Asaaranda
You return to camp as it’s getting dark, with enough elfroot to dose half the Inquisition. Well, not really, but it’s certainly far more than you need for a cat.
“There you are!” Adahlen exclaims, exasperated, as you and Solas saunter back into camp. “What were you doing, picking half the forest clean?” You quickly pick up the reason for his sour attitude… several fresh, bloody scratches on his arms.
“Was a single injured cat a bit too much for you to handle, falon?” you ask, not even trying to hide your amusement or sarcasm.
“You are insufferable,” he informs you as he plops the yowling cat directly into your arms. You wince as she sinks a claw into your upper arm. “And so is that cat. I hope the two of you are very happy together.”
Adahlen’s irritation and your own attempts to dislodge the cat from your flesh bring a few chuckles out of the soldiers close enough to watch. You’re glad someone is getting some amusement out of it, at the very least.
“Come, it seems as though Kelsie has managed to start a fire,” Solas says, pointing. She has, in fact, and Garrick is in the process of dragging some fallen logs around it for people to sit on. Korbin is already starting on dinner… the fact that the dwarf is the one making it is a little nerve-wracking. You’ve never heard good things about cuisine in Orzammar. But you bring the cat over to the fire and sit down nonetheless.
You and Solas plop your elfroot bundles down onto the ground, and you pluck a few leaves for use on the cat. You snatch one of the sausages that Korbin is cooking the second it could be called “cooked” and take a bite, then stuff an elfroot leaf in your mouth as well.
“What are y—” Korbin begins, then laughs at your expression. The sausage is hot, and elfroot is always disgustingly bitter. But still, you chew. Solas chuckles as well as you make doubtlessly entertaining faces. Finally, when the texture is mushy and mixed, you spit the foul blob of meat and elfroot into your hand.
“Y’know what I like about you?” Korbin says with a snort. “Yer so ladylike.”
“I find myself enamored with her table manners, it’s true,” Emilio adds jokingly. Kelsie, who’s sitting on the ground between his legs, is wrinkling her nose at you.
“I know it’s for the cat but… Maker, that’s disgusting, Emma.”
“You don’t have to watch me,” you say dryly as you trap the bundled up cat between your knees and begin to carefully place bits of the mixture on her tongue. She fusses, but you manage to get her to eat some, albeit slowly.
“There may be an easier way,” Solas comments, and you glance up at him. He’s placing a large pot over the fire, the one your group normally uses to make stew. “Particularly since you’ll numb your mouth chewing elfroot all day and night.”
You watch curiously as Solas scoops snow into the pot, no doubt to be melted for drinking water. “A broth of some kind?” you guess.
“Indeed. I find most people here have a tendency to assume all healing things must taste terrible. They simply throw elfroot into mixtures and accept that it will be bitter. It needn’t be that way.”
“Let me guess… In your travels through the Fade, a spirit taught you a secret recipe for elfroot broth?” you say with a snort.
“Nothing so grand,” he says with a laugh. “Though I did observe it in the Fade. The recipe was originally Elven, although I believe the Avvar still use elfroot in a similar manner.”
“The Fade? You can learn cooking recipes in your dreams?” Korbin asks with a snort. “Stone, surfacers are weird.”
“I sure as hell can’t,” comments Garrick. “Don’t lump me in with the mage.”
You stiffen somewhat, although you know by his tone he’s simply covering his own discomfort. Conversations about magic would likely distress your companions, superstitious dolts that they are. You’ll be glad when it’s just you and Solas again, in the rotunda. Going back to being “Emma”–or Skyhold’s version of her, at least–after being “Alix” is going to be annoying enough. Perhaps with Solas, you can still show a little bit more of yourself without risking danger.
No. The fact that you’re more comfortable exposing yourself to him means that such things are more dangerous, not less. Ugh.
“How do you make it, Solas?” you say, hoping to distract from the subject of mages before your “friends” get even more uncomfortable… or hostile. Every single one of these ungrateful fuckers had been healed by his magic within the day. Yet here they were, half of them looking uncomfortable at the reminder. You could just… Ugh. That’s your mood for dinner, apparently. “Ugh.”
“First, we’ll have to wait for the snow to melt, then boil,” he informs you, covering the pot with a lid. “For now, dinner. For us and the cat, I suppose.” He sits down next to you on the log… you resist the urge to scoot closer. Neither he nor the cat would appreciate that. But you’re thinking about how warm his body had been, riding together on Ashi’lana. You’d like to feel that again. But off hartback, that’s straight-up cuddling, and definitely not something Solas would indulge you in.
Well… at least, not in front of everyone. You’d had a few questionable, almost-cuddling moments in Val Royeaux. You sigh to yourself. Skyhold, you try to remember. What happened in Val Royeaux is in Val Royeaux. In Skyhold, you have to just… pretend like it never happened. It’s bad enough that he knows you have a crush without rubbing it in his damn face.
You chew more elfroot and meat for the cat as Korbin continues preparing dinner. He’s handing off sausages as soon as they’re cooked through. The sight of Solas chowing down on a sausage is an amusingly familiar one. In fact, Solas himself comments on it.
“These remind me of the food in Val Royeaux,” he says when he’s about halfway through a sausage. “Although there, those were wrapped inside bread.”
“You don’t wrap bread,” Korbin says sourly. “Prissy Orlesians… It’s not bread unless you can kill a Darkspawn by clubbing them over the head with it!”
“Agree to disagree,” you say, wrinkling your nose. “I prefer my bread to share as few qualities as possible with a mace.”
“There’s no accounting for taste,” Korbin replies snidely.
“Do you need Solas to feed you the way you’re feeding that cat?” interjects Emilio with a grin. “We’re all on sausage two or three and I haven’t seen anything go in your mouth that hasn’t come right back out.”
“Watching her mouth carefully, were you?” Elaine asks with a wry smile. Kelsie gives her a smack on the knee, but also glares at Emilio, who grins sheepishly.
“What did you expect? Cows never change their spots, you know,” you say to Kelsie with a chuckle.
“Oh, you shut up. Someone stuff a sausage in her mouth!” Kelsie orders with badly-faked irritation. About half the camp bursts into laughter, yourself included. Kelsie turns bright pink, belatedly realizing what she’d said. “I… you… Shut up! Emilio, Maker’s breath, stop laughing!”
“I’m sorry, mon amie,” he says, trying to contain his mirth and failing utterly.
“Oh, you will be,” she promises, crossing her arms and pouting.
The laughter doesn’t distract Solas, however, and he places a chunk of bread and a sausage rather firmly into your hands. You look up at him, and he’s giving you a rather firm gaze. You grin, a sheepish one to match Emilio’s. “Vel, mamae.1”
“Brat,” he says, with a short huff of irritated breath. The fact it’s in the Common tongue makes you laugh, for some reason.
“A cow never changes its spots, lethallin,” you say fondly before biting into the sausage, this time swallowing the savory meat down. It’s a bit too spicy for you, but the bread helps with that. How the cat is stomaching it, you’ll never know. If anything, she seems to like it, pestering you to continue feeding her while you eat.
“Ah,” Solas says as you pause in eating to chew more elfroot. “The water is boiling. Emma, give that cat to someone else and come here,” Solas orders. You glance around; Adahlen puts his hands up and mouths “no way.” In the end, you give up and just hand the cat to Sataareth, the only one here who will actually reliably do what you tell him. He looks mildly panicked.
“Just hold her,” you say dryly. “As long as you keep her bundled up, she won’t scratch you.” The cat lets out a distressed yowl.
“Why is she doing that?” Sataareth says warily.
“Because she’s a cat. Cats are awful,” you reply. You hear Adahlen snort behind you, then cover it up with a cough. “Just hold her and let her scream. Like a baby. A horrible baby with claws.”
“You are not very good at being reassuring, Valo-kas.”
“I never claimed to be.”
“Emma, come here,” Solas calls firmly, and you turn go to stand next to him near the fire.
“For some reason, the people here simply throw the entire plant in boiling water, then act surprised when it tastes terrible,” Solas informs you. “Here.” He hands you a stem of elfroot. “Pluck the leaves, then crush them before dropping them into the water, like so,” he instructs. He demonstrates, crushing a few leaves by rubbing his hands together, then letting the remains drop into the water. You mimic him, making a face as sticky leaf juice gets on your bandages. “The most useful part of elfroot is the liquified leaves. Now…”
Solas reaches into a bag… your bag, you realize, the one with your foodstuffs. Bastard, when had he swiped that? He pulls out a few of the herbs and spices you’d gotten in Val Royeaux, with the intent of spicing up the food at Skyhold, which was… very Ferelden. He shows you which ones to use to counteract the bitter taste of the elfroot.
“It can be used with a meat stock as well, if you’re making one,” Solas informs you.
“Can you use dried elfroot for this, or should it be fresh?” you wonder.
“It tastes better and is more potent with fresh, of course, but dried can be used if that’s all you have. In that case, use about half again as much elfroot.”
You and Solas hover over the stew. The fire is hot enough that you wind up having to take off your jacket. You tease Sataareth by hanging it on one of his horns while his hands are full with the cat. He glares at you. “Why not hang it on Katari instead, Valo-kas? He seems free.”
“Because I don’t want to die, sweet Sataareth,” you say with a chuckle.
“I wouldn’t kill you. Merely maim,” Katari says, and before you can stop yourself, you laugh.
“Did you just tell a joke, issari2?” you say with faux shock.
“No. I stated fact,” he says, but there’s a wry grin on his lips. You’re glad he doesn’t appear to be holding a grudge over what you said about his Tamassran, at least. In fact, you should thank him… Sometime when no one else is around, perhaps.
“Emma!” Solas calls you again, and you skip back through the snow to his side. You eat while the two of you cook, stealing bites of food whenever you get the chance. By the end of it, your bandages are disgusting, stained with green elfroot juices and grease from the sausages. The broth tastes delicious at the end of it all, though. It’s hard to explain the taste… it tastes… fresh? Green? Can something taste green? You can taste the elfroot, sort of, but without any hint of bitterness or sourness. The soup is light, with no bite or saltiness. You’re rather enamoured with it, actually.
You help Solas portion some of it out. There are some people, like Sataareth and Kelsie, whose injuries are still healing, and the soup will do them good. The rest you and Solas pour into waterskins.
“It keeps for several days,” Solas informs you. “Particularly if it’s not a meat broth. This should serve your cat well. It will help keep her hydrated, and the elfroot will be good for her and the kits.”
“Thank you, Solas. Ma enansal,3” you say honestly.
“Ah…” he says, seeming caught of guard for a moment. “It was… nothing.”
“Your knowledge is far from nothing,” you insist. “And I thank you for sharing it with me. I only hope I’ll get more of it in the future,” you add, a little cheekily.
“Ah, always thirsty for more,” Solas says with a chuckle and a little shake of his head.
“Always,” you agree. “Now… who do you want to look at first, healer?” You gesture around the camp. “The people need you.”
Solas sighs slightly. “Eat more dinner while I tend to the others,” he instructs you. You obey, sitting down by the fire with the cat and stuffing more food into both of you. You watch with mild interest as Solas works through the soldiers. Emilio has a cut on his back that required a mage’s touch. It will likely scar, since Solas could only do so much with his limited resources. Kelsie’s arrow wound still bothers her. She was probably the most seriously injured, but even she is recovering nicely. She has to take her shirt off for the healing, however, and the sight of Solas’s hands on her bare flesh sends an unpleasant twinge through you.
Stupid. It’s just healing. But of course, you know that. The fact of the matter is, it’s always been “just healing.” You just wanted it to be a bit more than that, subconsciously. Seeing him give it to other people reminds you of where you rest in the grand scheme of things. It’s a good reminder, even if it tastes as bitter as the elfroot leaves.
The cat takes well to the elfroot broth once it’s chilled. She still requires the help of Adahlen’s syringe to drink, but she does so with eagerness, gulping down the broth. You’re not sure if she prefers the taste, or if the elfroot already in her system is merely helping to dull the pain. Either way, you’re relieved. She’s doing better than you had hoped.
When Solas finally comes to you, you’re reluctant to accept his touch, for some reason.
“Will you see to the cat, first?” you ask. He scowls. “She’s more injured than me, arguably,” you point out.
“She is also a cat, Emma,” Solas says tiredly. “A wild cat you found in the woods and insisted upon keeping, against sense.”
“I’m not keeping her!”
“Of course… just like you weren’t keeping him,” Solas says, gesturing towards Sataareth, who is scratching irritably at the splint on his hand. You don’t have much you can say to that… you thought Sataareth would be long gone by now.
“…The cat, Solas?”
He sighs. “Fine.” He sits down next to you and glares down at the cat. She glares back through half-lidded eyes—the effect of the elfroot.
“I’ll need to unwrap her,” you say nervously. “But I’ll do my best to keep her from scratching you, Solas.”
“You can certainly try,” Solas says with a snort as you carefully unwrap the cat. She seems mostly sedate at first as you grip her legs carefully, but the second Solas touches her injured leg, she hisses and begins struggling. You hold her down, carefully but forcefully, as Solas examines her.
“This leg…” he says with a frown. “Under better circumstances, it might have been saved but… the bone is broken in too many places, and the injury happened too long ago. The amount of healing it would take… I don’t have it to spare, and regardless, she would be too lethargic afterwards to eat or drink. She is dangerously underweight, particularly for one carrying kittens.”
You nod sadly. “I feared as much. Still, I’m sure she’d rather be alive with three legs than dead with four.”
“I can’t remove it here, but I can set it… prevent it from causing her pain when she moves,” Solas informs you.
“What about her kits?” you ask nervously. Solas’s silence doesn’t help your nerves.
“I… see no need to terminate the pregnancy right now,” he says finally. “She is no danger of dying from it. But I doubt the kittens will survive.”
“Can you tell if they’re even alive right now?” you press. “No need to have her carry around little corpses…”
“They’re alive… for now. They are as malnourished as she is. I doubt they will survive long outside the womb. However, only time will tell.”
You nod. “Thank you, Solas. Please, do what you can for her leg. When we get to Skyhold…”
“There will be no shortage of healers as soft-hearted as you,” he says with a chuckle. “After so long working on dying soldiers, many will welcome the chance to save a cat and her kittens.”
“Ma serannas, Solas. None could be as kind-hearted as you.”
Perhaps it’s just the flickering fire light, but you could swear Solas flushes slightly. “Hold her still,” he says, fetching a splint and bandages from his bag. “This will be unpleasant for all of us.”
You have a lot of new scratches by the time Solas has set the cat’s leg, mostly from preventing Solas suffering that same fate. It’s silly, you know. He can heal himself as easily as you, if not more easily. You just don’t like the idea of him feeling pain… well, at all, if you’re being perfectly honest, but especially not over something he’s doing as a favor to you.
Afterwards, you bundle the cat back up. She’s upset, but as the healing and elfroot begin to take effect, she’s getting more and more drowsy. “I should settle her into my tent,” you murmur. “It’s cold out here, and—”
Solas grips your forearm as you stand. “Do not take me for a fool, da’len. I took care of your cat. Now sit, and let me look at your hands.”
You flush slightly, as much because of his words as his hand on you. You suppose there’s no getting around it. You sink back onto the log, nestle the cat between your legs. Solas immediately begins to unwrap your hands. He throws the bandages to the side; they’re soiled beyond use. The skin on your hands is a bright, vibrant pink. It hurts less now, although you wince when Solas runs careful fingers over the skin there.
He pours more healing into the injuries, and you bite your lip to keep from gasping; he’d caught you off guard. You wonder if it feels like this for everyone. Is it a mage thing, to feel it so keenly? You’ve no way of knowing. You’re constantly paranoid that some tiny tell will give you away for a mage. And you can’t compare notes with anyone else without risking giving yourself away, as well. It’s frustrating. It always has been, but it’s even moreso with Solas. Forget his unwillingness to teach you Elven… The biggest barrier between you and knowledge is your own damn lies and secrets.
But, you remind yourself, the three magical tomes heavy in your bag are a representation of the knowledge only obtained thanks to your lies and secrets. It’s a trade off, you suppose.
“You should rest,” Solas informs you when he’s finished with your hands. He wraps them up in fresh bandages; you watch his dexterous fingers work as he does. “Are you listening?”
“Huh?” you say, gaze snapping up from his hands. “Oh, yes. Rest.”
“If you can,” he says with a frown. “Perhaps when we’re back at Skyhold, we can… determine a better way for me to help. A safer way.” He’s still not giving up on that? Andraste’s tits, this man is determined. At your expression he adds, “If you’re comfortable with it.”
“I’m n… We’ll… cross that bridge when we come to it,” you say. If he can waltz right into your dreams without noticing you’re a mage, you might be safer from detection than you had thought. You’re not sure if this is something you should be playing with, but… Eventually, the insomnia will kill you, or render you so unable to function that you’ll lose control. A little bit of careful experimentation… Well, it’s worth considering, at least. “For now, I’ll try to sleep on my own. Although with this beastie keeping me company, I’m not sure how likely that is,” you add, nudging the cat.
“Simply try not to tax yourself,” Solas says with a resigned sigh.
“Atisha’hamin4, lethallin,” you say fondly, your enjoyment nearly doubled when you see Adahlen twitch.
Solas finishes wrapping your hand, and pats it fondly, the way one might do any finished task. But the fact that it’s your hand he’s patting sends a pleasant chill down your spine. “Sleep well, if you manage it.”
You head to your tent with Sataareth. He moves to sit outside of it, but you reach a hand out to rest on his chest—you would have grabbed his shoulder, but he is significantly taller than you—and shake your head.
“No, Sataareth. It’s cold. There’s snow on the ground, and it may snow more. Into the tent.”
“I have slept in worse—”
“So have I. In the tent,” you say firmly. “Watch the horns, though. I just bought this thing, I don’t want any holes.”
Carefully, Sataareth climbs into the tent. The ridiculous sag of his pants reminds you that you need to get him proper clothing at some point. You doubt Skyhold will have much that fits him. Perhaps the Iron Bull might have something…? You can always take some of the Iron Bull’s clothing in to fit Sataareth. It’d be easy, since it was just pants. Shirts are a hassle, but thankfully, Qunari essentially never wear them.
You crawl in after Sataareth, cat in one of your arms. She’s less lethargic now that she’s being moved, and she squirms and kicks while angrily hissing at you. Aaah. A cramped tent with a Qunari and a furious cat.
Relaxing.
It takes a bit, but you manage to work out a somewhat comfortable arrangement. Sataareth is curled up on one side of the tent, trying not to catch the canvas with his horns. You don’t have a spare bedroll for him, but you give him some of your blankets to lay on. You take the other side of the tent, and the cat lays between you, still cocooned in a blanket and still pissed off about everything that has ever happened.
“Maybe a little bit more lethargy would be good for her,” you mutter to yourself as you try to get her to drink some more of the elfroot broth. She’s in a foul mood, and bites your bandaged fingers several times in the process of drinking even a single syringe of the liquid.
Perhaps it’s because you’d foisted her off on him earlier, but Sataareth seems a bit fascinated with the cat. He watches, enamoured, as you unwrap her, just so that she can stretch her legs a little. The tent is closed, so it’s not like she can bolt. She circles a few times, hissing, before you put some cold sausage in front of her and she gets distracted chewing on it. You and Sataareth watch in silence as she grumpily gnaws on it.
She’s still filthy and matted. You don’t look forward to attempting to wash her… You’ll be putting that off until Skyhold, to be sure. There, you could use warm water and prevent her from getting a chill. In fact, once you hit Skyhold, you’ll likely be able to give her to someone who actually likes cats. You’ve absolutely no desire to “keep” her, despite what Solas and the others seem to think.
Despite her matting, you can tell she’s a sort of speckled brown/grey, although for all you know, she could be white when clean. Her fur must be naturally long and thick, to make such a mess. You wonder—not for the first time, not for the last—how she’d come to be in the situation you found her in. Her leg looked as though it had been crushed, and cats like this aren’t exactly native to the Dales. Maybe she’d been with a caravan… or refugees? You suppose it doesn’t really matter.
Sataareth attempts to pet her, a poor decision. She immediately turns on him, grips onto his hand and savages it with three sets of claws and her teeth. Sataareth watches as you work to detach her from him.
“I don’t know what you were expecting, Sataareth,” you scold.
“She has a warrior’s spirit,” he announces, and you laugh.
“Well, she’s certainly a fighter,” you agree. “I wasn’t sure she’d make it. And I think she’s going to lose the leg… And possibly the kittens. But she seems determined to live. I can relate.”
“As can I,” Sataareth says solemnly. “She is a… asaaranda. Like the other night. I don’t know the word.”
“Storm,” you tell him, chuckling. “Thunderstorm. And you’re right. She is. Asaaranda.” You smile fondly as Sataareth attempts to pet her again, only to get mauled for his trouble. Perhaps you simply have a taste in the “strays” you pick up; these two are both trouble. You sigh as you pull the cat towards you to wrap in a blanket, if only so that she’ll stop mauling the both of you. “You know, Sataareth, it’s unwise to name things you cannot keep.” You realize the irony in what you just said only afterwards. Sataareth notes it as well.
“You named me. Were you intending to keep me?”
You bite your lip, uncertain of what to say. “…I… You know that your vengeance has been completed, don’t you? It was already being enacted by the time we left Val Royeaux.”
“I suspected as much, although I still have no proof.”
“And you likely won’t get any without strolling back into Val Royeaux to check on our dear Baron,” you reply with a scowl. “In any case, I’ve done what was needed. You… can leave whenever you wish. I am not… ‘keeping’ you. You are not a thing to be kept.”
Sataareth is quiet for a time, and you think perhaps the conversation is done, that you’ve answered his questions satisfactorily. But he speaks up again a moment later.
“To the Qunari, you would be basalit-an5, Valo-kas,” he says, and you stiffen.
“You are not Qunari.”
“No. And I am unsure what that makes you,” he admits. “But you are worthy of being followed. I would, if you would have me.”
You shift, uncomfortable, not looking up from feeding the cat. “Wh… what would I do with you following me around? I’m not a warrior. I’m a linguist. My day-to-day life involves scribing notes and bringing Solas his meals. There’s nothing for you there.”
“I would follow you,” Sataareth says again. “But only if you wished it. If you do not, I will find something else.”
“That… would likely be for the best,” you say with a soft sigh. “I won’t drive you away, but you should find what you want out of life.”
“I will find another, Valo-kas. You cannot be the only worthy person out there.”
“Why follow at all?” you ask with a frown. “Why not be alone… or lead, even? Don’t you want to carve your own path?”
Sataareth is quiet again for a while. You don’t push it, instead focusing on feeding the cat. It’s hard for Vashoth, you know… but you don’t want to upset him, either. You look up only when you see him shaking his head.
“It is too much. I have… too much to learn. I cannot find my own way without someone to guide me. Not yet. I have too much to learn of the world. I need… someone I can trust. Someone worthy to follow, in the meanwhile.”
You nod, more to yourself than anything, and sigh. “I don’t blame you, Sataareth. I was much the same way when I first escaped slavery. It will come to you, frens6. There is no shame in knowing your limits… You’re already wiser than I was in your situation.”
“Then…?”
You sigh. “I’m… I’m sorry, Sataareth. In truth, I wouldn’t mind your company, but I’m returning to the Inquisition. It was hard enough to explain your presence to those here, and they honestly didn’t care about me enough to truly wonder how I’d come across you. A Vashoth following me around there will spell trouble for us both.”
“I… have been speaking to Katari…” he begins hesitantly. You stiffen, and he notices it, falling quiet.
“What has he been saying?” you ask carefully.
“Many things, some of them useful. I thought perhaps I might sign on to the Inquisition, as well.”
You ignore your knee-jerk reaction and actually give the matter some thought as Asaaranda slurps tiredly at elfroot broth. “Many Vashoth find early comfort in mercenary work,” you admit. “And it’s better than banditry. But why the Inquisition, in particular? Something Katari said?”
“Something you said, Valo-kas,” he corrects. “You signed on with them. They must be worth something.”
You can’t argue with that. “You’ll need to find a sword you can actually swing, first,” you say with an amused smile. “I’ll admit, I have mixed feelings about the Inquisitor himself, but the Inquisition is doing important work. You aren’t wrong. And Commander Rutherford is… well, you may find him a man worth following. I’ve met worse.” Particularly for an ex-Templar.
And this arrangement would let you still see him sometimes… with an excuse. If he’s a soldier or mercenary for the Inquisition, people won’t question his presence around you any more than they question Bull’s. Which is, admittedly, still more than you would like. But you’ll take it.
It’s awkward, sharing a tent with a Qunari and a cat, particularly considering both of them eventually fall asleep and you just… don’t. You shift about idly for a while, keeping an eye on Asaaranda. Eventually, however, you leave the tent… this time for a reason. Elaine and Adahlen are on watch, and neither notice you slip out of your tent… good. If Katari was up, you wouldn’t feel comfortable doing this. But with just those two…
You slip towards the wagon, and then, with a nervous glance around, underneath it. There’s a hidden compartment in the bottom—you would know, you had it cut. You open it up and slide three scant books from it and into the bottom of your bag. It’s unlikely the Inquisition would find the hidden compartment, but it’s better to carry the books the last bit yourself. You’ll be at Skyhold tomorrow, provided there isn’t a damn blizzard or something similarly stupid. You’d rather handle the last leg of “smuggling” yourself. You highly doubt the Inquisition will be patting you down as you come through the gates, after all.
In all honesty, you’re more worried about Solas finding the books than anyone else. It’s not that they’re books that only a mage would have, per se… But it would be kind of hard to convince a mage that you have enough of a layman’s interest to be reading a banned tome of Seer’s rituals. Anyone else, you could tell them you’d brought them to re-sell them for profit. Although, honestly, it could be just as tricky to fool Vivienne de Fer, Seeker Pentaghast, or even Commander Rutherford. Really, the fact of the matter is that it’s just more likely for Solas to find something you’re hiding. No one else spends as much time being curious around you, not even the Iron Bull. And Solas? Solas would know where you got them.
You hide them well, wrapped up in clothing and tucked at the bottom of your bag. If not for Solas, you’d put a little enchantment on them to keep them hidden. Damn him… Always making your life more difficult. Ah well. It’s unlikely he’ll be searching your bags. However, you’ll keep this particular one on you, just in case.
You duck back to your tent, checking once again to make sure no one saw you. The last thing you need is more lies to explain odd behavior… You have enough of those to keep up with.
You don’t sleep that night… or if you do, it’s in short, unnoticed bursts as you lay in your tent, tending to Asaaranda. You rise before Sataareth, but make enough noise to wake him as you pack your bedroll. Better for him to think you can’t sneak around him without waking him. You sling your bag onto your back, the books thumping against your spine. You’ve hidden them well, but the pressure of them against your back makes you twitchy. Nerves won’t do you any good, you know, but you still have them.
Sataareth breaks down the tent while you fuss over Asaaranda. She’s particularly angry, or maybe nauseous, repeatedly spitting food back up into your hand. You sit by the fire while Garrick prepares breakfast, cooing at her and speaking softly in Orlesian to try and soothe her. You had tried a few different languages, but Orlesian was the only one she responded to at all. Perhaps she’d had an Orlesian owner, once?
“How many languages do you speak?” Garrick asks at one point.
“Six,” you reply absentmindedly. “Mange, s’il te plaît, ma minette.7”
“Orlesian, Antivan, Qunari—”
“Qunlat,” you correct.
“Qunlat, then. Elven… what else?”
“Ancient Tevene and the Common tongue.”
“Oh, right. I forget, Common counts, huh? Why Ancient Tevene, though?”
“That’s actually my specialty,” you say with a laugh. “There aren’t a lot of people fluent in it outside of the Empire. I do the most business translating old Tevinter tomes into the Common tongue… or Orlesian, once or twice.”
“Where did you pick it up?” he asks curiously. “It occurs to me I barely know anything about you.”
You look up from Asaaranda, a bit confused. “I didn’t know you wanted to know anything about me.”
“Well, I mean…” he says, as flustered as if you’d accused him of flirting. “If you don’t want to talk about it… I was just curious.”
You shrug. “I pick up languages. I have a knack for it.”
“Surely someone taught you?” he says, disbelieving.
“Good morning, Emma,” Solas’s voice comes from behind you, making you jump—which, in turn, upsets Asaaranda. She lands a painful scratch on your arm, and you wince.
“Good morning, Solas. I didn’t hear you approach,” you say, twisting your neck around to see him.
“Did you sleep at all last night?”
“I’m not sure,” you say honestly. “It can be hard for me to tell. I think I rested some. It was cozy in the tent, with Sataareth and Asaaranda in there with me. I think I’m coming to like sharing my space,” you say with a chuckle.
“Asaa… You named it,” he says, rubbing his temple as he sits down next to you by the fire. “Of course you did.”
“I didn’t! Sataareth did!” you protest. “It means thunderstorm, though. Don’t you think it suits her?” You hold the cat up in front of Solas. She swipes at his face, and you yank her back.
“As much as anything, I suppose,” he replies. “And your hands? How are they this morning?”
“They don’t hurt at all, thanks to you,” you reply. “I’ll be keeping the bandages on at least until I find someone else to foist this monster cat off on, however.”
“Likely a bit longer,” Solas says firmly. “It was difficult to heal the muscle and burn out infection. They will be sensitive for a time. It’s better not to risk them being damaged again.”
“Vel, hahlin,8” you say, moving Asaaranda’s arms so it looks like she’s saluting him. She gives you an irritated glare, and you go back to watering her with the syringe.
The others begin waking up and breaking down camp as the smells of breakfast begin wafting through the mountains. It’s oatmeal… not exactly your favorite thing, and not something you can feed to Asaaranda, so you gnaw on some of the dried meat in your bag until it’s soft and mushy enough for her to eat. You chat idly with the others over breakfast, although you’re distracted somewhat by attempting to feed both yourself and Asaaranda… and making sure Sataareth doesn’t overly stuff himself. His stomach is still recovering, and you don’t want him to get ill.
Being so close to Skyhold, however, you turn the conversation to something that had been bothering you for a while.
“Garrick…?” you ask, glancing up from the cat. “I understand if you can’t tell me, but I wanted to ask… What was your group actually doing in Val Royeaux?”
“Ah, I’m not sure…” Garrick says uncertainly.
“Oh, I don’t think it’s any great secret, not after the fuss we caused,” Emilio says with a snort. “We were there to intimidate the Chantry. Some Mother… what was her name?”
“Hevera,” Elaine interjects, and you choke on your tea.
“Are you okay, Emma?” Garrick asks, alarmed, as you cough wildly.
“Fine!” you choke hoarsely. “Fine. No, Sataareth, don’t you dare,” you add as the Qunari goes to slap you on the back.
You manage to catch your breath while the others look on, clearly concerned. “So, the uh… Chantry? What for?”
“Some favor for the University,” Garrick says. “I assumed it had something to do with what you were doing there, actually.”
“It might have,” you confess, trying hard not to smile. You note that Solas also looks amused… he must have figured it out, as well. “Although I’m hardly in the know for such things.”
“We actually got to meet Chancellor Haulis,” Kelsie comments. “He was really grateful.”
“Too grateful,” Garrick says with a scowl. “I think he was trying to bribe us. I just told him to send his thanks to the ambassador.”
You struggle to keep a straight face. “Ambassador? Do you mean Lady Montiliyet?”
“Of course,” Garrick says with a shrug. “What other ambassador do we have?”
You can feel your lower lip trembling; you quickly look down to focus on feeding Asaaranda… and to hide your expression. It’s all you can do not to burst out laughing; your eyes are nearly watering with suppressed mirth. You owe Garrick a favor! He had been behind the “favor” that had given you so much pull with the Chancellor. You should probably inform Lady Montiliyet, at the very least. She needs to be kept aware if you’re calling in favors that had been meant for her. You’re certain Leliana already knows about the things you did under the name of the Inquisition, anyway.
After breakfast, you pass Asaaranda off to Sataareth so that you can fuss over Revas. His side is all but healed now, but there’s quite the scar… likely there always will be. It will be difficult to explain to Belassan. You’re really not looking forward to it. He seems livelier, he eats and drinks on his own. He’s stopped trying to mess with Asaaranda, if only because she once gave his nose a swat before you could pull her away.
“Best if you give him another day’s rest, particularly since we’re so far into the mountains now,” Solas advises.
“You can’t ride on the wagon again,” Katari says firmly. “It’s all uphill through snow. Even your scant weight is more than I want to burden the horses with.”
You frown, but before you can argue, Kelsie butts in. “You should ride with Solas again. It was the cutest thing ever.”
“Why don’t you ride with Emilio?” you ask with a scowl. “Then I can take your horse.”
“Because you don’t know how to ride a horse,” Kelsie says teasingly. “And if you fall off here, you’ll roll all the way down the mountain.”
“Also because I don’t have the kind of self-control Solas does,” quips Emilio. Kelsie tilts her head, clearly confused.
“What do you mean…?”
“I mean, if your ass was bouncing against me like tha—”
You shut him up yourself with a hastily made snowball to the face. He laughs as he wipes it off; your face is nearly as red as Kelsie’s.
“If you children are quite finished,” Katari says sourly.
You glance over at Solas, still red in the cheeks. He’s straight-faced, of course. These sort of things don’t seem to affect him. “You don’t mind…?”
“Of course not,” he says, gesturing you over to Ashi’lana’s side. Once again he helps you up into the saddle, then mounts up behind you. You’re even more aware of how close the two of you are, and that the other’s might be watching. Your self-consciousness doesn’t last long in the face of the comfort you get from being this close to him, however.
You make a sling out of your blankets for Asaaranda to ride in, more so that you don’t have to constantly hold her than anything else… Although, in part, it’s also to ensure she doesn’t maul Solas. You hook it around the saddlehorn and let her rock gently by Ashi’lana’s shoulder. She looks sour about the situation, but she she’s not being jostled too much. Ashi’lana has a gentle gait to begin with, much more so than Revas. She only yowls when Ashi’lana clambers over loose rocks.
You have to bend down to feed and water her, which is a bit awkward–the saddlehorn pushes into your chest when you lay down over Ashi’lana’s back. Still, better than getting scratched constantly. It’s a bit awkward for Solas, you’re sure; he has to keep moving the reins to the side when you lay forward to tend to the cat.
“Would it not be easier if you merely put her in your lap?” Solas asks at one point while you’re bent down, carefully squirting elfroot broth into Asaaranda’s mouth.
“She’d scratch you; I’m sure of it,” you say, biting your lip as you focus.
“I assure you, I can handle cat scratches,” he says, and his voice sounds slightly strained. You glance behind you to look at him. His eyes are on the horizon, no doubt keeping an eye out for any trouble.
“It’s fine, Solas. It’s no inconvenience. It’s enough that you’re letting us both ride with you. I’d rather be a little uncomfortable than risk you getting hurt, even minorly.”
“I… Very well,” he says, still not looking at you. You make sure Asaaranda drinks the rest of the broth from the syringe, and then sit up. You might say it’s fine, but honestly, it’s making your back hurt a bit.
“I will be so glad when I don’t have to ride a hart all day long,” you say with a long sigh. “Even with our gentler pace, my ass is killing me.” You shift slightly in the saddle, trying to get more comfortable. “How much longer do you think it will be?”
“We’ll probably be there by this afternoon,” Garrick answers. You can’t help grinning. You’ll see your friends again! Cole, in particular, you’re dying to see. Although his smugness when he realizes just how much closer you and Solas have gotten… Well, Solas still doesn’t know all your secrets, so Cole can be smug all he wants.
“You seem excited to be back. Not much for traveling?” Emilio asks.
“I’m not accustomed to it,” you tell him. “And, honestly, after the trip we’ve had, I’d be glad to never go out on the road again.”
“I can’t really blame you,” Kelsie says. “You’re probably even less used to bandit attacks than I am.”
“Certainly,” you say with a nod, even though you’d be willing to bet you’ve had more experience with it than her.
“Oh please,” grumbles Katari from the front of the progression. “Four knives you threw in that last combat, and four men fell from them.”
You flush and try to think of a retort, but Garrick nods. “I noticed that too. Even on the way to Val Royeaux, you saved me with one of those little daggers of yours. Where’d you learn to throw them?”
“I… practice,” you say haltingly.
“On what?” says Katari with a snort. “You severed a man’s spine with a blade perhaps three inches long.”
“And I saw what you did to that other man, with his own sword,” Garrick adds.
You feel a wave of nausea. Soaked in blood, eyes locked to yours as they go dark. “I… I…”
You feel Solas’s arms tighten around you, giving you some much needed support. You feel like you might fall out of the saddle. “You said she saved you, did you not?” Solas quips. “And I seem to remember a well-placed blade assisting you, as well, Katari. An interrogation is an odd way to show your gratitude.”
“I didn’t mean…” Garrick says, glancing behind himself towards you. Only then does he sees the ill look on your face. “Oh, shit. I didn’t think…”
“That much is apparent,” Solas says cooly. Garrick flushes slightly.
“Sorry,” he mutters, and turns forward again.
“Ma serannas,” you murmur, still trying to shake bloody memories from your mind, half-caught in the past. Solas had covered for you… Maker bless him. He no doubt has some idea of where you learned—or thinks he does—now that he knows about your history as a bard. So rather than press, he protects you? Perhaps trusting him with that had been a good decision, even if it had been done on a whim.
Fortunately, the others are content to chatter amongst themselves if they talk at all, giving you time to regain your composure. You distract yourself by giving Asaaranda a bit more broth, then ride in silence. It’s Solas who finally pulls you out of your increasingly morbid thoughts.
“I was wondering… is the desk you have now sufficient for the magnifying stand you purchased in Val Royeaux?”
“Huh… Oh! Hmm… I hadn’t thought about it, to be honest. I just bought the only one they had in stock,” you admit. “I’m sure I can make it work, though.”
“If you need, we can have another desk brought in,” Solas informs you. “It isn’t as though I lack for space.”
“You’re too kind, Solas,” you say, flushing slightly. “Although… a table to the side of the desk, just for the stand, would be extremely useful.”
“Speak with Leliana about it. I’m sure she can find something, to ensure the timely completion of her tome.”
After that, you find yourself chatting quietly with Solas again… not quite as cheerfully as the day before, but still. It helps to keep you in the moment, rather than drifting back to the past the way your mind wants. Whenever you trail off, he assists you with a well-timed question that forces your mind to focus on the here and now.
You’re eager to be back at Skyhold… Despite the fact you know it’s unlikely, you keep expecting bandits to jump out from the trees. You don’t speak a word of complaint when Katari has you all ride through lunch, despite your sore ass.
It seems like you’re dreaming when you crest a final rise and see Skyhold laid out before you. “We’re home,” you say, breathing a sigh of relief. Finally. It may be a death trap, but it’s your death trap. Better to deal with these nosy bastards than the bandits and red Templars beyond their walls.
You find yourself giddy as you ride across the long stone bridge to Skyhold’s gate. Can it really be? You made it back alive? And Revas and Solas are alive, although Revas is a little worse for the wear. Honestly, everything went better than expected.
Things are bustling when you enter through the gate. The courtyard is full of people… elves, almost every single one, in fact. That catches your notice. They’re certainly not here to greet you. What’s going on? You realize quickly by the state of them… most are shaking, all have ratty, subpar clothing, and they huddle together in a way you recognize, staring at the entering caravan with wide, terrified eyes.
More refugees… You picked and interesting time to show up. Hopefully the Commander is more prepared for this batch then he was the last… but of course, if they’re elves…
“Solas, hold up, please,” you say with a frown.
“We need to—”
You slide off of Ashi’lana, frowning, barely listening to Solas’ protests. “Where are the… damnit, not again. No guards, no healers, no Commander. Ugh.” You straighten yourself momentarily, just long enough to put on a serious face. Then you grab a woman who is attempting to walk by quickly, paying the elves no mind.
“Don’t think I don’t see you! I know you, you work in the healing tent! Get me some healers!” you order. She stiffens.
“I don’t take orders from—”
“I promise, you do,” you say darkly. “Healers. Now.” You release her arm with a bit of a shove, maintaining eye contact until she breaks it, scurrying off towards the tent. You glance around and start to move, raising your voice. “Where is the Commander?” you shout at the same time as you hear a raised voice begin to start a similar query.
“Get me—” “Where is—” a low, loud voice says, right as you thud into something firm. You hadn’t been watching where you were going, instead looking around for a guard you could intimidate into doing your bidding. You’d been walking fast, and whatever you run into is hard. You lose your footing and thud backwards onto the dirt, landing on your saddle-sore ass.
“Fenedhis,” you swear, glaring up at whomever you had run into. You’re not expecting what you see.
“Oh, I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t see you,” the man says, offering you a hand. A hand marked with white tattoos, the power from which you can feel through your skin. Lyrium.
An elf with white hair, marked with tattoos made of pure lyrium. This could… This could only be…
“Miss?”
There can be no mistaking it. This is Fenris.