Keeping Spirits Up
After too long spent tossing and turning, you give up and stand, change back into something that could pass for clothing, and exit the building. You avoid the courtyard and the tavern, instead heading up long stairs to the ramparts. The guards look at you peculiarly, but no one moves to stop you, which you suppose means you’re allowed to do it. It would be their job to stop this sort of thing, if this sort of thing were to be stopped. You weren’t necessarily told if any parts of Skyhold were off limits, but some have to be; it’s a military fortress, for pity’s sake. You shrug it off and begin walking the ramparts, eventually breaking into a jog, hoping to wear yourself out.
It’s a toss-up as to whether Iron Bull or Sera sees you and decides to interrupt you first, really. Iron Bull wins the coin flip. You don’t know if he saw you from below and decided to come up the stairs, or just happened to be heading up the stairs as you passed, but it does annoy you that he can keep up with your jog by taking long steps. Stupid tall people and their damn long legs.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks.
“That must have been very difficult for you to figure out. I bet it took every ounce of your Ben-Hassrath training.”
“Heard from Varric that you had a bit of trouble the other night.”
Your feet stop the second they touch stone, your body stilling as if you’d never been moving at all. Your own narrowed eyes catch his. “Of course you did.”
“He seems to be of the opinion I could help, seeing as how we went through some of the same shit.”
“Of course he did. Idiot.” You’re too tired for this kind of crap. “Let’s get one thing very straight. We didn’t go through the same shit.”
“Yeah.”
“You— …What?”
“I was a soldier in a war zone. You were a child in a war zone. Anyone can do the math. You were, what? Eleven? Twelve?”
“Eleven,” you say shortly. “I was eleven. When I arrived.”
“Right. And they probably tried to keep you out of harm’s way, but there’s no ‘out of harm’s way’ in Seheron.”
“My slaves, where are my slaves?”
“But I do know one thing. The walls close in and suddenly you’re back there, right?”
No, don’t touch me, don’t fucking touch me, NO.
“The tastes, the scents, the feeling, it’s like you never left.”
I swear to the Maker, you will never lay a hand on any of us, ever again.
“Hey. Come back.” Fingers snap in front of your dilated eyes; your mind focuses back in on reality. “I can help. If you want me to.”
He’s squatting down, a little. You want nothing more than to strike him, send a giant brute reeling off balance, for once. The hate has to burn in your eyes, but he doesn’t react to it.
“You can help by keeping your distance.” Your voice is a strangled snarl. You don’t like the weakness it betrays. “I need a way to burn off this stress, not lessons from the fucking Qun.”
“I could help with that, too.”
Your eyes narrow again. “Oh?”
“Yeah, sure. Maybe a bit of… friendly wrestling?”
“You’d snap me in half.” You run a hand through your hair, frustrated. You didn’t pull it back before leaving your room. You regret that. “Even if I was the type for a …spar, I’d be better suited for someone like Sera.”
Iron Bull snorts. “Sera? She wouldn’t know what to do with you. She’s all smooth with the bow, but get her into close quarters and she’s a mess.”
You feel the corner of your mouth twitch. “Tell you what, if you ever feel like you want to stand perfectly still while a noodle-armed elf girl breaks her knuckles on your chest, let me know. I’m sure I have a few not-so-repressed issues with the Qunari I could take out on you.”
“I find things are generally friendlier after a beating. Bet the sparring rings are all empty.”
He’s not supposed to actually take you up on it; it throws you slightly off-balance. But surely, he’s joking. You’re not sure if you want him to be joking, or not. “Oh no,” you say, a grin forming. “You don’t get off that easy. You want to do this, we do it when I want to, where I want to. And I want the Chargers there.”
It isn’t a bluff, but he calls it anyway. “Alright. It’ll be good for morale, see the boss get beat up by a little girl. Do it sooner than later, though. You look more unhinged every day.”
You leave the conversation wondering exactly how you wound up promising to beat up a Qunari, and more importantly, how you’re going to get away with it.
You manage to get a few hours of sleep in before you wake in abject horror. It’s barely dawn, if the scant pink light coming in the tiny window is any indicator. And the thing you forgot, the thing that escaped your tired, stressed brain has returned with a vengeance.
You never told anyone else to bring Solas’s breakfast!
Panic gets you dressed and propels you out the door into the morning chill. You’re at the kitchen before you’ve really decided what, exactly, to do. How do you explain that you need someone else to bring him his breakfast? What can you say that doesn’t sound suspicious?
Unfortunately, the second you enter the kitchen, someone grabs you. You recognize the woman, vaguely, although that seems unimportant as she quickly loads you with one of those heavy serving trays and begins piling food onto it.
“That companion of his companion enough that he needs a second breakfast?” the woman asks you sharply.
“What?” you say, still slightly dazed. “No! Maker, no!”
“Alright. Try to be on time next time.” She pushes you aside, and you definitely recognize the girl who comes to your aid.
“Sorry. Breakfast is always a bit hectic,” Celia says. “Are you okay?”
“I can’t… I’m not supposed to actually—” you hiss, but you’re interrupted by someone plopping down some sweet smelling bread onto the tray with a wink.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
“We really do appreciate this,” Celia adds. “Used to be an event every day.”
“I don’t even know where he sleeps!” you snap. “I can’t bring him this!”
“Oh, you don’t? Go up the stairs like you’re heading to the library, but take that side door out above the Hall, straight through and out the other side. He’s the next to last door on the right.”
“I didn’t want instructions; I wanted someone else to take this!” you say desperately. This is going very poorly.
Celia blanches, then throws her hands up. “Don’t look at me!” You watch her in dread as she scurries off.
Alright. Okay. You’ve done weirder things than this. Just bring the man his damn breakfast, you can get this mess sorted out later. You still have to meet Thea at the mess. If you bring this sweet bread, she might even forgive you for being late.
You try to keep Celia’s directions in mind as you climb the stairs to the Great Hall, arms screaming in protest. Across the hall, up another flight of stairs, through a door, and… Wow, that’s a really nice dress—Maker! You know that hat!
You swear to yourself and duck back through the door to the stairwell. Unless horned hats have become all the rage in Orlais, which is admittedly quite likely, that is, in all likelihood, Madame Vivienne de Fer. You knew she was here, but had been hoping that you wouldn’t run into her, at all, ever. An entire Inquisition, and you have to cross the path of the only one here you know you’ve met before.
You take a deep breath. If you don’t panic and slip by quickly, you’ll be one more serving elf. She’s Orlesian. They don’t even look twice. But Madame de Fer is a clever one. How many times have you walked by Orlesian mages? They never even glanced your way, except for her. She’d checked you. Still, it had been years ago, and you’re just one elf. You’re being paranoid. Lack of sleep has you stupid enough to be carrying Solas’s breakfast to him rather than let him go hungry or risk the ire of the kitchen staff. It has you stupid enough to act skittish around the First Enchanter. You take a deep breath, and then move, pausing only to bend your legs slightly in a facsimile of a curtsy when Madame de Fer’s eyes fall across you. She doesn’t even seem to see you. Of course. Another elf. You’re more relieved than you are annoyed.
You slip out the door on the other side, onto a balcony of sorts, a walkway. Next to last door on the right… You wander uncertainly up to it, arms complaining at the heavy weight of the tray. You eye the door cautiously. Your hands are beyond full, so you sort of kick at it, hoping that it passes for a knock, then wait. No response.
You sigh. You’re being ridiculous. Serving girls don’t knock and wait at the door to be answered. You manage to maneuver one hand to twist the doorknob, then push the door open with your hip. You walk into the room backwards as you carefully slip the tray through the doorway, careful to avoid spilling. You almost drop the damn thing as you turn around, however.
Solas is waking up, likely due to the fact you were kicking his door. He rubs his head and yawns, not quite noticing you yet as he sits up, stretching, and you’re now free to tell all of the gossiping kitchen girls that their terrifying maleficar sleeps shirtless. You try to avert your eyes as the sheet falls, not wanting to find out if he wears pants to bed or not. You do see the surprise in his eyes as he notices you. He shifts his legs off the bed, and you see cloth out of the corner of your eye. Pants. Thank the Maker.
“You’re quite serious about this, aren’t you?” His voice is amused; you can hear the laughter just behind it.
“No one else would bring it,” you mutter sourly. You latch your eyes onto a table and walk over to it, feeling all knees and elbows. You begin laying out the food, and frown when you notice something. “Is this fresh juice? Maker, but they do spoil you.” You hear the floor creak and force yourself not to turn around.
“None for you?” Solas asks, and you go rigid. He is far too close for a shirtless man. Which, admittedly, isn’t all that close. You have a large personal bubble when it comes to half-naked people.
“I’m having breakfast in the mess, with Thea,” you say, glad that your voice sounds calmer than you feel. “And I’m taking this,” you add, grasping the sweet bread. “Maker knows I’m getting something out of this…”
You turn, and unfortunately, Solas is right there. Once you make eye contact, you try very hard to maintain it and look absolutely nowhere else. “I’ll… u-um.” Oh, no. Not now, stutter. Stay gone. “I-I’ll just l-leave you to eat your b-breakfast, then.” Damnit. The amusement is clear in his eyes. Bastard could at least put a shirt on.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay? I found a very interesting manuscript on Antivan dialects I thought might interest you.”
Is… is this man teasing you?!
“As I s-said, I have plans with Thea!” you snap, turning away quickly so that you can go straight from eye contact to facing the opposite direction. You stride out the door, with an amused “Thank you for breakfast!” from Solas following you out.
You’re flustered as you head back over the Great Hall, but not so flustered that you don’t notice Madame de Fer’s gaze lingering on you slightly. You walk a little faster, skip down the stairs, and head out to the mess as quickly as you can, cradling the sweet bread as if it’s a precious gem. It might as well be.
You’re late, of course, and Thea is halfway through her porridge by the time you find her with your own bowl.
“I’d accuse you of sleepin’ in, but I checked yer room. Where were you?” Thea wants to know.
“I will take that secret to my grave. But I brought a treat.” You wave the loaf in the air. “I think it’s some kind of sweet fruit bread. The kitchen’s still bribing me.”
Rather snatch at it, Thea stares at you for a moment. You can almost hear the effort in her mind. “You… You went and gave that Solas his breakfast, didn’t you? Then you came back here and ate with me instead o’ livin’ it up with him! Aww, Emma…”
“You caught me!” you say with a grin. “That’s how much I like you, Thea. I could be having fresh squeezed juice right now!” There is no amount of juice, fresh or otherwise, that could have kept you in that bedroom. You’d been so frantic that the promise of a manuscript on Antivan dialects—which in retrospect does sound extremely tempting—hadn’t even registered. But Thea doesn’t need to know about any of that.
“So. What’s going on with the two of you?” Seeing your frown, she clarifies. “An’ I don’t mean like that unless it is like that. I’m just curious. One day you just up and move down into the apostate’s work area, now you’re bringin’ him meals and debatin’ herbs.”
It’s a fair question. One you probably should have asked yourself prior to this. You think it over for a moment as you tear off a junk of the sweet bread… oh, there’s dried fruit in this!
“Well… I went down on a whim. I was tired of being pestered—no offense—and I wanted some peace and quiet. If he’d thrown me out then, I would have kept looking until I found a cranny I could work in undisturbed. But he didn’t, so I just… kept on with it. It’s quieter down there, and I really enjoy the murals.”
“There’s more to it than that, though, right? You two are all friendly now.”
“I’m not sure if friendly is the right word,” you say honestly. “I’m just trying to squeeze some knowledge out of that bald head of his. His elven is better than mine, and I wouldn’t be much of a linguist if I didn’t jump on an opportunity to improve myself like that. I think he… tolerates me? Or is amused. Bit of both, maybe.”
“I think you’re sellin’ yourself short, Emma! You’ve already got Iron Bull all over you. Clearly, you’ve got something the men like.”
You snort, choking slightly on your bread. “Oh please, Thea. It’s not like that with Iron Bull. Or Solas. Or anyone. And you know it.”
Iron Bull would, of course, take that exact moment to burst into the mess and swagger over to the two of you.
“Emma! You give any thought to my proposition? You don’t want to give me enough time to reconsider, do you?” His voice is loud, and several nearby tables turn to look.
Thea gestures between the two of you, as if to say, SEE? Are you SEEING this? You cover your face with your hands and groan.
“Bull. Are you attempting to goad me?” you ask into your palms, teeth gritting.
“Depends, is it working?”
“No!”
“Hmm… I might have to try harder, then.”
“Maker, how do I make this stop?” you groan.
“Don’t suggest it if you’re going to regret it afterwards! What happened to working out your issues?”
“You’re giving me new issues!” you snap. “Besides, there are… considerations. I can’t break a finger, or Maker forbid, a wrist.”
“Maybe I should show you how to punch first?”
“Andraste, what are you two talking about?” Thea bursts suddenly. She looks so excited that you fear she might explode.
“I… We’re… Nothing.”
“Bullshit!”
“Don’t take Iron Bull’s name in vain, Thea,” you say dryly. She glares at you. “Whatever your imagination can come up with is doubtless far more interesting than the reality. And actually… yes.” You turn back to Iron Bull. “You should. Teach me to punch without shattering my hand, I mean. It seems like a skill I should have picked up before now.”
Iron Bull grins like you just told him he’d won a lottery game. You fear, momentarily, that he might pick you up and spin you around, or something similarly terrifying.
“That’s the spirit, Emma! Ataas shokra saartoh!”
You snort.
“What? What did he say?” Thea demands.
“Um… The nearest translation would be, ‘when you are given struggles, strike them down’.”
“So, what… He’s going to teach you to fight? Is this a Qunari courting thing?” Thea demands.
“Qunari don’t ‘court’, Thea,” you say dryly. “Tamassran breed them like horses.”
“You’re having me on!”
“No, she’s right,” Iron Bull joins in.
“Ugh, now I’m thinking of Qunari going at it,” you say, making a face. “It’s putting me off my breakfast.”
“That’s a little cruel, don’t you think?” Iron Bull asks as he sits down. “Hey, sweet bread! Where’d you steal this from?”
“She’s playing serving girl with that Solas,” Thea says with a smirk. “She gets food from the kitchen when she goes to get his meal.”
“Really?” You don’t like the look Iron Bull is giving you. You’re getting really tired of seeing that curious expression, because nothing good ever follows it.
“You better act fast, Bull, or she’ll get snapped out from under you!”
“That’s quite enough, Thea,” you say darkly. “I’m not getting snapped anywhere, by anyone.” The opens her mouth to say something else, something wicked, judging by the look in her eyes, but your glare cuts her off.
“You’re too serious, Emma,” she says, finally, sounding grumpy.
“I’m just serious enough.”
Your somewhat pensive mood carries you across the courtyard and into the Great Hall. Thea is, possibly, not wrong about Iron Bull’s intentions. It’s hard to tell with him, thanks to a mix of his Ben-Hassrath training and your abject terror. He claimed in the past that his interest in you was personal, and it seems, with Leliana’s own interest somewhat satiated, that it could actually be the case. You would be flattered if you were fond of that sort of attention in the first place, let alone from a threat as big as the Iron Bull.
Your mind is so preoccupied with Iron Bull that you find yourself completely unprepared for what happens when you walk into the rotunda. Solas is already there, painting, which is a welcome sight. He turns as you enter, and the second his eyes meet yours, a cascade of images of him shirtless, sliding out of bed, flash through your mind, unwarranted and extremely unwanted.
You avert your eyes quickly and attempt to prevent yourself from blushing. You… what are you doing? Has it been so long since you saw an attractive elf half-naked that you’re swooning over it like a hormonal teenager? …Yes, apparently it has, since your mind is now adding embellishments. You’re fairly certain he was never standing as close as your mind is telling you he did, nor was his invitation to stay anywhere near that suggestive.
You shuffle silently over to your workspace, or what passes for it, considering you just work on a couch and a side table. If Solas has noticed your sudden, intense awkwardness, he doesn’t comment on it, praise the Maker. It really has been that long, you realize. You were even flustered by Sera’s awkward come-on. Well, you have a bedroom, with a door that closes. If it comes to that, you can deal with the situation yourself. It’s a little embarrassing, however, as you’re normally not one to get distracted by this kind of thing. Well, okay, you’re not one to get distracted by this kind of thing in a high-stress life-or-death situation that is ongoing and will be for the foreseeable future.
You turn your focus to your work, banishing tantalizing images of naked elves away and focusing on wing development in adult female dragons. It’s not quite working, however, as you find yourself hyper aware of where Solas is in the room and what he’s doing at any given time. Normally, it’s easy to ignore him. You need to get a grip. Or excuse yourself for half an hour to take care of things.
“Sweaty, slippery, sinks into skin. Maker, it’s been so long; I think I might die.”
You jolt at the sudden voice, only instinct pulling your hand back from the paper and avoiding an unsightly blotch and ruined page.
It’s that goddamn boy again, this time sitting on top of the platform you used to work underneath. Before, you had given yourself pretty good odds that he had been a paranoia-induced hallucination, but now…
“Hello, Cole,” Solas says, looking up from his work at the desk.
“Cole?” you exclaim, a little too loudly. “I mean, um… You know him? He’s… real?” Maker, you sound like an idiot.
“Have you encountered him before?” Solas asks, seeming interested.
“I helped her, in the fog. She was scared.”
“And she remembers you,” Solas muses, seemingly to himself.
“Well, of course I do,” you say, confused. “Although, honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. …Cole, was it?”
“Yes,” the young boy answers. You marvel at him. How did he get up there without you noticing? You have a tendency to get absorbed in your work, yes, but not so much as to ignore a stranger walking around. You set your book to the side and stand up, not taking your eyes off him, lest he vanish.
“Cole. How did you do that… thing, in the fog? You calmed me down. How?”
“I help people,” he says, largely unhelpfully. “I heal their hurts… Or I try. Your hurt is deep and dark, a pain that’s become a part.”
Your eyes narrow. “What…”
“Cole is a spirit,” Solas interjects, and you wonder why he didn’t mention that sooner.
“What do you mean, he’s a spirit?” you ask, your eyes sliding from the lanky boy over to Solas. “An abomination?” Your voice is incredulous. The fact that the Inquisition allows an elven apostate to hang about is unbelievable enough, but now you’re expected to believe they just allow an abomination to roam about? Ludicrous.
“No, just a spirit.”
“Spirits don’t look like that! …Do they?” You turn back to look, somewhat surprised that the boy is still there. “The demons I’ve seen, from rifts, they’re all… monstrous.”
“Cole is something of a special case.”
“A marionette with strings of sorrow. Terrified, trapped in a body that moves on its own; how could you do this to me?”
You jump, alarmed. “What’s he doing?”
“Only an ally can betray you; betrayal is always worse. I trusted only you.”
“Cole, stop!” you shout. To your surprise, he does. You turn to Solas, voice shaky. “What… just… what?”
“Cole is a spirit of compassion. He sees people’s pain and feels compelled to help them. He has a tendency to… think out loud.” He doesn’t seem to be alarmed at your shouting, and his sense of calm almost irritates you.
“I’ve never heard of a spirit of compassion…” you muse to yourself. You eye the boy… the spirit, cautiously. This is a new kind of danger. But it’s also fascinating, as is a man who knows more elven and has lived a life like yours but better. All sorts of curious things at this Inquisition. “I’m sorry I yelled, Cole,” you apologize. “You just startled me.”
“It’s all right. I frighten a lot of people. I want to help, but I don’t always say it right.”
“I understand, I think. Thank you for finding me in the fog. You really helped. Things… things could have gone very badly for me there.”
Cole’s eyes light up a little. “I’m glad. You just needed to know you were safe.”
You are never safe, least of all here. You can almost feel Solas’ eyes burning into the back of your head as he watches you calmly interact with a spirit. A normal person would probably be running away at this point. Fear of spirits is so ingrained in the public thanks to the Chantry. You shake your head, not believing the situation you’ve found yourself in.
“I’ve never… I’ve never met a spirit before, never talked to one. I’m sorry if this offends you, but you’re so… so normal.”
“No one’s ever called me that before,” he says, a little bit of awe in his voice.
“Well, you’re not exactly what I would expect, admittedly, but… What I expected was scarier. Cole, will you keep coming back to see me? I’d like to get to know you better.”
“Alright,” Cole agrees, then looks over at Solas. “Don’t worry; she’s still more curious about you. She wants to know what you know. Also, what you look like, without…” He pauses. “They come off?”
“Heh, um… Cole, why don’t you come with me to the kitchens? I need to pick up Solas’ lunch.” You glance furtively over at Solas, letting him believe your embarrassment at being sexually outed, twice, is leading you out the door. Well, that is pretty mortifying, actually, but you’ll have time to be humiliated after the immediate threat has passed.
Cole, to your surprise, actually does follow you, jumping down off of the platform and landing almost entirely silently. Being a spirit without a human body must be convenient in some ways. He comes with you out the door, across the Great Hall, and you wait until you’re at the base of the stairs to turn to him.
“Cole. I need you to listen to me. You look into my mind, you see my hurts, my memories. Right?”
Cole nods, meeting your eyes for only a second before glancing away again, staring off as if at something in the distance.“Yes. You’re scared, always scared. A terrified tension, constant and constraining. But if you told them, they wouldn’t—“
“I can’t, Cole. I can’t tell them. And neither can you. Listen!” you snap your fingers in front of his face, trying to pull his far-away eyes back into the moment. “If you do what you did in there, if you tell everyone my hurts, I could die. You don’t want to kill me, do you, Cole?”
“I, no, I… But…”
“Please, Cole,” you say, keeping your eyes locked onto his. “I need your help, but you can’t tell the others about me. I have to stay hidden. You understand that, don’t you? If everyone saw you, if everyone knew you, some of them would try to hurt you, right? They’ve done it before, haven’t they?”
Cole nods, silently.
“Just let me stay hidden,” you beg. “I’ll be safer.”
“You won’t be happy.”
“I’d rather be unhappy and alive, Cole,” you say firmly, trying to hold his attention, gain his understanding. You need to know he won’t go talking about marionettes all over Skyhold.
“Hey! Knife-ear, what are you doing?”
Your head snaps around, and in that instant, Cole is gone. Annoyed, your eyes fix onto the human whose shouting interrupted you. You’re all alone; you picked this place specifically because it was quiet, out of sight of the main passageways. The things you could do and get away with… It seems the man is thinking the same thing. Something, however, dissuades him. Possibly the look in your eye, begging him to give you an excuse.
“Get back to work! Damn lazy knife-ears…” He grumbles as he wanders off again. Your fingers twitch, and you have to take a moment to get yourself back in control. You can’t lose your temper over something petty like that. You’ve been taking worse insults your entire life. Iron Bull is right; you really need to find a way to burn off all this stress. A few deep breaths later, and you’re on your way again, into the kitchens.
The food isn’t quite ready for you when you arrive, not like this morning, where they were practically waiting for you. You decide to join in, helping Celia and one of the other workers put the plates together.
“Two again today?” one of them asks. “He’s the last one I would’ve guessed to have company.”
“Two again,” you say, nodding, as you spoon some sort of pale, green colored bean onto a plate.
“Is it a lover?” Celia asks. “I didn’t see anyone in there when I came up. Just… you.” Three pairs of eyes fall to you. You clear your throat delicately, but say nothing.
The plates of food are made quickly as kitchen staff share knowing looks. Rumors of Solas banging the help will no doubt be making their rounds. Well, a little bit of humanization will be good for him, and everyone already thinks you’ve been bedding Iron Bull. Anything you try to do to dissuade the rumors will only fuel them, at this point.
Celia stacks the plates carefully onto your tray, adding some extra fruit with a wink. The damn thing is heavy, but you manage to make it up the stairs. Solas eyes you as you enter. He hasn’t moved from his desk, but he has cleared a space on it, no doubt for you to place the food.
“Where is Cole?” he asks mildly.
“Huh? Oh… I’m not sure.” You frown. “I was talking to him, and I thought I was doing well, but I… I don’t remember where he went. Do you think he’ll come back?”
“He may,” Solas says, and his eyes betray nothing.
“You have to tell me about him,” you insist. “There’s… there’s just a spirit, wandering around Skyhold? What’s he doing here? How is he here? Does the Inquisitor know about this? Do the Templars?” You balance the tray, with some difficulty, with one arm and one hip as you place plates on the desk. A little bit of help would not be unwarranted, but it seems like Solas is more than willing to let you struggle with the heavy tray.
“I have to confess, I’m a little… surprised, by your reaction. Most people would be alarmed by the presence of a spirit, abomination or no.”
You stare at Solas incredulously. “Most people are alarmed in your presence, Solas, or around any mage. I’m hardly superstitious. According to you, he is a spirit, outside of the Fade, who inexplicably looks like a human. He is easily the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. I’ll admit I was a little shocked at first, but I defer to the judgments of mages and Templars on the subject of spirits. The Templars are apparently fine with him wandering around, and you seemed comfortable enough with his presence.”
“You seem to know quite a bit about it all.”
You smile a bit. “Have you read Nertomarus’ Exponit Illud Phasmus?”
“I have.”
“I translated it. And others, while I worked in Orlais. I was very popular with the Circle in Montsimmard… Imagine, an Orlesian fluent in Ancient Tevene, whose pointy ears mean she works for very little.” You finally finish unloading the plates, and set the tray down with a sigh of relief. “I’m no expert, and definitely not on par with literally any mage, but I do know more about the Fade than the average person. For the same reason I now know more about dragons than the average person.”
You pull up the tiny stool and sit down at the corner of Solas’ desk. You’re not even that hungry, but the food smells too good to ignore. “You say he’s a spirit of… compassion? I didn’t know there even was a such thing.”
“They are not particularly common. They rarely seek this world. When they do, their natures do not often survive exposure to the people they encounter.”
“And yet, here he is, in the world. How did he even get here? And how has no one run a sword through him yet?”
“The Templars don’t know of his nature. He saved the Inquisitor’s life, and so he’s allowed to stay,” Solas says shortly, and you’re surprised to hear poorly repressed irritation in his voice. What could be causing that? You decide that, perhaps, a delicate change of topic is due.
“You said before that you’re an expert in the Fade. Since we’re on the topic… would you mind if I asked you some questions? None of the mages I worked for previously were particularly open to discussing such things with a ‘rabbit.’”
“There are few hard facts, but I can share what I have learned,” he acquiesces, the irritation behind his eyes not really diminishing.
“What’s the difference between a spirit and a demon?”
“In all actuality, there is little difference. A demon is a spirit whose desires have become twisted, or who is reflecting an aspect of humanity that makes it dangerous.”
“Fear, hunger, pride,” you agree. “As opposed to compassion, joy, or wisdom?”
“Precisely. The Fade reflects the minds of the living. If you expect a spirit of wisdom to be a pride demon, it will adapt.”
“Couldn’t… couldn’t you wind up getting tricked, that way? Believing a spirit is of a better nature than it actually is?”
“Do you trust the nature of the humans around you?”
You pause, for a little longer than you should. “Ah… I see your point. I suppose people are no more inherently trustworthy than spirits.”
“People, as opposed to spirits?”
Oooh, you get a bad feeling that you may have just stepped in a bear trap. “Uhm… What I mean is…” You pause to consider. “…Fleshy people. The ones made of meat, running around, mucking things up.”
“And what separates them from spirits, precisely?”
“Well, bodies… No, I suppose spirits can possess corpses and have their own body that way. Being unable to be separated from a body, perhaps?” You tap your chin with a piece of bread thoughtfully. “Not without dying, anyway. I think. Perhaps a more concrete nature…? Although where would you draw the line?”
Solas is looking at you strangely. “What?” you say, mildly defensive. “You asked! And it’s not an easy question, when your phrase it that way. I can’t even say ‘which side of the Veil one calls home,’ now that I’ve met Cole. He… makes the line a lot blurrier than I thought it was.”
“It’s interesting to meet someone who even acknowledges the difference may not be simple black and white.”
“Well, I honestly had never given it any thought,” you confess, untruly. “What makes a person people? I never really considered it. Of course, I was fairly sure I’d never meet a spirit.”
“Anyone who dreams has the potential.”
That gives you pause. “…What, really? Not just mages?”
“With the exception of dwarves, we all dream in the Fade. Mages attract spirits the most easily, it is true, but anyone may do so.”
“I… I actually did not know that,” you say, stunned. “…Huh. Well, for now, maybe I’ll just try to befriend Cole. The way he keeps vanishing off, that will prove to be challenging enough.”
“Cole could use more friends, certainly, especially those who understand his nature,” Solas agrees. “As with all things, however, exert caution. Cole is still learning to understand this world.”
You’re a little surprised. “I think I’m in more danger from Iron Bull, honestly.”
“Do you still think he poses you a threat?” Solas’ voice is not judging, but curious. “Why?”
“I’m not hugely fond of Qunari on the best of days,” you admit. “And I don’t have good memories of Ben-Hassrath.”
“Those are reasons to dislike him, not reasons he may be a threat,” Solas points out.
You frown, not quite liking where this conversation is heading. “It’s… I don’t trust him. Or his intentions. I’d like to… He seems nice, and… not like other Qunari I’ve met. But I just… I can’t.”
“I don’t mean to challenge your decision. Only to question it.”
“You question everything,” you say with a weak smile. “It doesn’t bother me.” It should. But you find it really doesn’t.
Eye contact is maintained for about three seconds longer than you’re comfortable with, and you glance away. “I should get back to work… Let me take these dishes back, first.” You stand, gathering the empty dishes up, although you leave a small cloth napkin with fruit on it. “Don’t eat these, please. They’re for Thea.” Solas looks amused, but says nothing as you balance everything onto the serving tray and head back towards the kitchen.