Idyll Fantasies
You’re gone when Sera wakes up, which is, you feel, deeply appropriate. You’re churning with equal parts regret and nausea. Sera isn’t responsible for the nausea. You’re not sure how much she’s responsible for the regret; you’re actually pretty content to blame yourself for that, too.
The previous night is still a blur to you. You remember it, sort of, but it’s all fusing together into a haze of sweat and alcohol and bad decisions. Your primary comfort is that even Dorian looks pretty damned under the weather too, and Sera isn’t even out of bed yet. Actually, you think Dorian might be worse off than you, which is incredible given how much of a practiced alcoholic he is. You’re not sure what it says about you.
Maybe it’s just because you got plenty of fluids before you passed out. You make a mental note to thank Sera for that, which you of course definitely won’t be doing, because you’re already thinking your best course of action is to pretend literally nothing happened and that nothing is wrong.
For once, you’re not so distracted by your guilt or nausea—possibly because after a certain point even you cap out, or possibly because you’re still slightly drunk—to not be able to eat. You positively destroy breakfast, well aware that this is likely to be your last hot meal for a long time that’s cooked in a kitchen and not over a fire.
“You have quite the appetite this morning, Emma,” Solas says, his voice approving, as you inhale a bowl of porridge so fast that you barely taste it. You’re not sure when he got in. You definitely remember the Seeker being pissy that he was still gone when you rolled in, and it’s barely past sunrise now.
“She worked one up,” says Blackwall, looking bemused. “Did you know that our room was right next to yours?”
You meet him with a flat, level look. “Sorry, I know I snore.”
“Snore enough that the bed hits the wall?”
“That would be from the thrashing. Terrible night terrors, you know,” you deadpan. “Why do you think I bunk alone or with Cole?”
Blackwall opens his mouth, as if to say more, but then throws his hands up in an I-surrender gesture. “I’ve thought better of this line of dialogue.”
“I rather thought you might, given time.” You return your focus to your food, which is frankly a much better place for it. You could eat a cow. Literally, if there was one in front of you right now.
This time, you take full advantage of having stable staff to take care of the mounts. You don’t even go outside, but instead spend the morning eating, groaning about how terrible you feel—mostly to yourself—and then eating more. Dorian does more groaning and less eating, and Sera eventually half-stumbles down the stairs to wince and nurse a mug of water and small amounts of porridge. Somehow, it seems, you escaped the worst of the damage, although you still feel like someone threw you down the stairs in a bag filled with assorted pots and pans.
You bid a sorrowful farewell to Val Firmin. Maybe you’ll see it on the way back out of the Approach. Perhaps it’s that you’re still a bit drunk and the regrets haven’t set in yet, but you honestly wouldn’t mind another visit to the brothel. Especially if you were going to be regaled as a hero again. It’s not something you’re used to, but it’s something you maybe could get used to. You finally see what Banal’ras enjoys so damned much about the job.
That feeling of vague optimism lasts aboooout thirty minutes, which is how long it takes to split up the group and start your first bout of galloping.
It’s like every ache you’ve developed over the entire trip and, in fact, over your entire life, is coming back in full force. Your back hurts. Your legs hurt. Your ass hurts. Your head hurts. Your abdomen even hurts. You’re dying, this is the worst. Is it because you didn’t stretch this morning? Is it because you stretched too much last night? You don’t know, but you’re completely miserable. You’re fairly certain that the only reason you don’t vomit is sheer force of will. You refuse to waste that food, and also refuse to puke off the side of a hart in front of a Seeker and a Warden, not to mention Sera and Solas.
You’re fairly sure your soul has left your body and re-entered the Fade from whence it came by the time lunch arrives. You collapse off of Revas by a tree, and then just… stay there, slumped onto the ground, waving off repeated attempts to give you food. You do eventually lean up against the tree, but you otherwise refuse to move. You’re not even looking over the horses like you normally do when you want to dodge eating and socializing. You’ve given up any and all pretense; you just want to fall asleep and maybe not wake up.
You don’t even notice Solas approaching; you’re completely zoned out and just focusing on not falling over or throwing up. Your first indication that something might be about to happen is when his shadow falls over you.
“Feeling a bit under the weather?” he asks, and you crack one eye open to glare blearily up at him.
“How were Cole’s plants?” you reply blithely.
“Very interesting, but his to tell about.” He squats down next to you. “Why did you tell the Seeker that?”
“Because the apostate was running off with a spirit who kept talking cryptic nonsense, and because she tried to murder Cole like a day ago and everyone seems to already have forgotten about it.” You don’t even try to keep the mild irritation out of your voice. You’re not even irritated at him. You’re irritated at life.
“Cassandra is prone to giving me the benefit of the doubt, but I suppose the same still can’t be said of her and Cole.” You decide to take that as an agreement. “I feared you were going to fall off Revas. Would you like me to take a look at your health?”
“Guh, no, I’m not sick, honestly I’m just a hungover asshole,” you say, closing your eyes again and rubbing your face. “We drank way too much last night, and I think Dorian and Sera are both worse off.”
“Both of them—Dorian in particular—are perhaps a bit more accustomed to doing this the day after a night of heavy drinking, however,” Solas points out.
You wave your hand vaguely in his direction. “Honestly, I’ll be fine. If you feel like helping, grab me some water or some—” He’s already pulling out a canteen. Damnit, that’s kind of cute. You take it and drink an almost excessive amount before pouring even more of it on your head, gasping at the cold. You shake your head with a splutter, briefly letting your hair down to shake it out.
“Ugh, that was the worst.”
“Then why did you do it,” Solas asks. He sounds distressed, so you glance over and… yep, he looks way too alarmed. You snort out a laugh.
“Because it’ll make me feel less like a century-old corpse possessed by a sloth spirit.” You run your fingers through your hair. It’s at first meant to be a quick straightening, but you hit a knot and frown. All this travel isn’t good for your hair or for your limited vanity. You should have cut it ages ago, but you just can’t bring yourself to do it. Still frowning, you pull your comb out of your backpack, careful not to open any compartments that might reveal to Solas that you’re carrying every important item you own on your person at all times.
“Would you like me to?” he offers. You blink, and then laugh.
“I’m not convinced you’d even know how,” you say, and when he looks confused, you tap the bone comb against his bald dome. “How can I trust you to my hair when you’ve already killed your own?”
Solas lets out a huff of breath, half amused, half put-out. “I do not need to possess a thing to know how to care for it.”
“Uh-huh,” you reply, already beginning to comb your own hair. It was bad enough when the girls got a hold of it during your trip to Val Royeaux. If Solas touched it, you’d probably instinctively deck him. “Did you just come over to make sure I wasn’t dying? Because I’m fairly sure Sera could use the same treatment.”
“Please imagine Sera’s reaction if I were to offer her magical healing for a hangover.”
“…Alright, point,” you admit with a pout.
“Besides all that, I had to ensure you were healthy enough for this evening.” You send him a questioning look and he gently reminds you, “It is Sunday.”
You brighten like the first sunrise after a Blight. “It is?!” You can’t keep track of days at all when you’re on the road. It all just blurs together. It simultaneously feels like you haven’t been traveling a week, and like you’ve been traveling for six months. Odd to think that you’re getting close, but this serves as a pleasant reminder that time is passing and you are making progress.
“It is,” he says with a nod.
“So I’m getting another lesson tonight?” you ask excitedly.
“So long as you can remain conscious and then go to sleep afterwards, yes,” he says with a single dry laugh. “Perhaps now you’ll consider eating something?” He pulls out some of the odd bread you know is from his personal stock and offers it to you.
“Is this blackmail?” you ask wryly, taking it.
“Bribery,” he corrects, and you laugh.
You spend the afternoon in relative peace. You’re feeling slightly better after some food and water and rest during lunch, and while Vhas’durghen aka Fatty is a bit of a stretch for your sore muscles, he’s at least not as bouncy as Revas is. You hurt more, but you feel less like puking.
Sera doesn’t seem to be feeling much better, to your eye, which has you a little concerned. She’s younger than you, and she might have considerably less experience with binge drinking. She seems in a foul mood, as opposed to her general cheerfulness yesterday, and you’re not sure she’s cognizant of what her horse is doing. It’s not like Spirit Dancer to be aggressive at all, let alone towards Cinder, but she nonetheless keeps drifting into Cinder’s space, even nipping at her. Solas is mercifully handling it well, but it’s an unnecessary distraction during a fast paced day of traveling. You resolve to double check her at dinner, to make sure she’s not in pain somewhere. You were lazy during lunch; you’d hate to think that one of the horses has had a burr somewhere painful the whole time because of it.
By the time you stop for the evening, your good mood hasn’t quite worn off, but you are a bit concerned, and immediately set to checking and double-checking all of the mounts while the others set up camp, prepare dinner, and begin to eat. Despite your fears, however, they all seem fine. Thank the Maker for that, too, since you imagine off-road riding is harder on the mounts… and on the riders, come to think of it. You frown at the thought.
It’s going to be hot, too, and sandy before long. Now you’re not sure if your concern is for the mounts or yourself. Maybe both. No, actually, the more you think about it, you’re more worried about yourself. They’re professionals. They’ve done this shit before. You’re an indoor elf, not suited for cross-country journeys, let alone deserts.
You remind yourself for the thousandth time of all the logical reasons you have for putting up with this, sigh, and then go to find Solas.
You find a nice place on the outskirts of camp, close enough for no one to complain at you, far enough out for a bit of peace and quiet. It could also double as watch, since you’re facing away from camp. Grabbing your supplies was easy, since they’re all in the bag you always keep with you.
You’re excited to start your lessons. They’re probably the only good part of this entire disastrous situation. Yeah, you’re making a mess, yeah, you’re probably going to wind up on the run, yeah, you’re all the way across Orlais with a pack of idiots… Going into a desert reported to contain darkspawn and dragons, on top of all the other normal deadly things… But you’ve genuinely done more dangerous things to pry Elvhen knowledge out of places that didn’t want to give it up. And you are very curious about those Tevinter ruins.
You’re really getting into the meat of the language now, too. Solas has you working on that book of poetry again, translating passages you’ve never seen in any of your many books of ancient elven lore. Unfortunately none of them are historic idylls or anything like that… it’s a lot of poetry about magic and nature and love. Still, you can glean a great deal from what an elf eight thousand years ago thought worthy of writing poetry about.
“Thousand year tree,” you muse to yourself as you scribble haphazard, half translated sentences, all messy and out of sensible order as you wrestle through the tides of metaphor. “Reminds me of the modern vhenadahl. You know of them, right?”
“Yes. The trees the city elves keep in the middle of their alienages,” Solas says.
“The ‘why’ of that has been mostly lost,” you say with a sigh. “There was one in Denerim, a great huge tree right in the middle of the square. They held everything there, weddings, funerals, you name it. We used to climb in it; I don’t think we were supposed to but…” But you were a bit of a ringleader and you were a lot of a nightmare, so all of you used to get up to all kinds of shit. “I’ve been able to find out a little… it’s a type of tree, too, the vhenadahl. When the one in Edgewall was burned down, some Dalish in the area were able to procure a sapling. Clearly, not just any tree will do, but in most alienages, the tree has been there for longer than living memory.” You tap your quill idly against the page. “Thousand year tree… Did it sound as long to elves then as it does to us now, I wonder.”
“The Dalish gifted a sapling? Rare, that they would deign to even acknowledge elves living in cities existed,” Solas says, and you laugh at the bitterness in his voice. He sounds like you.
“Do I hear a grudge, Solas? Do you come from a city?” He says nothing, and you chuckle again. “Well, I guess you’d have to. Elves only come from three places.”
“Oh?”
“Do you really want to hear me theorize on why I don’t think you’re ex-Dalish or an ex-slave?” you ask him, still smiling.
“I’ll admit to some curiosity.”
“Too bad,” you say, stretching your stiff shoulders and wincing. “Because I’d only tell you if you’d tell me if I was right or not, and you won’t.” You press a finger right into a knot of muscle that hurts the most. Riding all day, sleeping on the ground, swinging around a sword… even with Solas’ morning stretching to help you out now and then, you’re basically one giant cramp.
“I would tell you if you got it right,” Solas suggests, and you laugh again.
“Either you’re lying, or it’s something I could never guess, then.”
“Do I seem so secretive to you?”
“Yes. And I’m something of an expert.” You wince again as you roll your shoulders in their sockets. This time, however, Solas’ hand falls to your shoulder. You’re startled, briefly, but he pushes in just the right spot. You’re caught off guard just enough to let out a half-choked groan.
“Fuck. How do you do that? I can’t even find sore spots that well, and I’m the one who has them.”
“There aren’t that many differences between one body and another,” Solas explains, shifting to place both his hands on your shoulders, and digging his thumbs into places that hurt in all the right ways. “If you learn where to touch on one,” he shifts his grip close to your neck, squeezing tension out of your stiff muscles. “You’ve learned where to touch on them all.”
“Ugh… This trip is going to be the death of me,” you complain for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Let’s hope it is not,” he says with a quiet chuckle.
“If the dragons and darkspawn don’t get me, Sera definitely will,” you grumble, staring out at the sunset. Solas twists to work on your spine, and you wince, but shift a bit so he has easier access. Might as well. His massages are a known quantity, and you’re only going to get more sore from here.
“I’ll freely admit to having no idea what the two of you are doing. Do you love her or hate her?”
“Are those my only two options?” you ask glumly.
“No… I suppose nothing ever is quite that simple,” he admits.
You thumb sourly through the book of poetry. “Lathbora viran,1” you read. You’re not familiar with the phrase, but you think you can grasp the general meaning. “Asha’elgara2, asha’vunin3, ir banal’ras4.“
“You see her very differently than I,” Solas says, and it startles a laugh out of you.
“We’re all different things to different people. I know she seems a little rough around the edges, but she—”
“OY. What the ‘ell are you doin’?!”
You look up sharply, surprised at being interrupted, and embarrassed at being interrupted by Sera of all people, when you’d just been in the middle of talking about her. “Uh… st…studying?” you manage to stammer out, holding up the book of poetry for her to see.
“What part o’ studying some stupid old elf shite require that?” she demands, gesturing down at you. You look down, confused, then back up.
“What?”
“…I’ll leave you two to this conversation,” Solas decides, extricating himself from behind you.
“To what conversation?” you ask, deeply confused. “Why are you…?” But he’s already walking briskly away. “What the hell are you so mad about, Sera? You know I have lessons with him on Sundays.”
“If you wanna waste your time with prancin’ around on halla—”
“They’re harts—”
“And readin’ a bunch of old shite from dead people—”
“That’s my career—”
“Then that’s your problem, but who do ya think yer foolin’? Why are ‘lessons’ the reason yer practically sittin’ in his lap watchin’ the sunset while he gives you a massage!“
You blink in wide-eyed confusion. That’s why she’s mad? “Sera, you just watched me make out with a prostitute in front of a crowd.”
“Tha’s different! You know it is, don’t play stupid!”
“You’re right, in that the one you’re not mad about is the one I would actually understand if you were mad about!” you exclaim, your voice rising slightly. You stand up, tired of being yelled down to. “Are you seriously interrupting my extremely narrow window to learn information I’ve been chasing my whole life for this petty bullshit?”
“Petty bullshit—!”
“Yeah, bullshit, am I supposed to believe you’re actually pissed about a massage?! Do you think I’m an idiot? Are you going to get mad if the Inquisitor grabs my arms to adjust my stance next? Did you get mad when I held Cole’s hand, or when I was spooning Dorian?! Don’t be fucking ridiculous!”
“Yer bein’ dumb on purpose now—”
“Just because you think studying Elvhenan is dumb doesn’t mean it’s not a priority for me!” you snap back. “I’ve never hidden my lessons from you! Why are you getting pissed now?”
“Because yer over here doin’ it in front of everyone and also me! You can’t possibly think that’s okay—”
“I do, actually! I think it’s perfectly fucking normal, so why don’t you just butt out and go be pissy about your heritage somewhere that’s not next to me!”
You grab your things off the ground and storm off as she yells semi-incoherently at you. You find Solas along the edge of camp, clearly trying to pretend like nothing’s happening. You don’t even bother to see how many people heard your fight with Sera; you just grab his arm and begin dragging him further away from camp.
“Are you sure—”
“Solas, literally the only thing I want to hear right now is conjugation lessons and my vocabulary for the week,” you hiss, voice tense.
You find a place to settle that’s frankly too far from camp, but you no longer care about that. You’ll have some privacy, since Sera had soooo much issue with you being elfy where the humans could see. You’re still seething, but make an effort to focus nonetheless. You’re not letting her ruin this for you. You try so hard not to begrudge her for her issues, but she’s just so hard to predict. You thought for sure she’d hate you kissing… what was her name? Anisha? but she had no problem with that. Then she claims to have an issue with Solas giving you a massage, Solas of all people! You’ve met neutered cats with more of a sex drive. You can’t help but suspect it’s because it’s Solas, because it’s this, because it’s elves, and—
Ugh, you’re distracted again. You need to focus.
When it gets too dark, rather than heading back, you encourage Solas to do his little “floating magic ball of light” trick. Just to make it even more of everything Sera hates… and more of what you love, can’t forget that part. It’s almost like it’s your whole life and career and everything that’s important to you rolled up into one little stolen moment of time under a tree, one good thing in your shitty shitty life that justifies everything you’ve sacrificed to get here.
Of course, you think to yourself, staring up at the stars through the tree branches, it’s not like you ever gave her a chance to understand why.
Solas does, eventually, head for bed. You’d probably kept him up far past his regular bedtime, though you have no idea how late it actually is. You, unsurprisingly, stay up. It’s for an odd reason, however, in the recent scheme of your life… You’re simply… not tired.
It seems preposterous, given all the activity in your life as of late, but you’ve actually been getting a decent amount of sleep lately. Two, four hours a night, sometimes even a full night’s sleep tucked away somewhere safe with Cole. It’s not as though your sleeping problems began and ended with your magic, although you’ll confess it certainly did not help. Really, it was only a matter of time before you just… stopped getting sleepy. You don’t feel exhausted or sick. You don’t feel like you could run a marathon, either, but you’re certainly not capable of going to bed.
You wander around the far, far edges of camp, close enough that you can just barely see the light from the campfire through the trees. Your shoes hang around your shoulders, tied together by their laces, as you enjoy the cold, slightly damp crunch of dead leaves beneath your bare feet. Solas’ magic light, still charged with his mana, bounces through the air as you play an idle game of catch with it. It seems as though you can move it with a bat of your hand, although it’s also not solid. It floats through the air in slow arcs as you toss it up and ahead, walk, catch it, again and again.
A little breath of the familiar, although it’s not as though you’ve any real familiarity with his particular version of the common spell. No memories of doing this as a child, although you could certainly imagine it. If only your life had been slightly different.
If only your life had been his.
When you’re finally ready to head back to camp, you catch the ball in your fist and let your aura race hungrily down your arm, through your palm. In an instant, the light is gone. A few flecks of ash fall from your hand before getting picked up and blown into nothingness by the wind. You look at your empty hand for a time, and then make your way back towards the light of the campfire.