Days Go By

You spend the night tossing and turning, a combination of libido and insomnia keeping you up through the night. You’re certain you look like a mess by the time you roll out of bed, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You’re catching at least glimpses of sleep, and you’re confident that you can survive for a while like this. You’re just not happy about it.

You dress as lightly as you can, knowing you’ll just want to change out of whatever you’re wearing after spending the pre-dawn hours pretending to learn to throw a decent punch. All of the clothing is a size too big for you and fits poorly, the consequences of having an elven body in a human-driven Inquisition, but it doesn’t particularly bother you. It’s clean clothing. Anything short of being literally made of rashvine and you’d still wear it.

You head out to the practice fields, and are unsurprised to see Iron Bull already there, stretching. And damn is he stretching. You’re not even attracted to Qunari, but a muscled body stretching is a muscled body stretching, even if it’s unlucky enough to have horns on top. You likely wouldn’t have even noticed if you weren’t so pent up, but as it is… At least you’ll be able to work out some frustration punching things.

Iron Bull looks pleased when he spots you walking over. “Wasn’t sure you were going to show,” he says, straightening out with a grunt.

You shrug noncommittally. “It’s something to do before breakfast.”

He leads you through a few stretches, all of which burn fantastically. You’re tired, but pushing your aching body through its paces does feel good. After you finish stretching, you begin the “learning” proper, throwing a few punches at air, and then at a dummy, to make sure you’ve retained the information from yesterday. You have, of course. Let him think you’re a natural at this; you have no patience for spending weeks or months acting like you’re useless.

You spend the morning learning where to punch, Iron Bull demonstrating both on himself, and on the training dummy. He mentions differences between the races of Thedas in passing, since you’ve only a human-sized dummy and a Qunari to practice on. It’s mostly practical reach issues… It would be tricky for someone of your height to punch a grown Qunari square in the throat, after all. You start putting a little more force into your punches, acting a little more confident in your ability to strike. Iron Bull seems pretty pleased with your “progress,” or perhaps with his own teaching abilities. What he should be pleased about is the fact you can be this close to him without hissing like an infuriated cat.

You stop when the sun rests contentedly on the horizon, fully risen. You feel like curling up into bed again, but know you wouldn’t be able to sleep. Once more, you’re sweaty despite the chill, and this time, you decide to get a bath.

“I’ll meet you at the mess later, Bull. I’m getting a bath, even if I freeze half to death in the process.”

“You sure you don’t want to use that private bath?” Iron Bull says with a wicked grin. You roll your eyes.

“Yours?” you ask with a snort. “No thanks; I’d probably drown in it.” You head towards the bathhouse you and Sera used before reconsidering. There are probably a lot of people in there right now, and you don’t want a scene. Best go to the one you’d been told about, even if it means a cold bath. All you really want is to rinse the sweat off and change clothes, anyway.

You do note that you only see pointed ears as you enter the bathhouse. It is as you suspected… whether intended by the Inquisition or not, there is, effectively, a separate, shittier bathhouse for elves. Pathetic, but hardly unexpected. You strip, again using a towel to cover yourself right up until the instant you sink into the chilly water. Without the fire rune, it’s much less pleasant, but water is water.

“Miss Emma?”

You start, covering yourself instinctively as you glance around the waters for the person who spoke. You’re surprised when your eyes fall on a familiar face. It’s Celia, the rather unlucky woman from the kitchen.

“Celia!” you say, not having to force the surprise in your voice. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I thought you might have traveled out with your ser!” she says, seemingly equally surprised.

You snort. “Me? I’d be dead within a week.”

“Well, we miss you in the kitchens. I do, at least. It’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t mind pitching in.”

You smile, the same practiced smile you’ve been using for years. “In truth, I hate standing around. If I’m not busy, I go mad.”

“You must be losing it, then, with your apostate gone,” she says, and there’s a slight teasing sound to her voice. Ah, yes… She likely thinks you’ve been sleeping with him.

“I… I try to stay occupied,” you say, letting your smile grow strained. “But I worry.”

“He’s lucky to have someone so… devoted.” She clears her throat politely. At least she has more decorum than Thea. “I’ll admit, I was a little intimidated by you at first, just because you seemed so… confident. Have you worked with mages in the past?”

“A little,” you say with the tone of an admission. “I was nervous at first, but in the end, a master is a master. They’re either cruel or they’re not; I find the magic has little impact in either direction.”

Celia shudders. “I would be so frightened! I get nervous enough when I have to bring food to Madame de Fer, and she’s a proper Circle mage!”

Your ear twitches with idle interest. “Have you waited on Madame de Fer in the past?”

“A few times… I have a tendency to lose at straws.”

You lower your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “To be honest, she does scare me… The way she carries herself gives me chills.”

Celia nods vigorously. “She’s terrifying!” she whispers back. “And I just know she notices every little flaw… If I never saw her again, it would be too soon!”

By the time you leave the bath to head to breakfast, you’ve gathered a bit of interesting gossip on a number of subjects. It’s good to know that your connections in the kitchen aren’t entirely gone with the loss of Solas. It seems public perception of Solas hasn’t changed much with the sudden introduction of a much more approachable connection, but that’s to be expected. That sort of project will take time. In the meantime, it seems like the mages with Vivienne’s so called “Circle” are a bit more respected and less feared than apostates like Solas or Dorian. Calling Dorian an apostate is frankly hilarious to you—the Circles in Tevinter have way better education than the ones in the South, and it’s not even a competition—but that’s what everyone here seems to think of him as. Dorian’s easy-going personality and flirtatious charm make things a little smoother for him. Solas, frankly, has neither.

Luckily, Thea and Iron Bull are both still in the mess when you arrive, and you join them after you’ve gathered your food.

“Look at you, on time for breakfast again!” Thea teases as you sit. “Be careful! If you keep eating properly, you might stop looking like you’re starving to death.”

You make a face at her. A little meat on your bones wouldn’t be a terrible thing, you suppose, but you know it will just go straight to your hips; it always does.

“We need to get a layer of muscle on you!” Iron Bull declares. “Make sure you eat plenty of meat!”

You snort. “There’s never ‘plenty of meat’ in here.” You gesture at your gruel to prove your point.

“I bet Bull could bring you mea-“

“Don’t start, Thea.”

“You never let me have any fun,” she says with a pout.

“If anything, I let you have too much fun,” you point out. “Don’t just live vicariously through me! You’re a redhead, too, you know.”

Thea grins wickedly. “Oh, I’ve already been on that horse, love!” she says, confirming your suspicions for you. “Why do you think it comes so highly recommended?”

You act appropriately flustered, then busy yourself with your gruel. It’s apparent Iron Bull is watching for your reaction as much as you’re watching for his, however. You feel a little bit sorry for Thea… involved in a game she has no idea she’s even a piece in. It’s pity, however, not sympathy. In truth, you’re glad to have someone largely guileless around. She gives you a nice break, if nothing else.

Thea continues to tease you as you walk towards the Great Hall together. You react as you should, but your mind is on other things. Hopefully she’s not perceptive enough to notice that your heart isn’t fully in your embarrassment, that your snaps lack force. You do note, however, that she breaks off before you enter the rotunda to go up the other set of stairs, despite the fact Solas is no longer in residence. Superstition? Habit?

You enter the rotunda, a genuine smile ghosting across your lips as you admire your desk. It still looks a bit out of place, to you, but you’re glad to have it. It… It almost makes you feel like you belong. Like you’ve been here longer than a scant tenday. Like you can make it more than a tenday more. You move to Solas’s desk, frowning as you straighten it slightly from where it had been mussed when Sera sat on it, playing with books and papers. It still feels a little empty in here, but at least it’s quieter. And there won’t be any distracting magic pestering you, unless Dorian decides to get frisky in the library.

You settle into your translation. You’re not making as much headway as you would if you weren’t being constantly distracted by your “friends,” and it bothers you. Arguably, laying down lines of communication and information-gathering is significantly more important than the tome, but it’s hard to convince yourself of that. It’s such a very nice tome, and you’re too prideful to let your work seem subpar, although that admission makes you cringe. Pride doesn’t align well with laying low, as evidenced by the fact you could have lied about your skill and spent your time peacefully as a kitchen elf.

Perhaps halfway between breakfast and lunch, another missive comes down from Leliana. Honestly, she’s right upstairs, she could practically drop it on your head. Perhaps fold it up and let it fly down like a note passed in a classroom. You accept it from the man who delivers it and unfold it with interest. Another missive in Qunlat… Surely she has other people for this? Or perhaps not. This is clearly more Ben-Hassrath documents, but this… This isn’t detailing the movements of an enemy or a cult. Your eyes widen slightly. This is the movements of Ben-Hassrath agents themselves! How did she get her tricky Orlesian paws on this?

You’re surprised she’s letting you see this… There are no dates or numbers on it, nothing to indicate if this information is current. Perhaps it’s old information, sent your way as a test? If she’s spying on the Ben-Hassrath, has some connection other than Iron Bull… She needs to know you’re trustworthy, and absolutely needs to know you won’t go running off to Iron Bull about it, especially since he wouldn’t leave well enough alone and kept being seen around you.

You put aside your tome and immediately begin scribing a translation. If it’s a test, you intend to pass. If not, this is likely vital information for the Inquisition. Either way, it deserves your full attention. You do, however, make particular effort to remember each word written. You can’t risk scribing off your own copy; if someone was to catch you with it, you would be dead in the water. But one thing no one can take from you is your own good memory.

As soon as the ink is dry and you’ve given the missive one last glance over to be sure you’ll remember it, you fold up both pieces of paper and head up the stairs. This time, when you move to hand the documents to Leliana, she dismisses the person she was speaking to, and turns her focus on you.

“Another swift response. Thank you,” she says. Her smile is a pretty one. You can practically see the poison behind it, however. Bards smile the way you do, muscle memory. “I saw you and Iron Bull in the practice court this morning.”

You sincerely doubt that she did, but a spy is a spymaster’s eyes, after all.

“He’s teaching me to punch,” you say, semi-honestly. “In the process, attempting to get me more comfortable with Qunari.”

“Is it working?”

“I’m learning how to punch.”

“I’m glad to see the two of you getting along,” she says, and then unfolds the missive, turning to read it and effectively dismissing you. You give a slight bow and exit down the stairs.

Is she concerned about a potential friendship between you and Iron Bull? She ought to be, if there’s anything to these missives she’s having you translate. Still, if she wants to know you’re more loyal to the Inquisition than you are the fucking Qun… The only thing you’re less loyal to than the Qun are the bloody Templars. The Inquisitor may not be your favorite person, but, for now at least, the Inquisition is doing important work. You wouldn’t sell them out to the Qunari… Not unless there was something very, very good in it for you.

Back in the rotunda, you work more on your translation. How long will it take you to complete… a few more days, perhaps? Depending on how many distractions come your way, both in the form of missives from Leliana and in elf- and Qunari-shaped packages. You try to get as much done as quickly as possible for the inevitable next distraction.

The inevitable next distraction comes in the form of Sera, unsurprisingly. What’s a little more unexpected is that she’s apparently decided to copy Iron Bull and bring you lunch. She doesn’t bother waiting for you to finish translating the current sentence to interrupt you. You sigh as you set your quill down. One of these days, you and she are going to have to have a talk about boundaries.

“C’mon! Let’s go eat up on the balcony!” she says, pulling at your arm when you don’t stand up immediately.

“You’re just worried that—Oh,” you say with a smirk, looking behind her. “Hello, Iron Bull.”

The scowl on Sera’s face is priceless. She was clearly hoping to get you clear of the rotunda before he showed up. And he has food, too! You’re starting to feel like the prettiest girl in the village. Iron Bull’s smirk mirrors your own; he sees the humor in the situation, too.

“Alright, ladies, I’m sure there’s enough of me to go around,” you say amusedly. “The balcony sounds like a lovely idea, Sera.” She loops an arm possessively through yours as you head up the stairs, taking advantage of your shared small frames to walk side by side while Iron Bull tags along behind. As if this couldn’t get any more surreal, Dorian spots you as you’re walking through the library.

“Oh, are you having a picnic?” he says delightedly, noticing the baskets. “And you didn’t even think to invite me?”

“I’m willing to bet we have enough food for four,” you say, eyes glancing between Iron Bull and Dorian. Hmm… “You should tag along.”

He does just that, and somehow you find yourself eating on a balcony with three of the Inquisitor’s companions. Leliana looked amused as the four of you passed through, but said nothing.

It’s the exact kind of situation that you would never have seen yourself in, and yet somehow, you can’t quite place where everything went weird enough for you to wind up here. Sera doesn’t look particularly pleased about the situation, but before long, she’s distracted, bickering with Dorian about magic. It’s a conversation you’re content to stay out of, until she starts talking about “proper tools” and then it’s all you can do to keep a straight face.

“And the rebel mages?” she asks, clearly frustrated. “How many proper tools have they raised?”

You and Iron Bull have some practice in controlling your expressions. Dorian does not, and it’s clearly everything he can do not to burst out laughing. “That’s not…” he covers his hand with his mouth, lips trembling with suppressed glee. “I don’t think I can continue.”

“Right. Well. I don’t care how gifted you are. Don’t cram it where it’s not wanted!”

“Oh, Maker,” you squeak out loud, then cover your mouth to keep from laughing.

She turns to look at you. “Wot?”

“N-nothing,” you choke out. “Just impressed with your… assessment.”

She narrows her eyes at you. She likely knows you’re having a good bit of amusement at her expense, but isn’t sure what joke she’s the butt of.

“What about you, Emma? You work with Solas. Surely you don’t share our friends contempt for the arcane?” Dorian asks, putting you rather uncomfortably on the spot.

You clear your throat to remove the last of the giggles. “I don’t work with Solas, Dorian. I work in his vicinity.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I just don’t want you overestimating me,” you say simply. “As for magic…” You glance around at the company you’re in. A mage, a Qunari spy, and a very cute young lady who despises magic. There is no good answer. “When I was in Tevinter, it was just another terrifying weapon that other people had that I didn’t. After Seheron… I didn’t have any run-ins with mages until I began doing translations for a Circle. And they seemed like ordinary people. I… I don’t know. I never gave it too much thought, until this war started.”

Dorian blinks at you. “I think that’s the most words I’ve heard you string together in a row.”

“It wasn’t the sort of question that gets a one word answer,” you say pointedly, then bite into your loaf of bread. Wherever these people get their constant supply of warm, fresh-baked bread, you want a line directly to it.

“So, the elephant in the room,” Dorian says, swiftly changing gears. This man is as much of a chatterbug as Sera is. “What are you all doing together? Especially you two,” he adds, gesturing between you and Bull.

“Bull’s teachin’ her how to punch! An’ I’m teachin’ her how to… how to…”

“How to be a more well-rounded person,” you supply. “Considering I’ll never be an archer.”

“So, the new fad is Teach the Elf? A shame you’re not a mage, Emma, or I could join in, too.”

“It’s just as well,” you say, chasing the bread with some of the chilled cider Iron Bull had brought. “My days are filling up terribly fast.”

---

It turns into a long lunch before you finally manage to escape back to the rotunda. At least you have something interesting to think about… Iron Bull and Dorian. Despite the fact that Sera and Dorian were both talking a mile a minute, Dorian and Iron Bull essentially said nothing to each other. Have you done any lasting damage, or are they normally like this? And more importantly, is there something there you can take advantage of? Dorian isn’t a hassle to you now that you’re out of the library, but Iron Bull… He’s the very definition of a hassle. A distraction for him would be good news for you.

You churn through more of your translation, working as quickly as you can without sacrificing quality. Most of the translations are fairly straightforward, and you have a good feel for the piece by now. You feel as if you’re on the homestretch, but it will still be a while before you can actually call yourself finished. Then it will be nothing but scribing new pages… joy. Your hand will be hating you for weeks… Unless Solas arrives back before then. The thought of his hands on your arm as warm, supportive magic fills you…

Maker, you miss that. No more shaking fingers, no need to stop and stretch every half-hour lest you cramp and ruin a page. You imagine warm hands massaging yours as you stretch your hand. Once, you had someone who would rub your hand like that, kneading stiffness out one finger at a time. It had ended poorly, of course, as all things do, but you do miss the massages.

You intend, of course, to work straight through dinner again. You have no guarantee you won’t be interrupted again, that Sera won’t come and try to steal you away (although if it involves seeing her nude again, you’ll probably go). When the door opens around dinner time, you cringe, expecting another attempt to get you alone from… Maker, someone. Anyone. At this point you wouldn’t be surprised to see the Horsemaster come through the bloody door.

You are surprised, however. It’s not Iron Bull, not Sera, not even Horsemaster Dennet… But Celia. And she’s carrying a serving platter.

“Celia?” you ask, confused, as you stand to help her. She seems fine, however, likely because it’s only a single serving. “What are you…”

“Oh, no one really cares where you take a plate of food, if it’s just one plate,” she says with a smile. “It wasn’t ‘til after I left that I realized you might not even be here… But you mentioned doing work in the rotunda, so I thought…”

“You brought that for me?” you interrupt, gesturing towards the food. Celia smiles.

“I thought you could use a little pick me up, with Ser Solas gone. Consider it a thank you from the kitchen staff. Especially me,” she adds with a laugh.

You’re a little taken aback. You honestly hadn’t expected something like this. In as many ways as this place lives up to expectations, with suspicious people and segregated bath houses, it circumvents them, with genuinely kind people like Celia or Belinda, helping you with, for all appearances, no ulterior motives.

“Celia, I…” you say, somewhat at a loss for words.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she says, getting a little flustered. “It’s just a bit of extra food.” She lays the plates out on the side table by the couch, perhaps remembering you reclining there the first time she entered. “I hope your Solas comes back, Miss Emma, so we can start seeing you in the kitchen again.”

And with that, she’s gone, leaving you more than a little dumbfounded by the whole situation. You take a moment to be stunned, and then move to examine the food. It’s the typical fare that Solas would be brought. You smile slightly as you move the food to your desk, intending fully to enjoy the meal slowly while you work. The scent of warm broth and delicately sautéed vegetables reminds you strongly of Solas and shared meals. Isn’t it a little soon for you to be feeling nostalgic?

You delight in dunking bread in the broth and eating it slowly, maneuvering yourself awkwardly to be able to write while eating, without risking dripping on your papers. It’s something of an art.

You continue working long after you’ve finished eating and stacked the dishes on the side table. You burn a candle down to a stub before realizing how late it is. You’ll strain your eyes, working like this much longer, but you know you won’t be able to sleep, and a walk through the cold night air will only make your self-induced insomnia worse.

That’s when your eyes fall on the couch. The gloriously, comfortable couch that’s only a few feet from your work area. And something miraculous dawns on you… There is literally nothing stopping you from sleeping on Solas’ couch. You stretch out on it immediately, reveling in how much softer it is than your bed. Perhaps there will be some benefits to having Solas gone, after all.

---

You have the barest ghost of a dream while you rest on Solas’ couch. It’s a warm dream, despite the chill in the rotunda, and while you can’t quite make out any figures, rhyme, or reason, you wake feeling… heated, in several senses of the word. The sweat sticking to your skin gives you a chill in the early, pre-dawn air, and your hair is a disheveled mess, the result of falling asleep without letting your hair down. Your comb is, of course, in your room. As are your clean clothes. You really didn’t think this “sleeping in the rotunda” thing all the way through.

You attempt to fix yourself as best as possible, smoothing out wrinkled clothing, letting your hair down and combing it with your fingers before pulling it back up in a haphazard bun. You change clothing after your mornings with Iron Bull anyway; going in dirty clothes is, if anything, saving the laundry workers some trouble.

The doors to the Great Hall likely won’t be open this early, so you exit directly through the rotunda. There’s an unpleasant chill in the air and a blast of icy wind hits you straight away as you step outside. Ugh. This place is going to be hell in the winter. The wind is somewhat broken up by the walls as you head down into the rotunda, fortunately. You have a moment of sympathy for guards stationed on the outer ramparts.

Iron Bull likely notices that you’re coming from the direction of the rotunda, not your bedroom, which is in the opposite direction. If he does, however, he keeps any remarks on the matter to himself. You notice he has his own differences this morning, namely the fact that there’s a somewhat short, but stocky human man in the ring with him.

You were drunk out of your mind when you met some of the Chargers, but you still manage to peg him as one of them… Which one, and his name, utterly escapes you, however, despite the fact you know for a fact you’ve seen him wave to you at least once.

Iron Bull directs you straight into some stretches, which don’t burn nearly as badly after your night on what must be the most comfortable couch in all of Thedas. You keep eyeing the man, however, uncertain as to why he’s there, as well as if you should recognize him. You’re not often at a loss for people’s names, so the sensation is awkwardly chafing at you.

Eventually, Iron Bull deems you’ve stretched enough, and actually explains what the hell is going on. “So, now that you’ve got the basics of throwing a punch down, I thought I’d bring Krem in to demonstrate how to be a tiny little guy in a fight.”

“Gee, thanks, chief,” the man says sarcastically.

Krem. Alright. You have a… Oh, damnit, that’s the fellow whose lap you drunkenly sat in, isn’t it? Krem. That was his name. Fantastic.

He is a little on the shorter side, but he’s still several inches taller than you, and that’s where the physical similarities end. He’s thick, firmly muscled under his tunic, whereas you look like a stiff wind could pick you up and carry you off. Still, he’s closer to your size than Iron Bull is by a large measure.

“I thought I was just learning to punch,” you say to Iron Bull, playing the reluctant house elf despite the fact you’re eager for the excuse. Maker bless Iron Bull, he’s basically handing you legitimate places to point when someone asks you, “where did you learn that?”

“Part of learning to punch is learning when to punch, and how to get the opportunity. If your arms are pinned, it won’t matter how well you can break a jaw,” Iron Bull explains.

“Wait… are you going to be pinning me?” you say with a frown. “You’re twice my size!”

“You can use that to your advantage… as Krem will be happy to demonstrate.”

“Oh, I’ll demonstrate, but I won’t be happy,” Krem says darkly. His eyes are laughing, however. You nod and take a few steps back. It’s more than a little alarming to see the strength in Iron Bull’s body as he grabs Krem, locking the man’s arms behind his back. You do not like the idea of being grabbed like that, especially not by a Qunari. You can only tamp down instincts so much; even seeing it happen to another person has you wanting to bolt.

You force yourself to observe carefully, however, as Krem smashes and slithers his way out of holds and grabs. What he does limits what you can do; you only have excuses to mimic him. Fortunately, when it becomes time for you to be involved, Iron Bull has you practice with Krem, first. Being grabbed at by a human man is something any city elf has experience with, and it’s such a familiar situation for you that the hardest part of the morning’s training is only dislodging Krem in the ways you’re being told to, as well as not letting muscle memory take over and sending him flipping over the fence.

By the time the sun rests on the horizon, you’ve worked up a sweat, and Krem’s probably worked up a new set of bruises from where your boot connected with his shin a little too passionately. You even caught your heel against his crotch, once, felt the sole of your foot connect with something squishy, but the man took it like a champ, only wincing and readjusting himself as you apologized profusely. All in all, it was a good morning’s practice, even if your whole body hurts from twisting and being grabbed at. You do have one complaint, however.

“I was hoping our little training sessions would be more of a secret,” you say with a scowl. You know they won’t stay that way for long, but you’d like to at least put on the spectacle of spontaneity when you get to punch the crap out of Iron Bull.

“My lips are sealed,” Krem promises. “After all, if every serving girl thought she could get ‘private lessons’ with the chief, he’d never have a chance to sleep.”

You ignore the implications. It’s just as well. You sat on this man’s lap at some point; him thinking you’re interested in another man is, if anything, a blessing. And you’ve long since come to terms with the idea that half the keep assumes you’ve been shacking up with the freaking Qunari. Maker only knows what the kitchen staff think of you, with the clashing rumors of your sleeping partners.

“I appreciate your help, Krem, and your discretion,” you say. If anything, a few hours of grabbing and punching at each other removed any lingering awkwardness about your seating choices.

He and Iron Bull head off towards the mess together. You make your excuses and head towards the (elven) bathhouse again. The water is cold and doesn’t do anything to soothe your aching muscles, but it rinses sweat off as good as any water, and you’re relieved to change into fresh clothes. By the time you get to the mess to eat, it seems Thea has already come and left, and if Iron Bull and Krem ate here, they have as well. You eat alone, a few stolen moments of blissful peace, although not silence. No mess is ever silent.

The rotunda is where the real quiet is, and you’re happy to get back to work in your translation. Perhaps today will be the day you finally complete it, if you can get through without too many interruptions. The idea of informing Leliana that you had finished your translation was an appealing one… Technically speaking, aside from the two Qunlat documents you’d translated, and the information she found on “Alix Gagnon,” she has no real evidence you can handle this kind of translation. You suppose you could show her some of the pages you had already finished, give her some kind of idea as to what the finished tome would be…

Your fantasies come to an abrupt halt, however, when your eyes trace across a completely bewildering sentence. “Pervigilem superest spicaherbis sopire draconem, qui crista linguisque tribus praesignis et uncis dentibus custos erat arboris aureae?” What the… And it just keeps going like that… “Parbarrum”? You’ve never come across that before… Which happens, when dealing with ancient or dead languages. Specialized tomes like this are a nightmare for it, but you’d been managing pretty well so far. Dragons get a lot of discussion in ancient Tevene. This must be something more specific still, perhaps to do with anatomy, although this section is more behavioral… You hunt the surrounding sentences for context, and fine none, largely because many of the surrounding sentences are things you need context to translate, as well. “Dura mater” could be telling you about a thick, helmet-like skull, or it could be describing more of the mothering habits of High Dragons. And this part is talking about wolves for some Maker forsaken reason… a comparison or metaphor, most likely. The most confusing thing of all is the sudden change in tone. Perhaps this paragraph is quoting another work?

You click your tongue against your teeth, frowning. This is going to require a bit more effort. Unfortunately, you’re not exactly in Val Royeaux. You cannot make a trip to the University of Orlais and lie or sneak your way into their library. There’s little chance the Inquisition will have anything of use. But… you suppose there’s no harm in looking. You yank your shoes back on and trudge sullenly up the stairs. This kind of a setback could really hurt your progress, and if you tell Leliana she needs to send off to Orlais for a tome on Ancient Tevene… how embarrassing.

You begin looking through the books, trying to get a feel for the layout of the library. There doesn’t appear to be much of a layout, however. It’s no organizational method you recognize, in any case. No wonder Dorian is constantly throwing books around in frustration.

Think of a demon, it seems, and one shall appear.

“Looking for something, dear?” Dorian asks, stepping up to glance over your shoulder at the shelf you’re currently glaring at.

“I doubt I’ll find it,” you say with a scowl. “Do we have anything on ancient Tevene?”

“In this library? If we did, someone would have already been translating that tome of yours.”

You let out a groan of frustration.

“Troubles?”

“Do you know what parbarrum means?”

Dorian frowns, thoughtfully. “Not off the top of my head… I have a few books from my private collection here… perhaps they may be of assistance?”

The two of you eventually settle in the little corner of the library he’s claimed as his own, him sitting on his grand chair and you perched on the armrest, so that you can frown your way through the same tone. The sounds of your hushed bickering soon fill the library, conversations half in the common tongue and half in Tevene as you snap back and forth.

“Terrigenam Pythona? Are you trying to make a fool of me, Dorian? There’s just as much a chance they’re speaking of a blighted snake!”

“Yes, I’m sure every giant lizard in legend is just a blighted snake. They don’t all have wings, you know!”

“What idiot would describe a dragon as Pythona?”

“Have you been to Tevinter?”

You ignore the obvious comeback—the look of dawning horror in Dorian’s eyes tells you he’s realized it as well. “We’re going about this the wrong way,” you grumble, pulling the draconic tome, which you had fetched from downstairs, into your lap. “As best as I can understand, this line is about this thing being… either an enemy or a rival, or… a hated foe? Of dragons. Perhaps modern knowledge of dragons can help us narrow it down?”

“How much do you think I know about dragons?”

The two of continue for longer than you realize, digging through tomes and bickering. You realize that you lost track of time only when a serving girl comes with a plate of food. “Oh for… Do all of you have your own private catering?” you say, irritated, as the women quickly sets the food down and scurries off. You grab a piece of bread before he can even reach towards the plate, tucking it into your mouth and chewing as you continue reading.

Dorian watches, a look of mild offense turning into amusement as you continue to pull more bread into your mouth as you chew. “You eat like a nug.”

You glare at him, but your mouth is too full for you to respond.

You steal bits of food off his plate as the two of you work. You’re certain Thea sees you, but for whatever reason, she leaves you alone, and after hours of pouring over books, and scribing notes, you have something resembling an answer.

“Okay, so we’re in agreement that they were probably a food source, more than a rival, and this guy is just being poetic, right?” you say, sitting at the base of Dorian’s chair. He’s still sitting in it; he’s only gotten up to get more tomes from his room. You’re nestled between his knees as he leans over to watch you write over your shoulder. With another person, it might have been awkward. Iron Bull would have sexualized it, and with Solas, you would have sexualized it. But Dorian reminds you more of your old helper back in Orlais in more ways than one.

“Yes, and it’s definitely a quote from an older book,” Dorian adds, thumbing through a rather tattered book. “Here they use drakon, meaning “dragon” in a completely different dialect of ancient Tevene, much older.”

You scowl and your notes. “I think we’ve accounted for everything… even that ridiculous line about wolves biting wolves… except what ‘parbarrum’ means. I-“ You pause, squinting down at the book you were idly flipping through in between writing. It’s an old bestiary.

“Look! Look at this! Parbarrus!” you exclaim, pointing to a label under a small drawing. “What… what on earth is that… Is that a trunk?”

“Looks kind of like a snoufleur…”

You meet eyes with Dorian, trading a look of shared horror.

“Nooooo…” you groan, covering your mouth in horror.

“Dragonlings,” he says grimly. “Hiding in bushes to ambush their hated foe… snoufleurs.”

“Oh, Maker, why… Such a stupid answer!” You curse under your breath in a few choice languages. “We spent hours on this, and it’s a thrice-cursed snoufleur?!”

---

You settle your things back onto your desk, glaring daggers at the messy page of notes that contains your translation for the stupid bloody paragraph, which contained, among other tidbits of useful information hidden in overly articulate metaphors, the knowledge that dragonlings ate the crap out of snoufleurs.

It takes you a while to resettle, and you’ll be sullen over snoufleurs for a while to come. You won’t finish the translation tonight, not after you spent half a day on one sodding paragraph. You fume as you begin working your way through the book once more, regaining your rhythm once the tome fails to throw anymore obstacles in the way. Normal declension and words you recognize soothe you as you churn out page after page.

Your stomach lets you know when it becomes closer to dinnertime. You intend to skip it and work—stomach be damned—but after a lunch of only stolen bits of food, your body isn’t particularly happy with that decision, and lets its opinion be known. You stand to stretch, taking a few steps away from your desk, bare feet chilled but comfortable on the smooth stone.

You have an instinct, so well developed you suspect it to be ingrained in your very bones, to look when someone shouts “think fast,” which is what causes you to suddenly look up and see something falling directly at you. You snatch it out of the air; it was falling slowly, dropped, not tossed. …An apple? You look up, bewildered, and see Dorian upstairs waving at you. Then he drops a few more, a pear, a plum. You stare up at him incredulously.

“A little birdy told me you tend to skip meals,” he calls down with a wicked grin. “You can’t afford to get any thinner!”

You scowl your way back to your desk, fruit in tow, but in truth, you’re glad that you’ll have something to calm your growling stomach. Thea could have run the fruit down herself… And she hadn’t come to talk to you while you were upstairs, either. Is she upset with you, for skipping breakfast? If Iron Bull and Krem hadn’t eaten there, she would have had no way of knowing why you weren’t there. Perhaps that’s it… if that’s the case, you’ll have to make sure you get to the mess at a reasonable time tomorrow.

You devour the fruit at an alarming pace and keep working. There’s no way you’ll finish the translation today, but if you make a lot of progress before you sleep, perhaps—

“Heeeey, Em’!”

Oh, Maker, why.

“Hope you didn’t forget about practice!”

You choke back a sound… whether it would have been a growl or a whimper, you don’t know. Sera. Of course it’s Sera. You couldn’t possibly escape her for long. This explains her absence at lunch, at least. You sigh. “I don’t suppose there’s any way to get out of this?”

“Not a chance!”

You sigh and finish up your sentence, capping your ink and standing with a wince. The day’s events have left you a little stiff despite your regular pauses to stretch. “Archery again?”

“Not this time! I thought of somethin’ more fun!”

“Oh, Maker…”

Sera leads you eagerly out into the courtyard, to a rather empty corner. You glance around, trying to figure out what she has planned. After she determines you’ve been confused long enough, she pats the wall of Skyhold with a grin. “We’re gonna climb!”

“…The wall?”

“Yeah! S’harder than a building.”

“…Yes. In fact, I would even say that fortress walls are designed to be as difficult to climb as possible.”

“See? S’perfect!”

You stare blankly at her. She’s serious, alright. “Did you at least let the guards know, so they don’t see two elves climbing the walls and panic?”

“Ah, you’re overthinkin’ it! Just climb the wall!” Sera says with a snort. With a reluctant sigh, you kick your shoes off. If you’re to have any chance of doing this without falling and breaking a limb, you’ll need your feet free and not crammed into even your comfortable leather boots.

You’re not sure how good you should pretend to be at this. You’re decent at climbing, but this is just… solid wall. There are places to grab, you can see them, but…

You start your way up the wall, carefully, wedging toes and fingers into what crevices you can find. “Sera,” you grunt after getting a few feet up, “I am not climbing this wall alone.”
Sera starts up after you while you slowly work your way up the wall. As soon as she starts catching up with you, you find yourself moving faster, wanting to stay in the lead. It’s something that you feel comfortable enough with her to be competitive, but it’s not a good idea. You let her get further ahead, and focus on making sure your grip is strong and sturdy. You don’t want to fall and risk hurting yourself… Will Sera never suggest you do something safe?

At some point, you realize, partway up the ridiculous climb you have no chance of making, people have started stopping to watch. You hadn’t even noticed until you lost your grip slightly, sliding down the wall until your foot catches on a crack. You regain your balance quickly, but a sharp collection of gasps informs you that there are, in fact, people watching. You risk a glance behind you and see a gathering crowd of off-duty servants and guards. Maker’s breath, now you’ve got an audience.

You glance up. There’s no way you could possibly climb to the top of this thing, right? It’s not the tallest part of the wall, but it’s still the wall of Skyhold. Even if you can climb it, you probably shouldn’t demonstrate that in front of a bunch of people. You’re about to call out to Sera, let her know you’re heading back down before you break your leg, when you hear a loud voice from behind (and underneath) you.

“Filthy knife-ears… How completely unsurprising. Only women of that kind would act like that. Somebody should put them in their place.”

Oh, for fuck’s…

“Must be Dalish, they do nothing but climb their whole lives,” another voice chimes in, quieter.

Sera definitely heard that one; you see her stiffen from where she is above you.

“Sera, I’m heading back down,” you call up to her. “I don’t want to break my leg; let’s break that guy’s instead.”

“If that redhead wants to climb, I have a much nicer oak for her.”

At this point, you notice a few of the other people moving away from the two shouting men. Even humans are often uncomfortable with this kind of blatant bigotry, and the sexual innuendo can’t be helping things. You’re just sort of staying where you are on the wall, waiting for some kind of sign for what to do from Sera. After a moment’s pause, she keeps climbing, and you wince. Maybe she can get to the top of this wall, but…

You start heading down. You can stand an embarrassing encounter with a couple of racists much more than you can handle falling off of a wall. You grit your teeth as the rather loud gentleman comments on your “filthy Dalish ass.” What are your chances of getting away if you simply stab the man? Probably zero.

You’re almost to the bottom when you hear another voice, louder, and angry cut through the racial slurs.

“What is going on here?!”

Your body goes rigid and you thud down the last meter or two, bare feet slamming onto the ground. You spin around quickly, mildly horrified by how authoritative that voice sounds, and are surprised to see a furious man heading not towards you, but to the small crowd. The few people who hadn’t already left bolt, leaving only one man who doesn’t seem to realize that everyone else has run.

“Th-these knife-ears are climbing the walls, Commander!” You recognize the voice as the one who spoke first.

Commander?

The man glances over towards you, eyes glancing over you and then up, probably to Sera. You see him shake his head, almost imperceptibly, and arch your neck to see what he’s looking at. You can’t see where Sera has gone. When he speaks, his voice is low, and threatening. “You know damn well that language is unacceptable, recruit.”

“Sir? I mean, um, yessir,” the man flounders, the wind suddenly taken out of his sails.

“To my office, recruit. Now.” The man salutes and scurries off, and to your horror, the Commander turns to look at you. You should have bolted when you had the chance, no matter how guilty that might have made you look. You glance around wildly. Where the fuck is Sera?

“Climbing walls?” he says mildly, the irritation gone from his voice, but not the hardness. “What’s your name?”

“E-emma, ser!” Your voice comes out a bit too high pitched. You clear your throat. “I’m the new… linguist.” Wow, that really does not explain why you were climbing a wall. In fact, it just makes it sound weirder. You’re willing to bet a name-drop might help you get out of this, if Sera is in any kind of good graces with the Inquisitor. “I was, ah… I was with Sera, and…”

“Say no more,” the man says, and your shoulders relax slightly as he chuckles. “That’s an explanation in itself.” He clears his throat, and then says, a bit more authoritatively, “My apologies for the soldier, Miss Emma. I guarantee you won’t hear anything like that from him again.”

“Ah, no, it’s… I… Th-thank you, ser,” you stammer awkwardly. It doesn’t seem as though you’re going to get in trouble, but your heart is still pounding in your chest from the adrenaline. The man turns and leaves, likely heading back to his office to deal with that asshole. Once he’s out of sight, you allow your strained legs to collapse under you. You hadn’t been that nervous when you were being catty towards the Inquisitor himself! It’s much easier to be courageous when you’re angry.

“Sera!” you call out. “Sera, are you up there?”

There’s a pause, and then, “Yeah, I’m here. Why’d you go back down?”

“Because I can’t climb an entire wall, Sera!” you say, a little more angrily than you had intended.

“I figured you could!”

“You over-estimated me. What… What the hell was all that?”

“Well, I was gonna shoot that prat, but Cullen showed up first. Thought it’d be bad if he saw me about to shoot one of his men. Again.”

“You were going to… WHAT?” Maker, and you thought YOU were the one with a violent temper!

“Maybe just a little!” she says, sounding defensive. “He was being a right ass!”

“Oh, Maker… Why don’t we do something that’s not climbing walls?” you suggest. “And not archery. How about horses, Sera? Everyone likes horses.”

Eventually, you talk Sera down off the wall, so to speak, and the two of you head towards the stables. You likely won’t get any kind of permission to take the animals out for a ride, but you steal some oat treats as you enter the stable, planning on bribing Revas with them.

“Ugh, a hart? Kinda… elfy, don’t you think?” Sera says, wrinkling her nose slightly as you stop by Revas’ stall.

“Well, I don’t know if you noticed my ears, Sera,” you say dryly, “but I am actually an elf, not just an oddly proportioned human.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you’re all…” she waves her hand vaguely. Your feet twitch inside their boots, knowing exactly what she means despite her lack of communication skills.

“I just like the hart, Sera,” you say flatly. As if to emphasize your point, he headbutts you in the chest, then mouths at your hand, hungry for the treats hidden in your fist. Sera laughs, despite her seeming hesitation about the hart. “His name is Revas,” you tell her, and she rolls her eyes.

“Alright, alright, so you’re elfy with your little halla. I guess I can overlook it,” she says. Her tone is teasing, but it still annoys you somewhat. To Thea, you’re not elf enough. To Sera, you’re apparently a little too much elf. Neither seem particularly content to understand that is is neither your sole identifying factor, nor utterly irrelevant to your being.

You let your anger simmer down while you feed Revas. It’s impossible to be mad around the lighthearted hart for long, and eventually, you even talk Sera into approaching him, running a hand through his thick fur. She even, after a lot of coaxing, feeds him a treat. The two of you manage to have a pleasant evening, despite the bumpy start (and middle), but when you finally retire to your bed, you find you’re not relaxed at all.

8