slip in to camp unnoticed. There were going to be questions.
Too many.
When had she gotten so damn tired of this life?
She heard the footsteps long before she neared the camp. She was grateful she wasn’t traveling with the Dalish again. They would have found her before she heard them, but Iron Bull and Dorian were like two trolls thundering through the forest. Solas was only marginally quieter.
She refused to look at them.
“Ellana,” Solas said, his voice going soft. It made her angry.
“It’s not my blood,” she said, “I’m fine.”
“We found your armor,” Dorian said, “We thought---“ His voice trailed off. His breath strangled in his throat.
She knew what they thought. She had left camp in leather armor and came back in damaged templar garb. She was covered in blood and limping. Her weapons were gone. The two expressions warring on their faces were sympathy and horror. They didn’t think for even a moment that she was the monster.
But she was the monster. She did not deserve anyone’s sympathy.
“Drink this,” Solas said, handing her a red vial, “Please.” It was the please that did her in. She had downed more than a few of those potions in battle when her strength was waning. She didn’t need it now. She was just tired and sore. The potion would do nothing.
She drank it anyway, just to get him to stop pushing. She waved off his attempts to examine her. Her skin was still too tight and hot, and every little sound raked across her senses.
She couldn’t let this lapse happen again. She couldn’t forget the curse of the moon.