Where’s Krem?
“Bull? Where’s Krem?”
You don’t like the way none of them are meeting your eye, or the way they’ve all stopped smiling.
“Skinner?” you ask, your voice raising an octave. “Don’t mess around, where is he?”
“Krem… got hurt pretty bad,” Bull says with a sigh. “He’ll make it, but… Well, let’s just say he won’t be showing up to morning training any time soon.”
“Where is he?” you demand, eyes falling to the other injured Chargers. “Is he already in the healing tent? Why are we just standing around here, we—”
“Calm down, Emma,” Bull says firmly, putting a hand on your shoulder to block you from bolting off towards the tent, which you’d been just about to do. “We’d only get in the way. The healers will let us know when we can see him.”
He’s right, you realize. If you wouldn’t out yourself to save his life—and you wouldn’t; you couldn’t even do it when the only person at risk of knowing was Solas—then you would just be dead weight.
Poor… poor choice of words.
“When can we see him?” you ask, voice still too-high and cracking.
“When they say we can,” Bull replies with a grunt. “I’ve learned not to rush healers. C’mon, kid, does no good to dwell. They’ll let me know as soon as anything changes.” Bull steers you along with a hand on your back, and you just sort of let him, not really paying attention to where you’re going. Your neck stays craned around towards the healing tent, as if you can see inside from here. Is Krem going to survive? Is he going to be permanently crippled?
It’s an unpleasant reminder of the reality of having a bunch of mortal soldiers and mercenaries as friends. They don’t have the longest life expectancy, and those that do survive don’t necessarily survive well.
You realize, belatedly, that you’re just sort of walking along with the Chargers, allowing Bull to steer you about as they drop their things off in their barracks and, inevitably, head to the tavern. You can hardly blame them; you’d want a drink if a quarter of your comrades were injured… some possibly dead, though you don’t want to ask. You should probably get back to work, you realize, but when you move to exit the tavern and head back to the rotunda, Bull stops you.
“Nah, you look like you could use a drink first,” he says. “Why not stay here with us for a bit?”
“I don’t want to intrude,” you begin, but another one of the Chargers snorts.
“No mercenary party is complete without a bunch of pretty women!” he exclaims.
“You’re not even drunk yet,” you say with a scowl. “What’s your excuse?”
The man just guffaws in response, and you roll your eyes, but you do sit down at the offered chair next to Bull. A drink or two couldn’t hurt… you’re feeling pretty shell-shocked, and you doubt you could get much work done in this state. The relaxed demeanor of the remaining Chargers is addictive, even if you don’t understand how they can all be so calm while their friends are hurting. Or maybe this is just how they cope. This sort of thing probably happens a lot to them… ugh.
A mercenary group in your pocket was one thing, but you shouldn’t have become friends with them.
But you really shouldn’t have become friends with any of the people here; you’re just that big of a fuck-up.
You limit yourself to nursing a single mug. It’s too early in the afternoon for heavy drinking, and even the Chargers are sort of pacing themselves, not becoming too terribly rowdy. Probably saving that for this evening. You still have work to do, in the form of bringing Solas his dinner, if nothing else. You don’t want to see the look on his face if you showed up to that drunk, or, worse, missed it entirely.
Still, you do hang out with the Chargers for longer than you technically “need” to. There’s something comforting about the large, raucous group, and despite having not seen Bull for quite a while, you’re still not having a fear reaction to the sight of his horns like you did with Katari and even Sataareth.
Oh. Sataareth. That’ll… that’ll be fun to explain. Maybe you won’t have to.
Bull is, of course, full of questions about your trip. You dodge most of them for now, not feeling like getting into the grisly details of Baptiste’s death and your subsequent takeover of the mission, let alone your new “promotion.” He’ll find out from Leliana sure enough, you’re certain, and you’re sick of thinking about death. You have your own question about his trip. It had been a seemingly straightforward mission to scout the ruins of Haven, but things had quickly gone topsy-turvy. Refugees captured by what could have been Venatori or could have just been Tevinter slavers, a lot of unexpected fighting and then hunting down the Venatori/slavers who had already left with some humans and things looted from the wreckage of Haven. No wonder they had been gone so long, despite the relative closeness of Haven.
The refugees were apparently still coming, trailing on a bit behind with some Ferelden forces that had volunteered to steer them through the mountains so that Bull could get his wounded to the skilled healers at Skyhold a bit faster. You’re not too interested in the refugees, though… it sounds like they’re mostly or entirely human, which means people who aren’t you will actually take an interest in their well-being. Not your problem, this time.
Iron Bull does tease you about spending all that time “with Solas” in Val Royeaux, and he doesn’t even know the two of you were alone together yet. Maker, you’ll never hear the end of it once he does, especially since you aren’t being forthright with the information. But you’d rather put off discussing that for as long as possible.
It’s clear the Chargers would be happy to have you get increasingly drunk with them for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, but you make your excuses before too terribly long, citing a need to get back to work. You’re not too terribly intoxicated when you finally do manage to leave the tavern. It’s clear all the Chargers want you to stay… Well, most of them, anyway, and the rest are prone to herd mentality. But you have work to do, and not just bringing Solas his dinner. And hopefully if you head back now, the stench of ale will be off your breath before you have to share a desk with Solas.
When you walk into the rotunda, the first thing you notice is that Solas isn’t there. That’s not altogether shocking. He has another workspace, after all, for magic he can’t comfortably work in a rotunda he shares with you. And he doubtlessly has other places to go and other people to see. You pay it no mind and turn your focus towards your desk, where—
Solas is… sitting.
Rather comfortably, you notice. You might be annoyed if you weren’t so busy being shocked; you don’t like other people in your workspace, generally. Perhaps it’s just the surprise, but you find the sight of Solas at your desk doesn’t raise any ire in you. He’s leaning against the back of your chair, not hunched over the desk the way you tend to be, one arm hooked over the back while the other holds one of the completed pages of the tome. You watch, in silence, as he leans forward just enough to set it face-down back onto your stack of completed pages, then pick up another, lean back, and continue.
He’s… reading your tome.
You put more effort then into your stealth than you ever have with Iron Bull or in Val Royeaux. Your soft boots pad noiselessly across the rotunda as you carefully stay directly behind Solas, out of his peripheral vision. He stiffens, almost imperceptibly, when you’re still a good ten feet back, so you speak out then.
“You know, Solas, most people have to wait til it’s finished.”
His small jolt satisfies you; his posture goes from comfortable to rigid and his ass leaves the chair ever so slightly as he jumps. Then he glances over his shoulder at you. “I am not most people.”
“No, you’re certainly not that,” you agree. Your fear for Krem still nags at the back of your head, but the immediate anxiety and pain of it fades with the sight of Solas’ face. You take a few more steps forward, purposefully noisier than your silent stride. Let him think he’d merely been caught up in reading. He already knows you’re a sneak, regardless, but hiding is second nature to you. “Did you find anything of interest?”
“The entire tome is of interest. The Inquisitor made quite a find… as did Leliana.”
“Oh, did Leliana have a hand in finding the tome?” you ask, stepping next to the desk to run a fond finger along the inside of its spine, where its pages meet. It’s still open under your magnifying stand, just for reference. “No wonder she’s so keen to see it completed.”
“No,” Solas replies, and you glance over at him, confused. “But she did find a remarkably talented linguist.”
You laugh, your ears flushing slightly at the same time. “I suppose she did, at that. Though she barely had to try; I hear the linguist just showed up on her front steps one day.”
“Such exceptional luck,” Solas says, side eyeing you and then looking back down at your desk. “To have someone so remarkable conveniently show up and settle in out of the blue like that.”
You’re not entirely certain you’re still talking about Leliana.
“You’d be amazed, really,” you reply as evenly as you can manage, “At the kinds of people you can find just wandering the countryside.”
Solas hums quietly to himself, but doesn’t reply. You stand there for a few more seconds, before growing bored. “Solas, do you intend to let me get back to work? Or were you planning for me to sit in your lap?”
You caught him off guard. His eyebrows shoot up, and so does his ass. He’s standing before he can regain his cool, though once he’s off your chair, he seems to collect himself quickly. Still, you’re pleased to have caught him off guard, and your lips are curling smugly upwards before you can stop them.
“Far be it from me to keep you from your work,” he says smoothly, already composed again. “Although I suppose it couldn’t be much different from sharing a saddle.”
Now it’s your turn to momentarily lose your composure as your mind flicks back to the warmth of his chest against your back, your rear nestled firmly between his legs, his— Fuck, you’re turning red. “No, I suppose not,” you manage, and your voice doesn’t sound too strained. You sit down almost as quickly as he stood.
The chair is still warm.
Nnngh.
You idly put a slip of scrap in the stack of papers to mark Solas’ spot as you reorganize your work back the way you had left it. He really hadn’t disturbed much. Solas goes back to his own desk, and it doesn’t take long for you to get back to work. You take a moment to marvel at the staying power of Solas’ enchantment. It’s not quite as solid as it was this morning, but it’s still there.
You’re going to sorely miss this when you leave. There’s no way any similar enchantment cast by you would last nearly as long. Solas knows how to make his magic hold in ways you don’t even understand. You wish you could make him show you, but obviously, you can’t.
Not here.
Not now.
Not ever.
You shake your head to clear it, and then just try to focus on your work. You can do good work while you’re here, and if you keep your head on straight, you might be able to come out alive. In the end, that’s the only thing that matters.
You work right up until it’s time to bring Solas dinner, and by the time that rolls around, you’re completely sober again, if slightly dehydrated. You’re also even more certain of your decision not to be heavily drunk around Solas. The last time that happened—in the inn room—is something of a blur, and with only two drinks in your system, you’d sort of offered to sit in his lap. Apparently your self control when drunk isn’t particularly admirable. Or, if Krem is any indication, you just really like laps when intoxicated.
The thought of Krem and his lap depresses you quickly, however, so you distract yourself preparing dinner. You barely even engage poor Celia in the kitchen—your mind is miles away.
Solas’ notebook is nowhere to be seen when you sit down with his meal, so you can’t even grab it and stare at it some more. On top of it all, the enchantment on your wrist is starting to wear off, probably because you spent most of the day actually working for once. Your work after dinner is going to be annoying, but you’re certain if you ask Solas to re-enchant your arm, he’ll just tell you to take a break from working or something similarly ridiculous. You’ll just have to work more slowly.
Solas is still mostly absorbed in his book while you eat, and you’re perfectly entertained by the fact you can stare more readily when he’s distracted. He studies the runic stylings of Enchanter… Wensulus, looks like… while you study the way his fingers turn the pages. The sharp, angular lines of his jaw, cheeks, and ears make your own fingers twitch for a charcoal pencil, remind you sharply of the present you still have yet to give him. But you’re no good at drawing people, even when staring straight at them, and you’re too much of a coward to hand the gift over. Hardly your greatest failings, but failings nonetheless.
You’ve just finished up dinner and are gnawing on the hard crusts Solas left behind on his plate when the door to the rotunda slams open. You jump; Solas merely looks up from his book. Bull and like six chargers, including Dalish, pour into the rotunda. Oh dear Maker.
“Wh-what are you guys—” you begin with a nervous glance towards Solas. He doesn’t look irritated, just blandly neutral. But you’re quickly cut off.
“Da’nan! C’mon back, aren’t you done working yet?”
“Have you idiots been drinking this entire time?” you exclaim, exasperated. “It’s been like three hours!”
“We’re pacin’ ourselves!” one of the Chargers protests.
“C’mon, we’re about to have dinner. Yer done workin’, right? She’s done, right?” Dalish adds, to Solas.
“Why are you asking him?” you say, exasperated.
“M’just bein’ polite!”
“You know he’s not actually her boss, right?”
“Oh, really? I figured after the Val Royeaux thing—”
“I figgered af’er the Val Royeaux thin’, they were datin’!”
“Oh shut up, Rocky—”
“Okay, alright!” you exclaim. “I’ll go to dinner, let’s just… just leave.” You grab Dalish and one of the other Chargers by the sleeves and drag them towards the door with you. You glance back over your shoulder and mouth “SORRY” to Solas before shoving the Chargers out the door where Bull still stands.
You lose Bull somewhere between the rotunda and the tavern, but you can’t pay much attention, given how swept up you are in the antics of the Chargers. You suppose getting absolutely sloshed is certainly one way to deal with the potential death of a dear friend. You try to fish for information on how Krem is doing, but the way they all dodge the question is… worrying, to say the least. If he was dead, though, you’re certain they wouldn’t be partying like this.
…Probably.
You wind up having two dinners that way, one with Solas and then one with the Chargers. You’d like to lie and say you didn’t eat much in “dinner two,” but it would be a filthy, filthy lie. You eat nearly as much as you had in “dinner one.” Like you’re going to say no to two meals? Pff. There’s a lot of drinking too, though, and it quickly becomes clear that this is going to be what you’re doing for the rest of the evening. And you’re pretty sure Fenris shows up at some point, but that could be your mind playing tricks on you, because after the drinking contest—you came in third—things get really blurry.
You wake up dazed and confused in a pile of limbs. It takes you a while to figure out where you are what’s happening.
You’d honestly expected to wake up in Bull’s bed again, but apparently he’d decided carrying you off like a sack of drunken potatoes was unnecessary. He had come back to the tavern, hadn’t he? Thinking makes your head ache.
You lift your head up, trying to ignore the dull throbbing. You’ve had much worse hangovers, and you once woke up in Revas’ stall, so this isn’t really that bad. Your head had been on some sort of pillow… wait, no, those are legs. That’s a lap. Your head had been on someone’s lap. You’d like to twist to see, but you’re currently spooning someone else entirely. Pointed ears and the hint of vallaslin on her cheekbone reveal it to be Dalish. Alright. You’re spooning Dalish. Weirder things have happened. Both of you are fully clothed, as is the person whose lap you were on… That’s something.
You try to untangle yourself from Dalish, though it takes a bit of doing. She’s clutching one of your arms to her chest like a stuffed doll. Your wiggling seems to disturb the person whose lap you were resting on, though.
“I wish I could say this is the first time this has happened,” says a sleepy, hungover voice that you recognize.
Wow, you fell asleep on Skinner.
“It’s not?” you ask quietly, finally managing to dislodge your arm. “It’s a first for me.”
“Dalish gets cuddly when she drinks, ‘n’ I hate walkin’ through that courtyard sloshed. One of these days I’m gonna wind up stabbing a handsy shem. Always more trouble than they’re worth.” She yawns and stretches as you finish sitting up. Dalish shifts slightly, then snorts loudly, but seems to go back to sleeping.
“Do you remember how I got here?” you ask, twisting your neck this way and that to try and work out the kinks. Skinner’s lap was an oddly shaped pillow, after all.
“I think Dalish said you were too drunk to ride home.”
“…Wow, we were tanked up…”
“Mm.”
“Ugh, why do I always do this on days when I… have… …What day is it?”
“Saturday.”
“Shit.”
You managed to find your hat hanging from one of the candelabras, your shoes behind the bar. You’re half-hopping through the courtyard, yanking one of the shoes onto your freezing feet when you see the familiar shape in the familiar training yard, and only then does it occur to you how long it’s been since you did this.
And, come to think of it, had either of you discussed starting the morning sessions back up again? You couldn’t remember… you probably said something last night, while drunk. Like an idiot. You probably could have skipped this one and not gotten in trouble, but you had run out without really thinking about it.
“There you are, kid! Not too hungover, I hope?” Iron Bull booms too loudly and too cheerfully as you stumble into the ring.
“And who’s fault would that be?” you grumble. “Why do you always drag me out drinking on Friday and not Saturday?”
“Bad luck on your part,” he replies. “Now, I know you ran into a bit of trouble on the way to and from Orlais—”
You stiffen. You knew he’d hear about that sooner or later, but you’d been hoping for later.
“But other than that, did you keep up with your exercise at all? Or were you busy with elven-style spooning the whole time?”
“The answer to both of those things is no,” you say with a scowl. “I had more important things to do… than…” Oh. From the look on his face, that was the wrong thing to say.
“More important, huh? So, which one of these important things kept your ass from dying on the road?”
There is an obvious, snarky reply here, but you can tell you’re digging yourself into a pit as it is. You really shouldn’t—
“…Skinner’s coat, Belassan’s hart, and Solas’ magic.”
Damnit, self.
To your relief, Iron Bull laughs. “Oh? So knowing how not to get stabbed, punched, or grappled didn’t help in the least?”
“I didn’t say that,” you mutter.
“Well, clearly I need to work to make a bigger impact,” Bull says, cracking his knuckles rather ominously, in your opinion. “Can’t have our little ‘da’nan’ getting hurt, can we?”
“That’s very redundant; you just said our little little—whoah!” you jump backwards as Bull goes from standing casually to a sweeping kick that nearly trips you. “I guess we’re start—aah!”
It’s a good thing that you don’t really need to practice every day—muscle memory has yet to wear off for you—because Iron Bull isn’t really going easy on you. Quite the opposite, you’re pretty sure he’s going harder than he normally does, probably to prove a point about your need to practice. And you can’t move at anything close to full speed, so you get caught up and tripped a lot. By the end of practice, you’re pretty sure your bruises have bruises.
Solas is going to be mad. Looks like today is gonna be a long sleeves day, for sure. You wince as you stand up out of the dirt. You need a change of clothes—you’re still wearing yesterday’s, and they’re filthy to boot. It’s cold enough today to justify wearing hose under your pants… and the extra cushioning will help your poor ass, bruised and throbbing after too many collisions with the frozen ground.
“Satisfied?” you grumble. You’d landed only three good blows the entire time. A far cry from where you’d started, just punching him. “I miss beating you up. We need to get back to that.”
“You’ve got more important stuff to worry about then throwing a punch. Besides… I hear you’re really good at throwing. How many bandits do you think you dropped with those knives of yours?”
You stiffen, face falling into a blank mask automatically.
“I read the reports. You had it pretty rough. Glad you made it out alive.”
“Not everyone did,” you say, quiet voice hard as steel.
“Look, we both know that wasn’t your first ride,” Iron Bull says quietly. “But if you need to talk—”
“What I need,” you say, voice seeming overly loud after the subdued tones you’d both been speaking in. “Is a bath and a change of clothes. I smell like a Qunari’s backside—offense completely intended.”
Iron Bull eyes you for a moment longer, but your smile doesn’t waver. He, fortunately, takes your meaning—you don’t want to talk about it. If you were going to talk about it to anyone, it would be Solas, not him. Solas was there. He saw it. You don’t want to talk about having to kill to someone whose similar experiences could easily have counted you among their number. You saw enough slaves butchered by Qunari to know that they rarely differentiated. In honesty, you even understood why. You saw enough Tevinters use their slaves to deliver poison, explosives, anything. To trust a slave was to lose one’s life. But that didn’t make you feel any better about it.
“…First,” Bull says, after too long silent, too long spent scouring your expression for meaning. “We should get you to a healer.” You open your mouth to refuse, but he immediately cuts you off. “No arguments. I was rough on you today—you’ll need it. Even Skinner would need healing after that many falls.”
You sigh. You suppose it’s been awhile since you were last at a healer, and… it’s better than risking Solas’ ire, isn’t it? Although you wouldn’t mind his hands all of the places you were bruised… Your mind flashes back his hands ghosting scant inches from your ass, the insides of your thighs, as he healed bruises and saddle sores from the rough ride to Val Royeaux.
… Better to go to the healing tent, yeah.
As soon as you’re there, however, all you can think about it one thing. Somewhere in this tent is Krem. You can tell Bull is thinking the same—he looks distracted, and you’re certain his bluster, like bluster of all the Chargers, is to distract themselves from terrifying reality. Hadn’t you done the same thing last night? But your hangover is largely worn off, you’re exhausted and sore, and all you can think about is how much you want Krem to be alright.
“Bull, have you… seen him yet?” you ask quietly as he holds the tent flap open and the two of you duck inside.
“Not yet,” Bull replies, just as quietly. “It was pretty bad, and the Chargers have a reputation for being… rowdy. They’ll probably keep us out for as long as possible.”
“Not you again!” one of the healer’s snaps, making you jump. You’re immediately guilty, but you realize quickly the woman’s not addressing you, but Bull. “I told you, use your own damn stock of potions or learn to play nice—oh, Maker,” she sighs, cutting herself off and taking a curt step over to you. She pulls your unbuttoned shirt wider, exposing your bare and already bruising collarbone. She shoots Iron Bull the darkest of glares.
“Noooo, no-no-no-no, not this again,” you say, quickly grasping her hands. “My name is Emma. I work for the Inquisition and I am learning hand-to-hand combat from the Iron Bull.”
“What…? …Oh!” the woman says, and has the decency to look abashed. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear! I thought—”
“I know,” you say, a bit sourly. “But trust me. I look this bad because I neglected to keep up with my practicing while the Iron Bull was gone, so I was… out of practice. I apologize for the inconvenience, and for taking up Inquisition resources.”
“Oh, not at all, dear. A simple enough fix. Let me get you some bruise balm… and some for the road, if you’re training with this brute,” she adds, with a sidelong glance towards Bull, who’s grinning. She ducks away for a moment, and you take up her slack by glaring at him yourself.
“Seriously?”
“I ran outta potions once or twice. What was I supposed to do, just leave them like that?”
“Make sure you have potions before doing whatever it is you do, then,” you hiss. “Those poor women…”
“Men, each and every one of them,” Bull drawls. “And every single one did not listen to my warnings about stretchin—”
“Enough!” you say, throwing your hands up. “No more.” Fortunately, the healer comes back then with a small tin.
“Here. Simply rub a bit-sized dollop onto bruised skin. Let it soak in before covering the area with any clothing. If you need assistance applying it anywhere, one of us can—”
“That won’t be necessary,” you say quickly.
“Really?” Bull says, and you can hear him grinning. “How are you going to put it on your—”
“I will be just fine, thank you.”
The woman smiles gamely. “Be thorough with it. You wouldn’t want those bruises to worsen for lack of healing. Now, is that all you needed…?”
“Krem,” you say, the word escaping you in such a rush that even you are surprised. “The mercenary who was brought in here yesterday, the young man. How is he doing? Can he have visitors yet?”
“The young… man…?” she says, clearly confused, and you realize there were probably many young male mercenaries brought in from the Chargers alone.
“Human, not much taller than me, brown hair—” you begin, but Bull cuts you off.
“You know, my second in command.”
“Oh… oh! Yes, um… him. …He’s recovering, as well as can be expected. His life isn’t in any danger, thanks to your medic’s quick work. I would not have thought to use gum tree sap in that way, but it did the trick…”
“What happened?” you ask desperately.
“Spear in the chest,” Bull explains, and you feel bile rising in your throat.
Spear through his chest, bleeding out on the ground. “Why did he—” you rasp, the words ‘grab a sword’ dying on your lips. Idiot, idiot, they don’t kill slaves—
“And right into his lung,” the healer says sadly. “He would have been dead of suffocation before he got here if not for some quick thinking. Fortunately, we seem to have staved off severe complication and drained the fluids. He’s healing, with the help of no small amount of magic. But he’ll be bedridden for at least a week, and no practice for at least a month, and then slowly,” she says firmly, eyeing Bull.
“Can I see him? Please,” you beg, already seeing her gear up for saying no.
She looks at you, and something makes her pause. Perhaps you just look pathetic enough, all banged up and dirty. She lets out a resigned sigh. “Fine. If it’s just the two of you. But keep that one calm,” she adds, pointing to Bull. “And don’t tell the rest of the maniacs that I let you see him!”
You nod eagerly, and the woman sighs again. “Alright. Come on.”