Powerful Women
It’s time to deliver this missive to the person you’d been putting off… Seeker Pentaghast. The last time you’d spoken with her, she’d point-blank asked if you were a mage and then quizzed you on your friendship with Cole. You’re not really looking forward to speaking with her again. If anything, she’s more dangerous to you than even Commander Rutherford. Your own personal thoughts on the impossibility of “retiring” from the Templars aside, the Commander is outside of the Order now. But Seeker Pentaghast? She’s a Seeker, for one, which is like Templar Plus. And she’s still a Seeker. Those are still her priorities.
Maybe she won’t be there. It’s the middle of the morning. She’s probably off… doing… Inquisition-y things. If she isn’t here, can you just leave it in her room? No, probably not. You do need to explain it somewhat, and that seems like sketchy messenger behavior. Of course, there is the little fact that you’re not a Maker damned messenger, so…
You’re halfway up the stairs to her loft when you hear the crash. You freeze in your tracks and then duck down—your instinct upon hearing a loud noise. You duck partway behind a pillar at the top of the stairs, and do your best to peek and eavesdrop without being seen. Also your instinct, although perhaps not as good of one.
“First Hawke and now this?” Seeker Pentaghast is shouting at Varric, violently gesticulating with some book in her hand. “Is this your idea of an apology? Of a joke?”
“Look, I had nothing to do with that! Maybe you have a secret admirer!” Varric replies, voice a little snappish but… mostly just nervous. Probably scared. You’d be terrified to have Seeker Pentaghast bearing down on you the way she is on Varric. She holds still long enough for you to get a look at the book in question.
The Randy Dowager.
…… Oops.
“D-don’t be ridiculous!” the Seeker snaps. “I know you were behind this, you wretched little sneak!”
Alright, it is time for you to get the fuck out of here. You turn to tiptoe back down the stairs, but you must turn too fast, or step a little too loudly, because Seeker Pentaghast stops mid-curse.
“Who’s there?” she calls out.
Fuck.
“Show yourself at once.”
Fuckity fuck. Well, at least you have a valid reason to be here.
You step nervously onto the landing, fingers clutching desperately at the missive as if you hope to use it as a shield. Varric is shooting you frantic looks and mouthing “help me” from behind Seeker Pentaghast. You try to ignore him.
“I-I’m sorry, I wasn’t—” you begin, but she immediately cuts you off.
“What are you doing here?” she demands.
You hold the missive out like a sacrifice. “I was supposed to deliver this to you!” you don’t quite yelp, but it’s close.
“Just put it there and leave!” she says, clearly exasperated. Your eyes fall to Varric who is shaking his head violently and shooting you what can only be called “puppy eyes.” Ugh. Damnit.
“I, um… I’m supposed to explain…” you begin meekly. The glare she gives you has your knees knocking. Oh Varric is going to owe you for this one.
“Oh, fine! Varric, I’ll deal with you later. And don’t think you can sneak away; we’re both leaving for Crestwood tomorrow.”
“I have no reason to run! I’m innocent!” Varric says as he bolts down the stairs. He actually is innocent, of the book at least, but you’re sure as fuck not copping to being the one to leave it on her nightstand now. Make that two gifts gone horribly wrong, then.
Now Seeker Pentaghast’s full focus is on you. By the Void, what did you do in your life to deserve this? You swallow, hard, and begin to nervously explain the missive. Her irritation fades noticeably when she realizes what it is. Apparently this actually is important enough for you to be bothering her, thank the Maker. She listens attentively to what you’re saying and reads along in the missive after you hand it to her, not interjecting like Dorian or Dagna.
She nods along and seems to actually be taking you seriously, which is… kind of nice, if also kind of terrifying. You’re a nobody; it’s telling of her personality that she’s willing to treat you with respect. But also, the more she listens to you, the more she’ll know who you are. You’d rather stay a nobody, or even just “that weird servant who Cole likes.”
“Thank you for delivering this,” she says at the end, considerably calmer than when you started. Her eyes fix onto you and you know then that she definitely remembers who you are. “You’re the woman who is befriending… ‘Cole’.” Damnit. “Do you still speak with him?”
“I… yes. He’s… my friend.” You say the last bit hesitantly. It feels like a damning admission, but the way she speaks of Cole is irritating. You feel the need to defend him, against your better judgment.
It’s not dismissal you see in her eyes, however, or hatred, but concern. “You know he is a demon, do you not? It’s not safe to be around him.”
You know she has good intentions; she’s just stupid. Brainwashed like every other Chantry fool. But you bristle; she called Cole dangerous and a demon. And she’s trying to protect you. How dare she? As if you need to be protected from your friend, rather than from her! As if she has ever done more good than harm in her entire wretched career. The ones who watch the Templars, ha! The ones who cover up Templar rapists and silence the mages who would make a fuss, more like. That she dares to pretend she has your best interest in mind when she’s infinitely more deadly than Cole could ever be, is—
Your aura is twisting in your stomach like an angry snake.
You need to control yourself.
A deep breath.
“How so?” you reply flatly.
“How so?” she repeats, sounding dumbfounded.
“How is he so dangerous? I’m an elven woman,” you rush on, cutting her off as she attempts to reply. “Every human man in Thedas could kill me and get away with it.”
“That’s not tr—”
“Do not do either of us the disservice of pretending that’s not the way the world works,” you say, scowling slightly. “Whether you, personally, would seek justice were I murdered is not the subject here. The fact of the matter is, an elf is raped, an elf is killed, and by and large, human society doesn’t care. That makes every single one of them a potential threat. This is my point.”
She hesitates. “I see where you are going, but it is not the same thing.”
“Is it not? Cole is already in this world. The Chantry teaches us that demons attempt to possess the living because they desire to be part of our world, but have no bodies of their own.” Your voice is flat, dull. It reminds you of a Tranquil, and you want to scream. But you need to be calm. “Not so for Cole; he already has his own body. There’s no need for him to possess me. And unlike most human men, I can be assured he will be killed if he harms me—by you, most likely.”
Seeker Pentaghast is quite stiff. “Have there been human men who have hurt you and gone unpunished?”
The question is so absurd that you laugh. You can’t help it… what kind of a question is that? She must mean within Skyhold, but even then. What would she do if you said yes? If you pointed her at the men who threatened you? The man who planned to assault you, who Bull stopped? Or to any of the men in your long life who had “hurt” you and “gone unpunished”?
“Good day, Seeker Pentaghast,” you say instead, bowing your head politely, and turning to head down the stairs.
She lets you go.
It’s a bit early for Solas’s lunch yet, but you decide to fetch it anyway. You don’t want to start working only to have to stop in half an hour. An early lunch won’t kill the man. As you’re bringing both of your meals into the rotunda, however, a messenger enters just as you’re setting the plates down.
“Excuse me, Miss Emma?” Oh, Maker, what is it now? You fix the man with an unamused stare.
“May I help you?”
“Lady Montiliyet requests your presence for lunch. She’s asked me to take you to her, if you’re free.”
You glance down at the tray you’re carrying, clearly holding two meals, and then back up at the man. Does it fucking look like you’re free? Still… you shouldn’t get into the habit of saying no to people infinitely more powerful than you. Lady Montiliyet, despite her polite, kind demeanor, is most definitely that. You glance over at Solas, uncertainly.
“Go, if you wish,” he says mildly. “I can simply share your lunch with Dorian. I’ve been meaning to discuss something with him, at any rate.”
Well… you suppose that’s that, then. You set the tray down on his desk apologetically. “I’ll see what Lady Montiliyet needs. My apologies, Solas.”
Lady Montiliyet, as it turns out, is dining on one of Skyhold’s numerous balconies, overlooking the courtyard. She’s already sitting at a small table for two. The setting is private, and rather intimate. You wonder if she sees many people here; it’s a perfect setting for one-on-one diplomacy.
You’re not feeling overly wary or guarded as you sit down. This is Lady Montiliyet. Anything scary will doubtlessly be reserved for Leliana. And she had mentioned wanting to speak with you personally about what transpired during your trip to Val Royeaux.
“Ah, Miss Emma! I’m glad you could make it on such short notice,” Lady Montiliyet chirps when she sees you wandering out onto the balcony. “Please, sit.” You do so, and she continues on. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you since you returned from Val Royeaux, but trying to make both of our schedules match up was… a challenge. This was the soonest I could manage it. Please, help yourself.”
Lunch is a rather splendid array, probably her standard for treating people. Or perhaps just what she normally eats. It’s all Orlesian, you note, in style, in flavor, and in presentation. She was the ambassador between Antiva and Orlais, so it wouldn’t be too surprising if she held a fondness for that sort of food. You do, in fact, help yourself, though you’re much more restrained than you would be were it just you and Solas. If Solas minds your tendency to gorge yourself, he’s never mentioned it. In fact, he often reminds you to clean your plate if you grow distracted talking in the middle of a meal.
“I wanted the chance to personally thank you for your work for the Inquisition,” Lady Montiliyet is saying. You’re mildly distracted trying to eat a delicious Croque Madame, made with fish—likely from a nearby river—and eggs—likely from the very chickens you’ve placed under new management. Did Gaston make this? You need to find out who made this. What kind of cheese is this?
Oh, she’s still talking. You should be paying more attention.
“You’ve only been with us for two months, but it’s clear you’re going to be a very valuable asset for the Inquisition,” she’s saying. “You took over for Baptiste; it’s only thanks to you the mission wasn’t an utter waste of resources and lives.”
“Thank you, Lady Montiliyet. I… I’m sorry, about Baptiste. If we had been faster on the uptake… If we had been paying more attention…” You sigh. The truth was, there was nothing you could have done to change it. And the soldiers, Solas… they had all done their best. It was just one of those things. But you still feel guilt, and when you think about the face of his daughter in the inn room, the way Bapiste’s grandson had cried. “It was a waste,” you finally say, managing to keep your voice from cracking, though it wavers slightly.
“It was,” she agrees softly. “But that is… simply the way of things, even in times of peace. Baptiste knew the risks when he took a position with the Inquisition. He accepted them. Compensation and flowers have been sent to his survivors, and… time marches steadily on.”
“Oh.” When will you have her again? You might as well. “Compensation and flowers… that reminds me.” Lady Montiliyet tilts her head in curiosity when you reach into your bag, which is growing steadily lighter now. Her eyes widen in surprise when you place a jar on the table between the two of you. Apple jam, one of many you picked up in the markets of Val Royeaux. Tied around it is a deep, royal blue silk ribbon. Lady Montiliyet seems to recognize both, as she picks up the jar and runs a thumb across the label.
“Oh… this was Baptiste’s favorite,” she says sadly.
“He mentioned,” you say. “I thought… Well. I know the two of you had history, both through your work and as friends…”
“Yes, I… Thank you,” she says. “That was so thoughtful of you. In fact, that reminds me; I have something for you, as well. But first, to business.”
“Business” turns out to be a run down on quite literally every action you performed as “ambassador” to the Inquisition while in Val Royeaux. You did so well getting tomes and liasoning with the Chancellor that she has no wish to officially disavow your actions, since that might make you more difficult to use in the future. That means you were actually the Inquisition’s ambassador, just… retroactively. Fortunately, you weren’t too much of an asshole while in Val Royeaux, so it shouldn’t be too difficult for her to clean up after you. She even has plans to twist the concept of sending an elven ambassador to Orlais to the Inquisitor’s advantage. As you’d thought to yourself when you’d first heard that you and Solas would be traveling to Val Royeaux… if the Inquisitor had intended it as a statement, it was certainly a strong one. You’re quite confident he hadn’t meant it like that, however.
After that, the two of you spend a little bit longer than is necessarily reasonable discussing the personal affairs of Lord Bellemont, and how much truth there might be to those shocking rumors about him and the Choffards. You don’t remind her of her “gift” as she’d requested you do, but she remembers anyway when you hand over the ribbon for Leliana. In the end, you don’t have the courage to hand it to the woman yourself, nor any desire to seek her out.
Interestingly, Lady Montiliyet laughs and says she’ll “make sure Lels gets it.” That’s quite more familiarity than you were expecting, though you had noticed before that the two seemed to know each other. As for her present to you, it’s… nail polish, of all things. An unofficial “thank you” for your work in Val Royeaux.
You finger the small glass vial as you head back down to the rotunda. You do have a fondness for such things… and green is your favorite color. It’s not even an easy color to produce, as such things go. You suspect this is a lucky case of regifting, since you’ve given no one any indication of your tastes for this sort of thing. This shade of green would look unflattering on anyone of Lady Montiliyet’s skintone.
It would go rather well with the dark green footwraps Solas gave you… Elven footwraps and Orlesian nail polish. Yes… you rather like that idea. Whether or not you’re brave enough to actually wear something like that out and about it another thing altogether. Maybe Sunday. Sunday is your day off.
You could ride Revas while wearing footwraps! Oh, you have those leggings you purchased in Orlais… You’re so distracted by your thoughts that you’re in the rotunda and heading towards your desk before you realize Dorian is actually in the rotunda. Physically present, not just shouting down from above. The sight startles you into a sudden stop.
“Ah, looks like your protégée is back, Solas,” Dorian says, noticing you as well. “I suppose that means I’m no longer needed. Wouldn’t want to intrude on your… private time.”
“Private?” you interject, voice mild. “Is that what you call this large, open room with no ceiling? I feel bad for anyone you shared work space with in the past, then.”
“Plenty of privacy away from the center of the room… like where your desk is located, for instance. Or the couch,” Dorian replies slyly. You don’t dignify that with a response; you simply roll your eyes and begin to gather the dishes.
Dorian is gone by the time you return from the kitchen. You simply get to work. Your morning was lost to the missive, but it’s only just past high noon now. If you work hard, you can still finish the illustrations tonight. Not even half an hour after you set to work, Solas meanders over again. You’re unsurprised, but relieved. You wouldn’t have had the courage to ask him, but you really could use his assistance and clever eye for mistakes if you’re to finish this without staying up later than he’d approve of.
To your joy, he continues where the two of you had left off, inspecting the work—he almost seems to enjoy looking at it—and pointing out small errors. You have a very good memory, but it’s getting difficult for you to keep in mind all the things he’s pointing out while still working, so… you hand him a colored pencil, one whose lines can easily be erased without disturbing the ink. And, well…
At some point, this turned into a repeat of Val Royeaux, working shoulder-to-shoulder with Solas. He’s sitting directly to your side and utilizing part of your desk to mark his corrections. It’s just as distracting now as it was then, if not moreso. Your eyes keep dragging away from your paper towards where his hand rests on your desk, long fingers delicately gripping your pencil, effortlessly and gracefully sliding its narrow point along the paper, marking them as he sees fit.
Nnnngh.
It’s a miracle that you manage to actually finish your work. You do, however, by working straight up until dinner. You inform Solas you’re going to fetch both of your meals as he’s inspecting the very last image for the tome. You’ll have to make corrections, but you feel like that won’t take you more but an hour or two. Essentially all you have left between now and being completed is lettering—a lot of lettering—and binding. You’re getting close enough to the end that you can almost taste it.
You and Solas settle back at his desk to share dinner, and while you eat, you inform him that Fenris will probably be stopping by at some point in the immediate future, because you said you would get drinks with him. You only mention it to give him a heads-up before Fenris comes barging in. It’s not like the two are best of friends. Solas, however, seems vaguely amused by the concept.
“Your date is picking you up here? Am I expected to play the role of the overzealous father? Should I tell him to have you back before midnight?” Solas says, then chuckles again, possibly at the sight of your reddening cheeks. You hardly know where to start! It’s not a date! You’re just having a drink or two. Your brain picks the absolute stupidest thing to focus on first, however.
“You’re not old enough to be my father!” you blurt out with a scoff. Really, brain? That’s what you’re going to find the most issue with out of that line of dialogue? Ugh. When Solas says nothing, however, you eye him up and down. There’s no way. He has to think you in your mid to upper twenties; most people do. You had assumed him to be in his upper 30s, perhaps forty or so at the most. He has the personality of a grumpy old man, perhaps, but certainly not the body of one. But… Maker, what if he looks younger than he is, the same way you look older than you are?!
“…Are you?” you add, less confidently.
“Certainly, I’m sure,” he replies, and the sureness with which he says so floors you.
“How old are you?” you demand.
“Old,” he replies mildly.
“Ass!” You’re curious now. How old does he think you are, at that? If he’s successfully guessed your age, then it’s not surprising for him to be “old enough to be your father.” A particularly unlucky 40-year-old could be your father without any difficulty. But if he thinks you’re older… “Over forty?” you hazard to guess. His face remains impassive. “Over fifty?” Nothing! Is he over fifty? Maker! And you’re the one who gets stiff in the mornings! How embarrassing.
Frustrated, you give up and throw up your hands in surrender. “You must be like a wine then,” you say with a scowl. “Only growing finer with age.” You freeze, mildly horrified, as his eyebrows rise. You had not meant that the way it sounded. “That… would have been a fantastic line if I’d done that on purpose,” you say, cheeks turning a darker shade of pink. You’ve only succeeded in embarrassing the both of you; he clears his throat somewhat awkwardly.
“I… uh… I’m going to just… take care of these dishes and get back to work,” you decide quickly. No point in shoving your foot even further into your mouth.
Fenris is late enough that you begin to worry that he’ll not show up at all, meaning you humiliated yourself in front of Solas for no reason. You’re just finishing up the last of your revisions when you hear a quiet knock from the doorway. You glance over and see Fenris… standing in the open doorway, knocking on the frame, and looking rather uncertain.
Oh, Maker, that’s adorable.
You note that Solas looks amused as well, but he doesn’t pass up the opportunity to be kind of a dick. “You may enter,” he says, causing a potent scowl to form on Fenris’s face. Really, Solas? It’s like angry tomcats. Hopefully they don’t start pissing to mark their territory any time soon. Despite his obvious annoyance however, Fenris attempts to ignore Solas as he enters the room, focusing instead on you.
“Are you ready?” he asks, and you do well by only being distracted by his voice for about five seconds instead of fifteen.
“Just let me finish up this last piece, if you don’t mind. It will only take me a second…”
He glances around at the walls while you work, and then comes to stand near the desk and watch over your shoulder as you finish the very last of your corrections. You don’t like when people lurk over your shoulder, but Maker, for him, you’ll make an exception.
“You’re very good,” he comments, and you flush.
“Oh, no, these aren’t original, just copies,” you say with laughter that, you admit, comes out slightly nervous. He’s standing close enough that you can feel the lyrium in his skin sing. It’s very distracting. You point to the book, which he turns to investigate, giving you some slight relief.
“This is from Tevinter,” he says, sounding surprised.
“Yes, shocking no one,” it shocked so many people actually, “I can read and write ancient Tevene. I’m semi-fluent in modern Tevene as well, obviously, but I don’t really write—”
“Shocking no one? Where is one’s knowledge of a dead language not shocking?” Fenris points out. “If anything, it’s more surprising given that you were a slave, not less. They’re not exactly lining up to teach us to read and write.”
Oh, right. You’re an asshole. You clear your throat. “I was a… different sort of slave. Prized for my intellect, not my strength. A proper education made me infinitely more valuable. …It was actually my master who had me educated in ancient Tevene. He intended to use me in… well, in much the way I use myself now,” you admit. “I suppose the joke’s on him, since I now use the education he gave me to secure my well-being.”
“How did he keep your knowledge from spreading? Slaves are kept ignorant for a reason. Did he isolate you?” Fenris asks.
“He tried, but it was a war zone. Everyone had more important things to worry about than my whereabouts every minute of every day. As for how he kept my knowledge from spreading… Well, he didn’t. Not for lack of trying but… these things find a way.”
“You taught the other slaves?” Fenris asks, sounding shocked.
“In secret, yes.” You pause to clean your quill. Finally. Finished.
“That is… very admirable. I’m sure you would not have escaped punishment were you found out.”
Your hand freezes on the quill as your mind spins away into the past. Pain, blood, screaming, first time you fought back, first time it hurt this much. The quill creaks as your grip tightens. Blood drips down your legs. Away, across, this ends now.
“I…”
I swear to the Maker, he will never lay a hand on any of us, ever again.
“I was. And I didn’t.” You force your hand to unclench from the quill, set it down in its holder. You feel a gentle hand on your shoulder and turn without thinking, against sense expecting to see Solas’s concerned eyes. It’s not Solas, of course, it’s Fenris, and you can feel the lyrium, even through the cloth of your undershirt and tunic both. You want to touch it with your bare hands, trace fingers, tongue, aura over it, make it sing, make him— You force your mind back into the present violently, away from the blood and fog of Seheron, away from your perversion.
“You are all the more brave for it, then,” Fenris says. Against better sense, you take his other hand to help you rise from your chair. Your feeble aura jolts in your stomach at the touch of the lyrium on the inside of his palm. “Let’s head to the tavern.”
Solas gets in one last quip as the two of you exit, Fenris’s hand still on your shoulder.
“Play nice, children,” you glance over your shoulder at him, see the little smirk on his lips, at the same time you take in the scowl on Fenris’s face, the way his grip tightens on your shoulder. “Don’t do anything Mother Giselle wouldn’t do.”
You’re going to kill him. Apparently-fifty years of dodging Templars wasted. A shame, really. You glare at him as you exit, and his only response is to smile more.
Ass.
Well, you know what they say. The best revenge is living well… and you’ve got a “date.”