Friends and Family
Bandits, bandits. Always, it’s bandits. A toss up as to whether they’ll be a threat, a laugh, or a good time. Maybe a combination of the three this time because they might be able to do you a bit of harm, but that just means you have more of an excuse to defend yourself. You’ve had to be so careful since you left Rivain, but surely now you’re justified in cutting loose and having a pig roast—
The arrows come from all around you, your first indication that this is a dream. In reality, there had been many arrows, but all from behind you. Then the wolf had come.
Your eyes trace his vallaslin as he looks over the corpses. He’d ‘saved’ you, and you suppose in a sense he did, since a bunch of Dalish arrows in corpses is a better look than a whole copse of trees and corpses burned to ash. You’re trying to avoid Templar attention.
But the wolf…
“He’s a sweetheart!” the Dalish laughs as you run a shaking hand through wolf fur. “Look, he loves you.”
“Can they love?”
“Everything can love, falon!”
He is like a dog, but not like a dog. Looking at him, as you find yourself doing, his build is different, as is his temperament. He’s wild, he’s free, and he is not owned by the Dalish. He accompanies. He is a partner and he is a friend.
He is like an elf, but not like an elf. Looking at him, as you find yourself doing, his life is different, as is his spirit. He lives in the woods and climbs trees the way you climbed buildings. He is like you but so different, but you complement each other like long lost cousins.
“Where did you learn your Elven?”
“Oh, here and there.”
“What Clan?”
“No Clan.”
He shows you how to tell if a branch will hold before you trust it with your weight, how to avoid roads and not get lost, how to sneak by shem towns without anyone knowing. You teach him how to dance like they do in Rivain, around a fire to nothing but the beat of hands on the ground. You learn to skin a rabbit; he learns to swipe pies off window sills.
You’re two sides of the same two-bit copper coin, beautiful and wretched and loved and hated, and when you reach Kirkwall, you learn that not all Dalish love their cousins.
You wake peacefully, roused from a long sleep by Cole. It’s still dark out, and Solas will likely be asleep for hours still, but you wind up leaving the tent just to stretch your legs. The only ones awake are the current watch, Cassandra and Dorian, but they leave you alone. There’s still a biting chill in the air, and a wicked wind coming down off the mountains, but you lay in the grass and look up at the stars and think about the past.
The next person up is Blackwall, over by the fire. Preparing breakfast again? You wander over to him for want of anything better to do. You don’t really feel like digging into your books in the dark again. Working in a tent is uncomfortable all around, and you’re just not in the mood, feeling nostalgic and wistful after the memories in your dream.
“Are you our official breakfast chef?” you ask lightheartedly as you plop down next to him on the log someone had hauled over so that no one would have to squat in the snow.
“Not official,” he says with a throaty sort of half-chuckle. “I’m just used to getting up very early.”
You nod. “As am I.” You don’t mention that’s because you never sleep, and that when left in peace to forge your own sleep schedule you wind up sleeping halfway to noon. He doesn’t need to know that. You’re a early riser now, that’s all that matters. “Since I’m already up, and not much use on watch, perhaps I can be of assistance?” you suggest.
Blackwall shrugs, but doesn’t protest, so you settle in to help with breakfast. What else are you going to do? The horses are already set from last night; all you really have to do is saddle them. Although, frankly, you’d think these idiots could saddle their own horses.
He sets you to chopping apples and breaking up chunks of oatmeal, explaining as you do how the armies in the Free Marches “forage” as they go. You can’t help but snort.
“I’m very familiar with the concept of foraging. The Orlesian military is very fond of it.” You gesture at the pan in which Blackwall is beginning to cook the oats and apples down into a crumble. “This recipe, as well, I’ve seen from the Orlesian army. Probably because apples were the primary crop where I used to live.” You roll your eyes. “I suppose armies are much the same anywhere–ah!” You reach forward as he begins to season the food, wincing.
“What?” he asks, looking alarmed.
“Don’t just… pour it on like that, here…”
You wind up trading campfire cooking techniques, more or less. You’re not as good at it as you’d like to be, but the few things you do know, you know very well. It’s nice to pick up some new tricks, and Maker knows Blackwall certainly needed a few of yours, for the sake of producing food that didn’t actually taste like it was made by a soldier.
“Where did you learn this?” he asks curiously as you rearrange the pot over the fire.
“Not one place in particular. I actually haven’t traveled that much at all… until I joined up with the Inquisition, anyway,” you add, not as bitterly as you’d like to. “Mostly, from caravaneers and the like. Probably why it’s so different from military techniques.”
You stretch, wincing as strained muscles clench and twist. “Every time I’ve traveled in the past, there have been wagons involved,” you lie dryly. “A single trip to Val Royeaux and back did not prepare me for this.”
“You’ll pick it up soon enough,” Blackwall assures you. “You’re a clever one, and you pick up things well and learn them quickly. You couldn’t even ride a hart when you first arrived, and you’ve already mastered a few things I just showed you,” he says, gesturing down to where you’ve finished cutting apples as requested.
You flush a bit, in both surprise and pleasure at the unexpected praise. You couldn’t imagine the Warden saying such a nice thing to you, given your rocky start with him. It’s beyond satisfying. It hadn’t felt good that one of the only Wardens you’d had any extended contact with had basically hated you the second he laid eyes on you. Like he could smell the lies. It’s a relief he’s warmed up to you.
He’s not Leah, but if he approves of you, maybe she would have too. What would she think of the woman you’ve grown into…? Would she approve of your trickery, or be disgusted by it? Could you trust her with any of your secrets, if she were still here? If you met her, would she recognize you? Would she even remember you if you were brought to mind, or have you become another child’s face, faded over time, forgotten to too many sleepless nights spent trying to forget all those she’d lost?
You realize, belatedly, that at some point, more people had awoken and climbed out of their tents. Probably the smell of breakfast, or just the barest peaking of light over the horizon. Your eyes train on Solas automatically. He looks irritated, but he always seems to, in the mornings. Like he’s upset he even has to be conscious and vertical at all. You can relate, a bit.
You wolf down a bit of breakfast as quickly as it’s done, and head over to the mounts by the time everyone else is beginning to gather. Anyone paying attention is probably aware of what you’re doing, but whatever; you have a solid excuse. Those mounts aren’t going to saddle themselves.
Your formation is completely different now that you’re out of the mountains and into the plains proper, more or less. It’s still very hilly, but you’re not on some craggy cliff, at least. Also, there’s considerably less snow. It’ll probably be gone completely by the end of the day, as you continue to travel west away from the Frostbacks. It’s only halfway through Kingsway, after all.
You’re not quite on the Imperial Highway proper, yet, but you’re on a path well-cleared by the Inquisition. You’re in more of loose, chaotic mob of five, with a scouting group on ahead, well out of sight. That scouting group is comprised of Cole and Seeker Pentaghast, leaving you in the dubious company of the Inquisitor… but also Blackwall, Dorian, Sera and Solas. Not that it really matters, since now you’re all really moving. You understand, now, why they brought two mounts each. There’s absolutely no way a horse could keep this pace up with a rider all day. It’s not quite a hard gallop, but it’s fast enough that you’re struggling to keep your hair from flying loose.
You can barely breathe properly, let alone talk, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping anyone else, who bark conversations back and forth when necessary… or when utterly unnecessary, as is the case with Blackwall and Dorian. You don’t even catch the beginning of it, but your ears focus in on angry voices as soon as it can make them out, cutting through the sound of wind and hooves.
“You have something to say, mage?” You stiffen when you hear it, shocked that Blackwall would aim something so dripping with hatred at Solas. Had you ever seen them talk? Maybe that’s why Sera… but no, he’s talking to Dorian, as it turns out.
“If I had something to say, I’d say it,” he says, stiffly and with just as much irritation.
“That’s it? I’d expect more from a man who can’t stop talking about how clever he is.”
“And I’d expect no less from a brutish thug.”
Maker what in the Void is happening?! You look between the two of them in shock, but no one seems to be paying them much mind.
“Better that than a pompous brat,” Blackwall shoots back, and you’re just beginning to wonder if you should figure some way to break them up when the Inquisitor moves his mount between them.
“If we’re going to fight at each other’s side, we need to get along,” he says, sounding very tired. For once, you can’t blame him.
“Tell that to mister barely concealed envy issues!” snaps Dorian, huffing.
“You two are such men,” Sera comments dryly. You privately agree.
“Well, I’m a man,” Blackwall snipes, and you frown. Seriously?
“Best pound your chest so nobody doubts,” Dorian fires back, and you’re worried they’re going to start in on each other again, but the Inquisitor manages to stop them.
“Enough!”
They grumble, but at least stop bickering with each other. Maker, what was that? You’d noticed that Blackwall didn’t get along with Dorian before, but they at least hadn’t been actively at each other’s throats. Well. That you’d seen. That had been a while ago, and only for a short time.
You focus back on riding and not falling off of Revas. The hard canter is going to be the death of you, and it keeps going for what feels like hours but is probably not even one. But even a hart can’t keep that up forever, so eventually you slow to a more reasonable trot to rest the horses. Thank the Maker. You’re still breathing heavily, but everyone else seems more or less fine. How? Ugh.
“Do you use spirits as servants, Solas? You’d have no trouble capturing them.”
Oh Maker Dorian no. Dorian. What are you doing, nooooo.
“No,” comes Solas’s short, predictable reply. He doesn’t sound as irritated as Blackwall had been, but you know damn well that he rarely does. “They are intelligent, living creatures. Binding them against their will is reprehensible.”
“How much ‘will’ do they have? They’re amorphous constructs of the Fade.”
You run a hand over your mouth, then feign a yawn even though you don’t think anyone is looking at you, just to hide your expression. Dorian is batting zero for conversations today, and you’d like very much to pull him out of it, but this is a subject you need to stay very, very far away from. The Inquisitor is right there, and he has Templar training!
Solas hums noncommittally in response, and Dorian continues gamely on, as oblivious that he’s treading on cracking ice as he ever is with subjects his Tevinter education blind him on.
“There’s no harm putting them to constructive use, and most mages back home treat them well.”
“And any that show any magical talent are freed, are they not?” Solas asks, his voice positively dripping sarcasm, or at least it seems so to you. You have to bite your lip not to make a sound, seeing immediately what he’s doing.
“What?” Dorian asks, obviously confused. “Spirits… don’t have magical talent.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were talking about your slaves.”
Dorian clamps his mouth shut, sending an immediate glance your way. You quickly look away, trying to pretend you hadn’t heard every word. Dorian might mumble something quietly in response, but he mostly just sort of moves his horse away from the others. Not banking to fail at conversation three times in one morning, perhaps…
Slowly, a realization dawns on you. People, uh…
People don’t like Dorian.
You don’t know why it took you so long to realize. The times you’d hung out with him in a group had been, what, once or twice? And every time, you’d noticed friction between him and the others. You’d even taken advantage of it, with Iron Bull, playing them against each other to create a bit of a break for yourself. You hadn’t thought a thing of it, really. He was so forward and friendly with you, you’d just assumed he was like that with everyone. And he seems to be, or at least be trying, with Solas, but…
…
Is… Is he… Is that why he makes time for you? Pops down to the rotunda when no one else even deigns to enter it, like it’s cursed. You can’t possibly be his only friend, or one of his only, as you’re beginning to suspect. You’re an ex-slave, how in the Maker’s name would you be the only person willing to look past the fact he’s Tevinter? Or is it that why? Are you just the only one who understands the culture he’s from? Does everyone else think…
You feel inexplicably sad.
Despite the fact you’re still lightly wheezing, you move Revas closer to him. You’re not the best at steering Revas, actually, so it takes a little bit of doing. Normally you just sort of trust the hart to more or less go where you need him to. He even tries to poke Azrael, Dorian’s mount, once he’s close enough. You give him a swat, though, and he stops, snorting and shaking his head. Ridiculous hart. He’s probably just still sour about having to share your favor.
“So… Dorian,” you say, voice coming out a bit hoarse. You glance over; he looks nervous. Does he expect you to say something about the slave thing? You suppose that in his position, that’s what you’d be worried about.
Maker. You never thought you would be in the position to worry about the feelings of an Altus. Not like this, in any case.
You had come here without anything resembling a conversation plan.
“…hhhave you come out this way before?” you manage, which is a step above talking about the weather.
“Ah… yes. I was with the Inquisitor’s team when we first went to the Approach,” he tells you. Which you’d already known, come to think of it. Ugh. You’re terrible at small talk, and worse at making people feel better.
“Did you guys ride this hard the first time?” you ask, deciding this will be easier if you give up your pretense of not being absolutely miserable.
“Easily,” Dorian says dryly. “And harder on the way back. The Inquisitor is not fond of traveling so far away from Skyhold.”
“No?” You think he’s probably been more absent than he has been there, since you joined.
“I think he fears another attack like at Haven,” Dorian admits, glancing over at the Inquisitor where he rides at the head of the group. Your gaze follows him. Such an average looking man, even in his armor. Even knowing he’s the Inquisitor, it’s a bit difficult to believe. He certainly doesn’t have a commanding presence.
“Were you there for the attack?”
“Barely. I showed up perhaps fifteen minutes before the entire Venatori army.”
“Holy shit, really?”
“Did I never tell you the story of my dashing heroics?” Dorian says, sounding bemused. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Well, you have until we start galloping again to tell me now.”
“Oh? What happens when we start galloping again?”
“Fifty percent chance I fall off and roll away into the horizon, never to be seen again, one hundred percent chance I lose the ability to breathe and the only thing you get out of me is a mildly impressed wheeze.”
You serve as a bit of a distraction for Dorian, and stick with him even after you pick up speed and, true to your word, you manage little more than the occasional alarmed squeak. He certainly needs your company more than anyone else here.
Dorian shoots up a colored ball of light when you stop for lunch. It startles you, but he explains that it’s to let the ahead team know. Makes sense. And the presence of an ahead team means you’re probably significantly less likely to be stabbed by any bandits, which you appreciate. Well, that and the fact that you’re not carrying an overloaded cart of valuables.
After the others group up and join you, you take your time switching the gear around, unsaddling and re-saddling horses and harts. You’re… not super great at it. Oh, the harts you’ve long since gotten the hang of, but the horse saddles are different and Snowblind and Azrael keep trying to step on your feet. You’re reaching under Stormcloak to tighten his straps while Lady Knickers chews amiably on your hair—you’ve long since given up on stopping her—when she’s suddenly pulled away. You glance up, surprised, to see Blackwall with his hand on her reins.
“Thought I’d give you a hand, since you helped with breakfast,” he says with a bit of a smile, and you give a hesitant smile back. You’re supposed to be avoiding people, but right now, you won’t say no to a little help.
With Blackwall’s help, you manage to get the horses taken care of in time to grab a few bites of lunch, and then you’re clambering up on Vhas. Which means you feel like you’re doing a split basically immediately. And once you start a full canter?
You’re never going to walk straight another day in your life, you’re fairly sure.
You’re managing, however, with much wincing and wheezing and giving up on your hair and just letting it loose and tucking it into the back of your shirt. Until you see a ball of colored light shoot into the sky in the distance. The Inquisitor slows, and Vhas fortunately follows suit on his own, because you’re too distracted to pull on his reins.
“Green, that means demons! They’ll need back-up,” the Inquisitor calls out.
“Uh…” you wheeze uncertainly. “What do I…?”
“Stay here, obviously,” the Inquisitor says.
“Alone, with seven horses?” Blackwall points out.
“Solas, stay with her,” the Inquisitor orders quickly. “Everyone else, with me, quickly.”
Blackwall, Sera, Dorian, and the Inquisitor all gallop off ahead while you and Solas gather up the spare mounts and bring them off the road. It’s more difficult for you than you’d like to admit; you’re hardly a natural herder. But you do get them out of the way, and then shift uncomfortably on Vhas’s back. Would it be alright for you to get off and stretch your legs, or should you stay on in case something happens? You’d probably be less sore riding Bull than you are right now.
“How are you?” Solas asks, startling you out of your thoughts. You must give him a blank, confused look, because he clarifies. “Unfamiliar company, unfamiliar job, unfamiliar mount. And now demons.”
“I’ll be fine so long as the demons stay far, far away,” you say, eying the direction the others rode off in. “They will, right?”
“Most likely. If there is a rift, the Inquisitor can close it.”
“And they do this all the time… right?” you ask, a bit nervously. “It’s not like they’ll be hurt, right…?”
“All of our companions are expert fighters,” he assures you, which isn’t quite a guarantee. But you suppose there are never any guarantees.
“…Do you think I’ll see any on this trip? Demons, I mean.”
“…Probably,” Solas admits, and you whip your head over to stare at him.
“Seriously?!”
“I’m not going to lie about it!”
“Maker, why am I doing this,” you moan, covering your face with your hands—and, incidentally, the reins.
“It will be fine. Even if you see one, I assure you, we’ll all do our best to keep them away from you.”
“Oh, well that’s fine then!” you snap. “As long as they’re out of claw reach I should be absolutely fine with all the demons.”
“Emma…”
You flop forward on Vhas, forgetting for a moment that he doesn’t know you as well as Revas, and groan into his mane. He twists his head back to watch you. “I don’t know why I’m still complaining,” you complain, voice muffled by Vhas’s neck. “It’s hardly going to help.”
“I’ve never found loud complaining to be a good demon deterrent, no,” Solas agrees, and you snort, then sit up slightly, still slouching over Vhas’s back.
“This sucks. Vhas’durghen, you are fat and my legs hurt.”
Vhas snorts, looking indignant.
“A fitting name,” Solas says, sounding amused. “Do you name everything you find?”
“Yes,” you say flatly. “Do you want to hear what I named you?”
“Spare my poor ears that much profanity. Does this much riding have you stiff, then?”
“No, sitting at a desk for six hours makes me stiff. This has me tenderized. But I expect I’ll get used to it.”
“Rather than attempt to heal you on any regular basis—since I already know you’ll say no—”
“He can learn!”
“I could show you some stretches,” he continues, as if you hadn’t said anything. “They might help with the soreness, and prevent it in the future.”
“Did you learn them in the Fade?”
“You are very mouthy today.”
“I thought you liked my clever tongue,” you say, slipping into Elvhen that you know you’re getting right only because you heard him say it before.
“If Sera hears you, she may cry,” Solas says, and you can’t help but laugh.
“Alright. Stretches, then. The ones you do in the morning?” Solas nods as a slow motion flash of memories of his stretches, as viewed by you, play through your mind. “…Yeah, okay.” You are such a weak person sometimes.
“So I take it by your panic that you’ve avoided demons even after the rift opened?”
“Maker, yes. I’m sure I’d be dead if I hadn’t,” you say with a snort. Solas raises a single eyebrow, as if to remind you of all the things he’s seen you do. “I’m serious! They’re demons, Solas, it’s not like getting mugged. I wouldn’t even know where to stab one!”
You’re spared from any further interrogation on the subject by the sight of horses heading towards you. You stiffen, briefly, but it’s quickly evident that it’s just the Inquisitor and companions. You quickly do a head count, but they all seem to be there and upright. You even catch sight of Cole. Probably because he knew you’d be looking for him and wanted to make sure you knew he was okay.
There are a few injuries, but nothing even as serious as the injuries your group had gotten from the bandit attack on the way back to Val Royeaux. Solas has everyone looked after in short order.
“Another rift?” Solas asks the Inquisitor as he heals a cut on his shoulder.
“Just a small one. Cassandra probably could have handled it alone.”
“Not without your mark,” Seeker Pentaghast says with a snort. “Even if we cleared out the demons, more would simply arrive later.”
You’ve never actually seen the Inquisitor’s mark. If Solas’s guess about your future luck is correct, you probably will eventually, but you don’t really want to be close enough to a rift to see it in action. Oh, sure, you’re deadly curious… about the rifts and the mark, both. You’d love a chance to study them. But the descriptor “deadly” is there for a reason, and there are things so stupid that even you won’t do them. You’d learned a lesson about caution on such matters long ago, and you weren’t going to risk your life just for a chance at something you want to know.