The More Things Change
You can’t possibly return to the rotunda, but the last thing you want is to deal with Bull. He’s probably not even planning on training today, what with everything that happened with Krem yesterday—
Ah… Yesterday was Saturday. That means, you realize belatedly, today is Sunday. A blessing and a curse. Belassan, Revas… but also Solas, elven. You’re not sure you’re comfortable taking a lesson from him after what you just did. You’re also not sure he’d be willing to give one.
Sunday gives you an excuse to get out of Skyhold, perhaps, but you find that the idea of facing anyone, even Belassan, is too much for you to bear at the moment. You feel disconnected from your own head. You’re not even confident you could form words properly anymore. Instead, you wander the courtyard of Skyhold alone. You could honestly care less about your promise to Solas right then. It isn’t as though you’re going to hurt him more. That’s practically impossible at this point.
Unsurprisingly, you find yourself near the ever-growing farm. There’s not really anyone there this early, so you hop the fence and find a bit of peace amongst the goats. It’s silly, but their little noses remind you of Bella, your now-dead mule… and they don’t judge you when you curl up against a wall, wrap your arms around your legs, and cry into your knees. They just chew on the edges of your tunic.
They’re no Cole, but you feel a little better for their presence anyway.
It would be very easy for you to spend hours—or days—berating yourself any number of ways, but you don’t have the patience for it right now. No, you need to deal with this quickly, and the goats aren’t going to get you there. Fortunately, you have ways, and a surplus of solid, grey stone walls.
You distance yourself from the goats, find a private corner near where the elves have planted some seeds that are just now beginning to sprout. A rough stone outcropping from the wall gives you the perfect target, and after rolling up your sleeves, you slam your fists against it repeatedly. You curse at yourself in Qunlat as you do it; the rough language lends itself to the task. The pain brings you back to reality. Surely there is nothing more solid than the stone, and nothing more real than your blood splattering against it. The beratement of your words reinforces aloud why you’re feeling this, and why you deserve it.
You stop before you’re satisfied, which is more painful to you than the actual scrape of flesh against stone had been. You’ve learned a lot about how to punch without breaking your fingers from the Iron Bull; you’d never been a hand-to-hand fighter. But you still don’t want to risk an injury serious enough that you can’t explain it away. There’s still guilt screaming in the back of your mind, but you think you can handle it. Enough to function, anyway, for now. Perhaps you can take some spills off of Revas… that, at least, you could explain away without arousing suspicion.
That requires facing Belassan, however. Of all the people you might have to face, he’s the easiest, admittedly. He’s distinctly incurious, he doesn’t listen to rumor, and he always seems to accept what you say at face value. He’s the exact opposite of Solas in a lot of ways, actually, but you still find yourself dragging your feet all the way to the barn.
You hadn’t realized it until you got there, but this is the first you’ve seen Revas since you got injured. Despite the fact he’s just an animal, he definitely seems to be able to tell you’re injured, and lets out a very distressed, very LOUD honk as he sees you. You pick up your pace, rushing to his side. Rather than butting his head against your chest, as is his normal greeting, he whuffs right in your face, sniffing the bandages. He lets out a displeased snort.
“I’d heard you were hurt, but seeing it… It’s really quite bad, isn’t it?”
The voice is coming directly from Revas. You take a step backwards, wondering if perhaps you were suffering some strange side-effects from that blanket after all, such as dreaming while awake. But then Belassan pops into view, taking a few steps away from Revas and towards the side of his stall. He’d been in there! You hadn’t even noticed.
That’s right, he hasn’t seen you since you were injured, either. Absentmindedly, your hand goes to your face.
“I suppose… But really, I’m due to have these taken off any day now. I’m sick of not being able to use my left eye.”
“Still, if they weren’t able to just heal them overnight, it has to be very bad,” Belassan says with a frown. He puts his hands on the stall gate and, to your surprise, just vaults himself over as if it’s completely effortless. Well, you suppose those muscles aren’t just for show. People in the Inquisition sure are fit… “Solas must be frantic.”
A stab of guilt pierces your chest. You twist your hands together, putting pressure against the area that you bruised against the wall, reminding yourself until the pain in your chest becomes less than the pain in your hands. “How are the kittens?” you ask, the first thing that pops into your mind as a distraction. It works. Belassan’s face lights up, his toothy smile shining white against his dark skin.
“Their eyes are starting to open. They’re eating regularly, and the runt… the runtiest runt, anyway… has more or less stabilized. Would you like to see them?”
You find you sort of do. Cats aren’t really your thing—most animals typically kept as “pets” aren’t—but who doesn’t think kittens are at least a little cute? And you did go through an awful lot to get their mother here in one piece—er… alive, at least.
The kittens actually look like kittens now, rather than slimy, slightly hairy deepstalkers. One already has the same sort of spotted, striped, tabby pattern that Asaaranda has, though in a faded shade of grey rather than Asaaranda’s dusty brown. Another one is an odd, faded combination of greys and oranges, in mismatched splotches. As for the runt, well… he can’t seem to make up his mind. It’s like someone took Asaaranda’s coloring and then spilled white and orange paint on it in random spots.
They’re actually quite adorable, and when Belassan picks up the biggest one—the grey one—and hands it to you, you’re strong enough to admit your heart melts a little bit. Kitten therapy, it seems, goes even further than goat therapy.
You coo at the kitten for a bit while Asaaranda eyes you dourly. She trusts you enough to hold her week-old kittens, at least, so that’s something. Their eyes are beginning to open… the runt actually only has one eye open, making him look like he’s perpetually winking. Belassan assures you that by next week, all six eyes will be fully open, and the little fluffballs will be starting to crawl around on their own.
It’s a fairly loud, impatient honk that brings you out of your kitten-induced reverie. Belassan rolls his eyes.
“He’s getting to be quite spoiled, isn’t he?” he says jokingly. You snort.
“Maybe, but I don’t see him every day, so it should be fine if I spoil him while I’m here, right?” you joke right back.
“He fusses on days you don’t come,” Belassan informs you. “He tried to step on my foot, yesterday.”
“Well, I’ll take him out for a nice, long walk today, and maybe he’ll settle down.”
To your surprise, Belassan frowns. “Ah… No offense meant, but I don’t think you’re in any condition to be riding.”
You raise your eyebrows, no doubt looking very unimpressed. “No offense meant, but I don’t think you’re in any condition to stop me.”
“You only have one eye!”
“And he has two. Between us, we’re above average.”
“You won’t be able to tell how far away things are—”
“I don’t see a lot of harts walking into trees by themselves.”
“Harts can’t tell how far away things are either!” Belassan counters. “They have a wide range a vision, not a deep one—”
“Are you planning on physically stopping me? Because if you grab me in front of Revas, it might be interesting to see what he does.”
Belassan actually glares at you a little bit. You grin a little smugly; you’re not confident Revas would do anything at all. He’s probably closer to Belassan than he is to you. But it would be interesting to see. And it’s funny to see that kind of irritated expression on Belassan, no matter how short-lived it is.
“Fine, but you’re at least taking someone else with you. I won’t let you fall off a cliff out of sheer thickheadedness.”
You shrug. Riding with Belassan isn’t particularly inconveniencing. You don’t need to drain your mana right now or anything. You just want to get out from inside the walls. “Fine, pick a hart. I’m going to get Revas ready.”
“I can’t go,” Belassan informs you. “I have work, and it’s my shift to watch the kittens. Sataareth will have just left.”
Damn… you just missed him? Ah, well. It’s probably for the best. You’re not in a steady enough state of mind for dealing with Qunari, anyway.
“Not quite left, actually,” a familiarly accented voice comes from behind you and to the right. You straighten like someone shoved an iron rod up your spine, even though it’s obvious who it is. Sure enough, you turn around and it’s just Sataareth. The weeks in Skyhold have been good to him; he’s finally starting to look less starved. Of course, that just serves to make him seem larger and broader, which means his sudden presence only alarms you that much more.
Like with Bull, your mind wants to make an exception for Sataareth, but only gets about three-fifths of way. With as strained as your morning has been, it’s no wonder your heart starts pounding. It doesn’t help that his black and gold eyes narrow in obvious anger.
“Valo-Kas. I had heard an elf was attacked and beaten quite brutally, but had scoffed at the whispers that it was you. You were clearly too strong to let something like that happen. After all, it would be very embarrassing for someone’s Valo-Kas Karasten to be beaten by a common human thug.”
You struggle to contain a laugh, which would probably only frustrate him more. But you can feel the corners of your lips twisting up in a shaky smile despite how you struggle to keep a straight face. Your chest is still pounding with fear that has nowhere to go, but this, at least, gives you something to focus on.
“What an extremely Qunari way of looking at things,” you manage finally, voice shaking with suppressed laughter. “Fortunately for you, you’ve certainly managed to get a real sword by now. You’re spared from the humiliation.”
Sataareth’s scowl deepens. “A technicality.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it? In Orlais, we live and die by them.”
“Sataareth,” Belassan interrupts. “Emma needs an escort to leave Skyhold. Do you have training right away, or…?”
“I have free time,” Sataareth replies, and just like that, it’s settled. Before long, the two of you are preparing mounts… Or you and Belassan are, anyway. Sataareth is standing nearby and giving Belassan a run-down of how the kittens had done over the last four hours. All the times you had tried to find two of your elven friends that could get along, and the friendship that winds up blooming is one between a Dalish elf stablehand and a Tal Vashoth ex-slave.
Skyhold is a weird place.
Sataareth’s reaction to your injuries is somewhat refreshing, though. You can deal with that sort of irritation… He’s not trying to baby you. He’s not scared that you’ll break, and he lacks Bull’s inherent suspicion. He doesn’t think you’re hiding something; he’s not wondering what you’re up to. He’s just pissed off that you let your guard down and got pummeled by an idiot.
It’s a nice change of pace, really.
You’d been wondering what sort of horse would support Sataareth now that he’s gaining weight and muscle. As it turns out, a great beast of a horse, quite similar to the huge creature you’d seen Iron Bull riding once before. Its shoulder is taller than even the top of Belassan’s head… and therefore taller than the top of yours. You’re just as glad it’s his job to handle that giant horse and not yours.
Where Iron Bull’s mount had been cream colored with a black mane and tail, this beastie is solid, deep, rich black with a white streak down its nose and solid white around each of its hooves. And a lot of fur around its hooves. Or… hair? Do horses have hair? What are manes and tails made out of, actually? You could probably ask, but instead you file it away as a curiosity to read about later when you’re bored. No point in looking stupid in front of your friends.
Revas seems to notice you admiring the horse, however, and pokes you right in your ribs with a tip of one of his horns. You jump back and wince, rubbing the spot. “Jealousy isn’t an attractive look, Revas.” The hart merely snorts and steps pointedly between you and the horse. “I couldn’t ride something like that anyway. It wouldn’t even notice I was on its back,” you say with a snort, and go back to saddling Revas.
The horse doesn’t look any smaller when you’re up on Revas. If anything, being closer to it makes it look larger. Still, it seems friendly, at least. And Sataareth looks a bit more natural on its back than he had on the normal-sized horse he’d ridden back from Val Royeaux.
“She is no Asaarash,” Sataareth comments, noting your stares. “But she is solid.”
“Technically, she’s a draft horse,” Belassan informs you as you and Sataareth begin walking your mounts out of the barn. “All the ones we have here are from Horsemaster Dennet’s breeding line of Ferelden draft horses. They’re the only things that can really support Qunari, but their temperament isn’t good for battle.”
“Good,” you say with a snort. “None of the Qunari here need any encouragement to run headlong into battle.”
The two of you mount up—with minimal difficulty on your part—and head out of the keep. You get more than a few long and even hostile looks on your way out. The confused expressions you’re willing to forgive; the two of you are a weird and mismatched pair. The hostility, however, makes your skin crawl.
“A human soldier?” Sataareth says disdainfully as you clear the bridge and your mounts begin making their way into the trees. “One single human soldier, Valo-kas?”
“He caught me off-guard,” you lie with a sigh. “He and I had several verbal altercations in the past, and they never went further than that. He caught me in the head as I was walking away, and the first blow dazed me.”
“Am I expected to believe that? You fought as well as any bas1 before, and armed with only a dagger. This is more of your trickery, Valo-kas.”
You glance over your shoulder at him, sourly. Twice now he’s caught you off-guard by being more astute than you expect. Though he’s surely not the only one to think that… the Iron Bull, and likely Solas as well, suspect the same. “Watch your language, Sataareth. You’ll wind up sounding like a Qunari again, throwing words like bas around. Does Katari allow that sort of talk?”
“Katari cares little for what comes out of a mouth,” Sataareth says with a snort.
“Really? He certainly seemed to mind what came out of mine,” you say, rolling your eyes and turning your focus back to the trees ahead of you just in time to get a face-full of pine needles. You splutter a bit as you shove them away, then flick the back of one of Revas’s ears. “Watch where you’re going, din’samahlen2.”
“I have not seen him come even close to the level of irritation you inspired in him,” Sataareth comments, and he even sounds a little amused.
“Oh, good,” you say dryly. “I’m glad I’m the sole point of antagonism in the life of a seven foot tall Tal-Vashoth mercenary. That makes me feel excellent.”
“I told you before, you are vehlalit-an3.”
“That makes me feel worse.”
“It was not my goal to comfort you.”
You snort. “You must be great with those kittens, Sataareth.” You drop your voice to mimic his low tones and thick Qunari accent. “‘Why do you crawl at the side of the box, sightless thing? You will only fall from the warmth of your mother. See? I told you. Stop crying, it is your own fault.’”
“I do not sound like that.”
“You only sound exactly like that.”
“You are not funny, Valo-kas.”
“‘It was not my goal to amuse you,’” you mimic mockingly.
“This is why you frustrate Katari.”
“And everyone else,” you agree. “Are you discovering now why they say ‘separation makes the heart grow fonder?’ I’m told I’m far more appealing at a long distance. Such as out of earshot.”
Sataareth snorts. “I find that unlikely, given the manner in which so many in this castle seek you out. Katari is far from alone in holding you in high regard.”
“Is that what you call it when a Tal-Vashoth kind of wants to break your neck? High regard?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you keep me in low regard, then,” you say dryly. Honestly, the idea that the Tal-Vashoth still remembers you, particularly less than fondly, is the kind of terrifying that would have you shaking in the saddle, were you not still reeling from what had occurred that morning. As it is, it just sort of seems like your due in life.
“Do you truly find that ‘separation makes the heart grow fonder’?” Sataareth asks, jumping back a few lines of conversation in a way that leaves you momentarily confused.
“Ah… Well, it’s just a saying, but I suppose there’s some truth to it,” you lie. Actually, you treasure separation for the exact opposite reason. Distance is distance; physicals distance leads to emotional distance and vice versa. The disastrous wreck of Val Royeaux, which climaxed today in a rather brutal manner for poor Solas, is enough proof of the stupidity you get up to when in close contact with a person for too long.
“I suppose that’s fortunate, then,” Sataareth seems to muse to himself.
“Why? Did you have a beau back in Val Royeaux you never told me about?” you tease.
Sataareth eyes you sourly. “I am leaving on my first task for the Inquisition soon. I wonder at those I leave behind.”
Your eyes widen in shock, both about the fact he’s leaving, and the fact he’s made enough friends to worry about. That second one is arguably a good thing, though. You don’t know if friends outside the Qun helps Tal-Vashoth stay Vashoth—just look at the Iron Bull—but it can’t hurt.
“You’re leaving?” you ask, deciding to only voice that first surprise.
“Yes. With a small group. Katari, myself, a dwarf, and an elf.” He wrinkles his nose. “The elf speaks Qunlat as well. Is that common here? I had never thought to see it outside Par Vollen, and yet now I am drowning in elves who speak proper language.”
An elf who speaks Qunlat… despite Sataareth’s grumbling, no, that’s not particularly common. “White hair?” you hazard to guess. “Big sword?”
“Admirably so, yes,” Sataareth says, and you manage not to choke with laughter about the concept of Sataareth admiring Fenris’s sword. “Particularly for his frame.” You quickly cover your bark of laughter with extremely violent coughing.
“Sorry,” you say hoarsely after you’ve wrested control over yourself. “Cold air in the lungs.” Maker. “His name is Fenris; he’s a… an acquaintance of mine.”
“Ah!” Sataareth exclaims, as if struck by some great realization. “The two of you have history together?”
“That’s… putting it a little strongly, I think…”
“Was he with you in Seheron?”
You stiffen. “How do you even… No, he wasn’t with me in Seheron. He was in Seheron, and I was in Seheron, separately. Years apart.”
“Ah. I assumed you must have known each there. How many escaped elves fluent in the language could possibly convene in the same place on coincidence alone?”
“Two, as it turns out,” you reply snippily. This line of questioning has left you a bit sour. “We didn’t know each other at all up until recently; he’ll tell you the same himself.”
In any case, you’re actually a bit glad Fenris and Sataareth will be traveling together. And Katari, for all you fear him, is an extremely capable warrior. You’re a bit less worried, knowing they’ll all have each other’s back.
The two of you pass the rest of the ride swapping anecdotes about Sataareth’s soon-to-be traveling partners. You tell him a bit about Fenris. Nothing personal, mind; you stick mostly to his personality and prowess on the battlefield. Well, and you might have stressed how important it was Sataareth not refer to Solas as “yours.” Just a little bit.
At the same time, Sataareth feeds you tidbits about Katari. It’s clear the Tal-Vashoth has earned Sataareth’s respect… and, it seems, admiration. You wish you knew more about him, independent of Sataareth’s rose-tinted glasses. It’s a little late now, you suppose, but you do wish you knew for sure you could trust the man coming to influence Sataareth so much.
Not that it’s your problem. At all. Just like the cat, you’d effectively handed him off to someone else… Someone more equipped to deal with him, with an actual desire to. Simple as that.
You manage to only get smacked in the face by a dozen or so branches during the course of the ride, and by the end of it you’re getting fairly proficient in ducking quickly. If nothing else, regular practice has rendered you significantly better at riding a hart. You still doubt you could ride a horse unless your life depended on it—the gaits seem too different—but a skill is a skill, no matter how unlikely it is to come up much after you leave Skyhold.
Although if Belassan is right about Revas’s attachment to you, it might be a skill that comes up regularly for the rest of your life. Who knows.
There’s a fuss at the gates as you cross the bridge. A big one. You wonder, excitedly, if traders have arrived. Normally, you wouldn’t care at all, but you’re expecting some goats and a few other farmyard animals. It’s a bit sooner than you expected, but…
No, it’s not goats. You really wish it had been, once you realize that it is, in fact, the Inquisitor and his party. Or rather, it was, and the crowd is just the remnants of the excited masses discussing his Holiness’s return.
To you, it’s a mixed bag. The Inquisitor is someone you dislike and fear in turns… mostly the latter. With him might well be Hawke, who you also dislike and fear in turns… mostly the former. Not that Hawke isn’t to be feared; he has the blood of dozens, arguably hundreds of mages on his hands. It’s just that it’s hard to remember he’s a holy terror—in every sense of the word—when he’s not-so-subtly suggesting he’d like to have a threeway with you and Fenris. Or you and Solas. Or any two elves in the entire keep, probably.
But on the flip side, it also means the return of Varric, and of Cole, both of whom you missed more than you care to admit to yourself at any given time. Although, you realize with a sinking sensation, Cole might be less than happy to see you, given what you’d just put Solas through, and why. Cole is the only one you can’t fool.
Oh, and Madame de Fer and Seeker Pentaghast will be back, too.
Yeah, you would have preferred the goats.
Between arriving back in Skyhold, returning your mounts, saying goodbye to Sataareth, and making it into the Great Hall, your sharp ears pick up a few tidbits of information. The Inquisitor had arrived, and then he and the Seeker had headed directly into counsel. Whatever happened in Crestwood, it must have been interesting. No doubt Leliana, Lady Montiliyet, and Commander Rutherford are in there with them now.
You pause outside of the door to Solas’s rotunda. It looms ever-larger in your mind, like an impassible barrier. It’s almost always closed, but to you in that moment, the fact it’s closed feels like a sign, like proof that you’re unwelcome and unwanted. But, of course, if that’s not the case and you avoid him, you’ll do even further damage to the all-but-wrecked… friendship, or partnership, or horrible one sided crush or whatever the fuck this mess is.
You should let it crash and burn.
But if you were going to do that, you wouldn’t have tried so hard to salvage the wreckage this morning.
In the end, you wind up heading to the kitchens, instead. You find some comfort in the basics… bringing Solas meals. That was the very first thing, really, the absolute first brick in your relationship with Solas. Since then, the frequency of your shared meals has been a constant comfort in the chaos of the Inquisition.
You fend off a few questions about your general well-being as you pick up meals. You want these wretched bandages off… but you definitely don’t want to upset Solas by removing them too quickly. Perhaps you should go back to the healing tent at some point… You were probably supposed to anyway, though you honestly don’t remember that insipid Dalish’s instructions whatsoever.
It’s only the strange looks you get, milling nervously outside Solas’s door, that finally pushes you into entering the rotunda.
Cole is already there, which seems like it would obviously be the case once you think about it. He’s sitting on the corner of Solas’s desk and conversing with him in soft, low tones. You pause in the doorway, taking the scene in. The two look so natural together. A mage—no, a somniari, even—and a spirit. Solas is comfortable with Cole in a way you’ve never seen him. Contrasting it with how you and Solas must look together, or you and Cole… for the first time with the two of them, you feel like an unnecessary and awkward third wheel.
“Comfortable and content. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle.” Cole looks over at you, not by turning around, but by leaning backwards, resting his weight on his hands and tilting his head back until his eyes meet yours. Ridiculously, you wonder how his hat is staying on. “Some things need three wheels. Most need four.”
You smile a bit, despite yourself. “I missed you, Cole.” The words spit out, unbidden, but you seem to be the only one surprised by them.
“He missed you, too,” Cole says, in that matter-of-factly nonsensical way of his. “He was worried you wouldn’t come.”
Your eyes flick over to Solas, who glances away.
“She was worried you wouldn’t want her to,” Cole adds.
“Yes, yes, communication is so easy when you have someone to do it for you,” you interrupt before Cole can continue. You’re worried he’ll bring up why, exactly, the two of you were worried. “I trust things went well in Crestwood? Everyone make it back intact?”
“Varric didn’t,” Cole says, and your stomach drops into your feet. “He stayed in Crestwood with Hawke and the Warden. They’re going west.”
“The Warden? Blackwall, you mean?” you ask, frowning. Why would the three of them split off from the rest of the group?
“No,” he says succinctly.
“It’s my understanding they were meeting a Warden friend of Hawke’s in Crestwood,” Solas informs you. “I suspect we’ll all be brought up to speed after the Inquisitor is done in the War Room.”
“All of the Inner Circle, you mean,” you say with a snort. “I doubt the Inquisitor will be rushing to tell his linguist the details.”
“He might, if he weren’t such a fool,” Cole says, and both his words and intonation startle you before you see the embarrassment and minor irritation on Solas’s face; those had been his thoughts. Upon realizing that, it’s your turn to be embarrassed.
Cole glances between the two of you. “Oh! Three wheels! I get it now!” he exclaims, and vanishes.
You belatedly reach out a hand, as if to stop him, then sigh. Like that would work. You can catch up to him later, anyway; you’re still carrying a rather heavy tray.
Cole did a bit to break the tension, but the awkwardness is rising again now that it’s just the two of you. Walking over to Solas’s desk is a struggle, and he’s rather pointedly looking anywhere but you. It’s only because of Cole’s words that you know it’s because he’s feeling as guilty and self-loathing as you are, rather than because he’s angry with you.
Of course, you’re the reason he feels that way, you absolute piece of shit. You clear your throat to help wrest control over your own tear ducts. You have self-control, if you ever bothered to practice it. Refusing to cry is much harder than crying on command, but you can still manage it. It helps that you about cried yourself dry earlier.
Your foot catches on something unexpected and you trip dramatically forward, hopping desperately on one foot to regain your balance as plates clatter. Solas’s “totally not looking at you” act falls apart immediately as he’s on his feet in an instant, but you’ve already caught yourself. You shake your right foot to get it loose from whatever it tangled into; the stool Solas always places at his desk clatters to the ground.
Ah.
You hadn’t been expecting that to be there.
“Are you alright?” Solas asks, still standing, arms slightly out as if he still expects he’ll have to catch something.
“Yes… Sorry. I’ve been running into everything since getting these stupid bandages put on. I don’t know how Bull deals with it.”
“Years of practice, I’m sure,” Solas says, taking a few plates off the tray and setting them onto the desk. You join him after a moment’s hesitation; he’s unloading your plates onto his desk as well. Between that and the stool, well…
It’s nice to know that some things don’t have to change.
That being said, conversation over lunch is more than a little stilted and awkward as you both fumble around the bronto in the room. It’s probably only the mutual knowledge—thanks to Cole—that neither of you want the friendship to end that gets you through. No doubt that’s exactly why Cole said it. He’d probably sensed Solas’s hurt clear across the keep; ah, there’s that familiar stab of guilt again. You were worried, for a moment there, that you’d go for a whole five minutes without loathing yourself.
“Given all that has passed this week,” Solas is saying, “It would be perfectly reasonable for you not to have completed the assignments I gave you. And yet, I have absolutely no doubt that you did them anyway.”
You blink for a second, confused, before you realize what he means. The elven. Your face lights up like the Holy Brazier itself.
“Therefore,” Solas continues, “We should be able to move forward in your studies relatively uninterrupted despite—”
You’re already pushing your food to the side and standing to fetch your papers. Solas looks alarmed, so you state your intentions as you jog over to your desk. “I’ve got them right over here; I finished them before things even went to shit—ha, and you were laughing at me for doing it the next day—”
“You know I’m going to insist you finish eating first. You have to,” Solas says, and the dryness in his voice is almost comforting. “I’ve been doing it every day for over a month now.”
You turn to look at him, papers already in your hands.
“Sit,” he says, pointing across the desk. “Eat. The elven language won’t disappear in the time it takes you to make a nominal attempt at maintaining your health.”
“Are you sure?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Everything else disappeared fast enough.” Solas looks as though you’ve just slapped him; equal parts shocked and hurt. Seems you can’t even speak without causing the man pain at this point. Good job. You hadn’t expected it, but then, you’d reacted pretty sourly to some of Sera’s comments on the subject of dead elves. “Sorry,” you say quickly. “Dark humor helps me cope, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“Cope?” Solas says, a little more bitterly than you think is strictly necessary. “With the death of a people and culture you never knew, thousands of years ago?”
“Yes,” you say, more sharply than you want to. “With the death of the people and culture I never got to know, thousands of years ago.” You bite back more angry words with a sigh. This isn’t Sera. He has to understand what you mean, the feeling. There’s no need for you two to snipe at each other. “I am sorry, though. I forget that… different people handle it differently. Jokes about that sort of thing, in mixed company, it was… inappropriate. Ir abelas.”
Solas irritation seems to soften around the edges. “I apologize as well. You feel the loss more keenly than most I meet these days.”
You shrug as you sit back down at the desk, placing your papers to the side. Perhaps you do… it’s hard for you to say, really. You never thought yourself particularly unusual in this matter, of all things. But maybe Sera is the average, with her disdain for all things elvhen. You can’t help doubting it, however. If you’re unusual in anything, it’s that you’ve developed the means to actually do something about your “keen sense of loss.” Something most elves will never be in a position to do.
Well, the nice thing about knowledge is the manner in which it spreads… Like wildfire in the dry season. And you’ve always had a talent for lighting flames.
The afternoon passes remarkably happily. You can almost—almost—pretend the morning didn’t happen. Solas is a bit more… on edge… than normal, but you’re able to dodge the worst of his poor mood, and the rest you’re more than willing to accept as your due. You don’t know if he’ll leave the subject of your sleeping mind alone or not. He may just begin to employ more subterfuge. But at least you can still keep him close enough to watch.
And you’d accept a lot worse than a few tongue-lashings to be able to keep learning the elven language from him, of course.
Between your attempts to focus on your studies and your constant, swirling thoughts about what Solas might be thinking, might be planning, you barely even have a thought to spare for the returned Inquisitor and his companions. That is, of course, until the early evening, when the Inquisitor all but kicks in the rotunda door.
The sound of the slam has you just about jumping out of your skin, flight reflex flooding through your bones. The desire to quickly make yourself scarce only grows when you spin on your stool and see who it is. The Inquisitor is smiling, but it’s a thin smile, and he looks either angry or extremely tired. You don’t know him well enough to say for sure.
“I need to talk to you,” he declares. You quickly gather your things off Solas’s desk, deciding your instincts are right. The Inquisitor is clearly here to speak to Solas… and you don’t really feel like your presence would help things any. “No,” he interrupts as you scoop your things into your arms and begin to rise. “Both of you.”
Both of you?!
You swallow, but turn again on your stool, feeling like a deer frozen before a wolf. What could he possibly want with the two of you? It must be about the trip to Val Royeaux… That’s the only thing you and Solas have ‘together,’ in any professional capacity.
“Welcome back to Skyhold, Inquisitor,” Solas says. His voice is very polite and neutral, but brings with it a level of frostiness that chills you more surely than the coldest mountain wind.
“Not for long,” the Inquisitor replies. He runs a hand along the side of his face, and you see now that he certainly is tired; there are dark bags under his eyes. His facial hair is ragged and unkempt from two weeks on the road. “I leave in two days, for the Western Approach. Or, we do, I should say.”
Your stomach sinks into your feet. Solas is leaving in two days? And he’s going all the way to the Western Approach?! It would take at least two weeks’ fast travel just to reach the very edge of the huge Blight-struck desert that encompasses most of southwestern Orlais.
Solas seems to draw the same conclusion as you. “I expect we’ll be gone for several months, then?”
“Yes, though much depends on what exactly we find there. There’s no time to waste: begin preparations for a long trip immediately.”
You’re depressed at once… months. What are you going to do here, without Solas, for months? Well… survive, obviously, and probably much more easily. You should probably be pleased by this news, but you’re positively despondent. The Inquisitor is turning to you, however, so you have no time to dwell in your misery yet.
“Leliana tells me that you’ve yet to finish the dragon tome.”
“Ah… yes,” you admit, fear followed by irritation at Leliana sparking inside of you. Maybe you would have finished by now if she didn’t insist on constantly distracting you with trivial bullshit. “My sincerest apologies, Inquisitor. I did think it would be done by now… A few more days solid work, perhaps? I’ve run into some… delays, as of late,” you admit, running a hand over the bandages on your face, which the Inquisitor must see but hasn’t seemed to take much note of.
“I cannot give you solid days, unfortunately. You’ll just have to finish it to the best of your ability on the way.”
You blink in confusion. “On the way where?”
He gives you a look that’s a mix of pity and contempt, as if you’ve said something truly stupid. “They must have you on something strong for that injury. The Western Approach, I said.”
- Literally, “thing;” foreign to the Qun; purposeless. Often used as a neutral term to describe non-Qunari people ↩︎
- brat ↩︎
- two people that hate each other but respect each other. Carries connotation of “rivals” as well as “respected enemy” and, when noted by a third party, often “they’ll either fight or fuck.” ↩︎