One Brooding Elf Attracts Another
You’ve gotten almost all of the tomes organized by the time a courier enters the rotunda. The man doesn’t look nervous at all, a sure sign that he’s one of Leliana’s. You’re instantly irritated as your mind flies to missives and all the work you still have to do. But you’re in luck; this man is delivering something else entirely. A small table is set by your desk, with the magnifying stand already in place upon it. You immediately move to examine it, ensuring it hadn’t been at all damaged by the trip to Skyhold. It’s much fancier than you’re used to working with; it will take some getting used to.
“I believe that signals the start of my work day,” you say cheerfully to Solas. “Oh, that reminds me. This morning I was a bit more active than I probably should have been. Could you look at my hands?”
“Being responsible for once?” Solas says mildly. “Or at least what passes for it, for you. Very well, come here then.”
You approach him, ready to give him your bandaged hands; they only hurt a bit, but you’re willing to bet your antics with Argent had exacerbated them. You wouldn’t be able to get through a full day of writing without some real pain, you suspect. However, once you’re close, his eyes flick from your hands to your face, where they lock. You cringe at the deep frown that forms on his face. What did you do?
He reaches out and grips your chin, angling your face upwards. “Tell me, did your morning activities involve being struck in the face?”
Oh, that’s right. You’ve a split lip. You’ll probably have bruises on your face eventually, but you suppose they must not have formed yet, or Solas would have already noticed. “Yes, actually,” you admit, and Solas’s frown deepens. “Don’t blame me! It was the ‘trainer’ that Leliana assigned to me. She doesn’t play as nice as Bull.”
“That’s alarming,” he says irritably. “Given the way Bull has brutalized you in the past.”
“I don’t think I’ll be with her for long,” you say, trying to reassure him. “Just until—”
“Quiet,” he says, and your mouth slams shut almost before your tongue can stop moving. He runs a thumb over your upper lip and you feel the pleasant tingle of healing magic. A chill shudders down your spine and it’s all you can do not to shiver visibly. Thank the Maker you have self-control; you have to use one hundred percent of it to kill the urge to pull his thumb into your mouth.
You feel like you need to jump into a very cold lake… perhaps roll around in the snow outside of Skyhold.
“Let’s see how much damage you’ve done,” Solas says with a sigh, dropping his hand from your face to your hands. It doesn’t help much.
He unwraps one of your hands carefully. The skin is red and has cracked around your knuckles, but overall, you don’t think it looks too bad. Solas lets out a long sigh, however. “Tell your ‘teacher’ that you’re not to use your hands in any strenuous manner for at least three days,” Solas says firmly. “If she or Leliana has a problem with that, send them to me.”
“I can’t decide if that would be the worst thing for me to do or totally worth it, just to see you get in a pissing match with Leliana,” you say, slightly bemused.
“I will put it this way. If you come to me with cracked knuckles again this week, I will simply bandage your hands in a way that leaves you unable to write,” he says darkly as he unwraps your other hand. “Leliana can decide if she wants the tome enough to leave you in peace.”
You’re starting to feel like he would win the contest, but that doesn’t make you want to see it any less.
“I can write today, though, right?” you ask, frowning. Admittedly, there are other things you can do if you absolutely can’t write, but you’d like to get started.
“Pace yourself. Do not overdo it… again,” he warns. “But yes.”
He pours healing into both hands, a slow, gentle throbbing that you suspect you’ll be feeling throughout the day. You wonder again what exactly you did to your hands that they require this sort of slow heal. You should probably avoid mutilating yourself on trees in the future… of course, if it were that easy, you would never have done it in the first place. Even just thinking about the state Revas is in, and how exhausted Solas had been… You shudder. You have to avoid that line of thought, as well as avoid thinking about how you’re going to apologize to Belassan.
You make a face as Solas begins re-bandaging your hands. “Is it necessary to have them bandaged? I need—” He doesn’t even say anything, he just gives you a look. You fall quiet. Alright, bandages it is, then.
The last thing Solas does is run a warm hand over your wrist, and you feel the familiar strengthening magic spread through your arm, down to your very fingertips. You can’t help letting out a pleased hum at the sensation.
“Do not forget your end of the bargain,” he reminds you. “No matter how busy you may be, at least attempt a full night’s sleep each evening.”
“Absolutely,” you say, though you’ve no idea how successful you’ll be at keeping to it. You suppose it depends on how many distractions hit you each day. It would be very easy for you to fall into writing all day and then reading all night, especially given that you have other tasks you need to see to during the day. But you resolve to at least try to rest each night. Surely just laying still with your eyes closed would accomplish something, right? Solas asks very little of you in return for his kindness, after all. The least you can do is actually comply.
Despite your desire to immediately get to work, however, you spend the first hour or so simply getting everything organized. Now that you have the magnifying stand, you want to try it out very badly, and honestly, you might as well. Replicating the diagrams in this tome is going to be the hardest part of the whole thing, if not the most time consuming. Were you alone, you could do half of the work with magic. Were you in Val Royeaux, you could pay someone else to do half of the work with magic. You have neither luxury, so by hand it is.
When you finally have everything ready, all organized and unpacked and sorted and listed, you let yourself turn eagerly to the new magnifying stand. Maker, that’s a lot of glass. And a lot of knobs. It looks more complicated than it is, however. You manage to get the tome situated underneath it comfortably, adjust the mirrors, set the table just so… Honestly, the best thing one can say for a long work day is that you’ll only have to set this up once or twice. You can work your way through all the images in the entire damned book and then worry about the words after. It’ll be easier that way.
And it’s just as you’ve settled in to finally, finally, focus and get some work done, that you realize what time it is.
Lunch time.
You glare at the candle that’s innocently informing you that it’s near noon, as if it’s to blame for this. Your long, irritated sigh sounds like a sound Solas would make, but you stand. There’s no point in starting something that will take hours to complete now. You’ll just have to stop halfway through and it’ll be slow starting again and… Ugh. You turn and see Solas at his desk. There’s a book in his hands, but his eyes are on you. He looks amused, which just fuels your irritation at the world; he’s doubtlessly been watching you fuss about getting everything just so all morning. Ass.
You sulk out of the rotunda and down towards the kitchen, but it seems as though one brooding elf attracts another; you run into Fenris on your way.
It’s not entirely surprising, when thought about objectively. You housed the ex-slaves pretty close to the servant’s quarters, and you walk right through them to get to the kitchen. But the sight of him stops you dread in your tracks. You almost had yourself convinced the day before wasn’t reality. Seeing him here is bizarre to you, like a waking dream. But the reaction in your gut to the allure of his lyrium-infused skin is all too real.
“Ah, Emma,” he says, sounding pleased to see you, which is enough to make you wonder if you’re dreaming all over again.
“Fenris,” you say. His name sounds alien on your tongue. You’d rarely said it out loud outside of particularly questionable, late-night moments in your bunk. You don’t need to be thinking about that right now. “How is everyone settling in?”
“Adequately. I think they’re all glad to be safe. Nell is already talking about moving on, but I think most want to stay. They tire of running.”
“Sounds familiar,” you say with a chuckle. “We all get tired of running eventually.”
“Do you think the Inquisition can find work for them?”
“Probably,” you muse, half to yourself. “I can speak to Lady Montiliyet and the Commander about it. I’m sure they could find something… Most of our workers are refugees of some kind, myself included.”
“Varric mentioned little of your recent history,” Fenris says, shifting to lean against a wall. You find your eyes lingering on his shoulders. They’re not so broad as Solas’s—which is a fascinating discovery, since one of them swings around a giant greatsword and the other spends all day reading books and painting—but they are very nice shoulders.
“I was living and working in a relatively small, unimportant village in eastern Orlais. Red Templars burned it down,” you say simply. “I came here for lack of anywhere else to go… and as you can see, the Inquisition immediately put me to good use. I’m sure they can find something for the others. What about you?” you ask, tilting your head questioningly. “Will you be here long?”
“I… haven’t yet decided. Admittedly, planning things in advance is not one of my strengths,” he confesses. You snort.
“That seems to be something Hawke’s friends have in common. ‘I have a great idea! I’m going to steal from Qunari.’ ‘I don’t think that serial killer business is really worth looking into.’ ‘Deep Roads? That sounds like a fantastic place to visit!’”
“I’m sure they all seemed very justifiable decisions at the time,” Fenris says blandly. “And you left out all the blood magic.”
You manage to force a grin. You’d been hoping to avoid any conversations about magic for as long as possible. “I thought that went without saying.”
“I suppose to sane people, it—”
“Ah, Emma!” You freeze in place. You can’t think a worse person to show up right now, but there he is. Servis. “So glad to see you. I hear your trip to Val Royeaux bore fruit!”
You stare at him with wide eyes before glancing over at Fenris, who’s gone stiff. There’s no mistaking that Tevinter accent. And the idiot has a Templar following him around! Idiot! Idiot!
“I, ah…” you say as your mind races.
“I had not expected to see Tevinters here. Particularly not Tevinter mages,” Fenris says, his voice a world of danger.
“Servis here is a praeteri whose service got him caught up in some rather unpleasant business,” you lie casually. “He decided he’d rather be involved with the Inquisition than Tevinter cultists.” Miraculously, neither Servis nor the Templar jump in to correct you. Servis, likely because of the look you’re giving him: a casual, affectionate smile you would never grace him with under normal circumstances. It’s likely the Templar simply doesn’t know any better. Few outside the Imperium understand its social classes.
Fenris still looks as though he’s looking at something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his foot. “I see they at least have the sense to have a Templar watch him,” he says grumpily.
“That’s me,” Servis says dryly, eyeing you. “Happily leashed.”
“Better than the alternative,” you say, your words carrying whole worlds of meaning. “You’re here to ask about your tome, no? I’ll speak to you about it later. I’m fetching Solas’s lunch at the moment, and I’ve dallied enough.”
“You made time for your ‘friend’ here,” Servis points out, raising an eyebrow and smirking slightly. His words carry a lot of meaning, as well. You refuse to blush, however, not for Servis, and not in front of Fenris.
“I’ll find you after dinner,” you insist. “Accosting me now won’t do you any good. As you can see, I’m empty handed.”
“Very well,” Servis says with an overly-dramatic sigh. “I’ll be in my little corner, bored as always.”
Fenris turns to you as Servis meanders away. “I thought this place, of all places, would be free of influences from Tevinter mages,” he says sourly. “The Inquisitor is a fool to allow him to stay.”
Wow, looks like Varric has neglected to tell someone about Dorian.
Well, you’re sure as fuck not going to, either.
“Not everyone caught up in the Imperium is implicit in all they do,” you point out gently. “As you well know.”
Fenris’s bristled demeanor softens only slightly. “I doubt there is a such thing as a Tevinter mage with good intentions. At least they have him watched. But I’ve kept you from your duties long enough. I hope we’ll run into each other when you have a bit more free time.”
You can’t help the blushing this time. Fenris wants to spend time with you. “I… hope so, yes,” you manage, your voice catching in your throat somewhat. You stand in place a few moments after Fenris brushes past you, heading down the hallway. You need to compose yourself… and the place where his skin brushed against your shoulder burns.
Somehow, you manage to get to the kitchen and back to the rotunda without further incident. It’s strange how normal it feels to be fetching Solas’s meals again; you hadn’t realized how much you had grown accustomed to it while at Skyhold. And of course, eating with him is something you hope never changes. When you see that little stool by his desk, it gives you a thrill you wouldn’t trade for anything.
That’s for you.
He puts that there, just for you.
He’s still reading when you begin setting the food down, and honestly, you don’t really expect him to stop. He’s read books all the way through your meals in the past, and he has a lot of new books to read. To your surprise, however, once you sit down, he sets the book aside.
“I was beginning to worry trouble had found you once again,” he comments. You can’t even laugh, really; it very nearly had.
“I ran into Fenris near the kitchens,” you say, by way of an explanation.
“Ah, yes,” Solas says, perfectly straight-faced. “Your secret admirer.”
You flush. “No such thing!”
“Perhaps it would be more correct to say that you’re his secret admirer?”
“It’s not secret!” comes Dorian’s voice from upstairs. “Varric’s positively radiating smugness over it.”
You bury your face in your hands. Oh, Maker. If Fenris hears these stupid rumors—Oh Maker what if he hears some of the other rumors about you?!
“I’m going to jump off the ramparts,” you announce.
“Honestly, I don’t see the appeal,” Dorian says, and you glance up to see him leaning over the railing of the library. “With that hair, he looks like an angry old man. Oh, wait, I forgot—that’s your type,” he adds with a knowing nod towards Solas.
You grab an apple off of your plate and chuck it straight up at Dorian. It would have stuck him clean in the face had he not ducked out of the way; as it is, it sails into the library.
“Oy!” you hear Thea yell. “If you’re gonna throw food, throw somethin’ better!”
“What are you even still doing here, Dorian?” you ask. “When Fenris finds out you’re an altus, we’ll be cleaning pieces of you off the wall.”
“I think you might be overstating it a bit,” Dorian says sourly. “And I’m not exactly lining up to introduce myself to him, after what Varric told me.”
“If he enjoys Emma’s company, isn’t it only a matter of time before he visits the library?” Solas comments mildly. “You might pick a better hiding place.”
“I’m not hiding!” Dorian protests.
“You should be,” you say darkly. “If you keep teasing me, I’ll introduce him to you myself. ‘Oh, yes, Fenris, this is Dorian Pavus. You know the name Pavus, don’t you? Yes, that’s right, from the Magisterium! Oh, how do I know him? Every now and then he bemoans the fact I’m not a mage and makes awkward jokes about slavery.’”
“Alright, alright!” Dorian says, throwing his hands up. “No need to threaten a poor man’s life!”
“Varric has given me no such warnings,” says Solas, pulling your attention back to the ground level. “I confess, I know only that this Fenris is an ex-slave like you.”
“Much like me,” you agree. “But significantly less forgiving. I coped with my fear of Tevinter magic by studying it. Fenris copes by murdering most things tangentially related to it. I’ve already had to lie about Servis’s past to prevent a possible incident. That Varric felt the need to warn Dorian tells me that while Fenris may have changed over the years, he hasn’t changed that much.”
“He sounds… pleasant.”
You laugh. “Unlike me, he doesn’t have memories of a time before slavery to fall back on. And his master chased him to the ends of Thedas for nearly ten years. Had I gone through all of that, I suspect I would be a much more jaded individual.”
“Perhaps,” Solas says, but you can hear the doubt in his voice. Does he have trouble imagining you as someone who would hate magic? Perhaps that speaks well of his opinion of you. Although, admittedly, it’s difficult for you to imagine, as well. People are always quick to point to magic as a source of power that people love to abuse. But it wasn’t a mage who sold you into slavery. You’d like to think that’s the reason you think differently than Fenris, and not the obvious answer that it’s just because you’re a mage and he’s not. A bit harder to murder everyone in a group you’re also in.
But it’s not because of mages that you have to keep yourself hidden. Mages don’t force you to lie every day just to stay alive.
In the end, though, you’re no different than Fenris. He hates the systems of power that abused him, right down to the magic itself. You hate the systems of power that abused you, right down to each individual Qunari, every single Templar, every blind moron who pays lip service to the Chantry. You’re the same; you just have conflicting grudges.
“Still,” Solas is saying, pulling you out of your dark thoughts. “It must be comforting to see something so familiar in another. Particularly when you are in such unfamiliar territory.”
“Yes,” you agree, your eyes lingering on Solas’s for longer than they need to. Solas is similar, somehow. He sounds the same. “It is.”
Lunch becomes more pleasant after the two of you get off the subject of Fenris and onto the subject of books, magic, and work. Solas is as interested in your work on the dragon tome as you are in the books of magic he’s obtained, and your dishes lie by his desk as the two of you migrate from his workstation to yours, where you show off your new magnifying stand.
You expect him to leave after you show off all its various lenses and demonstrate how you’ll use it to copy the details of the drawings. Instead, he still hovers as you transition from showing off to actually working. You can’t imagine why; the process of drawing is more tedious to you than even the process of writing. And unlike Solas, who crafts beautiful murals from his imagination alone, you’ve no actual talent. You simply copy whatever’s in front of you.
Solas picks up one particular sketch of a dragon’s open, roaring mouth, after you finish it. It’s meant to be a diagram of the teeth, but the original artist clearly was enamored with the subject material more than is really useful; each individual scale on its head was lovingly depicted, and you had the unpleasant task of duplicating it. He examines it as you begin work immediately on the next piece, a disembodied dragon tongue with all number of useful labels. You certainly hope they’re useful, anyway.
“You’re quite talented,” Solas comments, making you snort.
“No, I’m not. All I do is copy what’s already there. I can’t draw anything that’s not directly in front of me while I’m drawing it.”
“You say that as though you believe it to be a fatal flaw. It’s simply an aspect of skill.”
The only response you have is to shake your head. He’s wrong, but you’re not going to argue it with him.
“Did you learn this simply for use in transcribing tomes?” he wonders.
“No. My mother…” Your voice catches; you clear your throat. “My mother drew. When I was a child, I would get a hold of her charcoals and try to do art like she did. I never had the mind for it. So I simply took to drawing things I saw. I would sit in a corner and just draw rocks and twigs from the ground. And… I suppose I never really stopped. But it’s all dull stuff. Ruins I’ve been to, runes I’ve copied down, herbs… I think the most interesting thing I’ve probably drawn was a particularly fat cane toad that challenged me to a staring contest.”
Solas’s little chuckle encourages you to keep talking, even though you should be focusing on your work. “That, I would like to see,” he says.
“The cane toad?” you laugh. “Because I assure you, while he was something to see, my notebook very much is not. The drawing is half finished; the toad hopped away, and without looking at it, I couldn’t… couldn’t make it look right. I’m useless at it. I tried to draw that artifact we found in the Dales, but I couldn’t. Once it was gone, it was… gone.” You tap your head in frustration, words failing to get your point across. “The details are all wrong, I’m sure of it.”
“I am familiar with such artifacts. If you would like, I could look over your sketch. Perhaps describe it to you.”
“Oh, Maker, no,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m humiliated enough on a daily basis without adding that to the list.” Solas is an actual artist, judging by the gorgeous work on the walls here. The idea of him seeing any of your useless scribbles… You’ve been embarrassed in front of him enough for a lifetime already.
Mercifully, Solas lets it drop, and you’re able to redouble your focus on your work. It’s easier than it’s ever been, thanks to Solas’s magic. You’d had similar enchantments done before, but none ever lasted so long nor worked so completely as Solas’s. He could maintain a physical barrier for hours at a time, he manipulated his way around wards better and faster than you, or, in fact, anyone you’ve known.
You glance up at him, wondering, not for the first time and doubtlessly not for the last, exactly who he is. His “humble apostate” tale rings patently false. At the very least, there’s nothing humble about him, perhaps aside from the way he dresses. And yet every single person at Skyhold seems to take little note of him. Bull’s been sniffing around you like a hound since you arrived, but somehow, Solas isn’t a target of that same curiosity? Not from anyone?
Suddenly, his implausible talent for avoiding Templars seems less implausible. Obviously he’s doing something very right. You only wish you knew what it was, exactly.
In the end, thanks to Mr. Humble Apostate’s suspiciously exceptional magical talents, you do get a lot of work done. You’re reluctant to set your quill down, but you have other responsibilities to tend to… ones you can’t put off any longer. With a sigh, you put down your quill, blow out your candles, and stand, grabbing your bag as you do. Might as well kill two birds with one stone and give out some gifts—provided Belassan doesn’t want to throw you out of the stables.
You see Blackwall first when you enter the barn, and no one else of note. It allows you to put off the inevitable a little bit longer, so you beeline for him. It seems to surprise the man; he’s leaning up against the wall of a stable, carving one of his little wooden toys when you delicately clear your throat.
“Can I… help you?” he says, clearly uncertain as to why in the Maker’s name you’ve appeared before him. Fair enough, the two of you had barely talked at all. The last time you’d interacted, he’d handed you a turkey leg, though, and you’d ended fairly amicably… or so you thought. If he still hates you, this is going to be severely awkward.
“I, ah… I just… Um, I was coming to see Belassan, but he’s not… Um, that is,” you clear your throat awkwardly. He’s giving you the weirdest look. Fuck it, you’ll send the damn thing anonymously through one of Leliana’s messengers. “I apologize, ser Warden. I’m bothering you; I’ll just—”
“You’re not. Belassan’s in the back with some healers and that hart of yours.”
You pale. “Revas? Is he alright?”
“He’s fine; they’re just giving him a once over. I think they’re all more worried about that cat.”
“Oh, Asaaranda. I’m glad she’s still alive.”
“You seem to have a tendency towards protecting the small,” Blackwall says, seemingly out of nowhere. “That’s an admirable trait. You’d make a good Warden.”
You flush with something oddly similar to pride. He doesn’t know your history with Leah, nor the force of the compliment he’d just paid you. “I’m not… I don’t… Um, thank you,” you say finally. “I… actually, I had something I wanted to give you.”
“Give me?” he says, right back to being confused again.
“Yes, I, ah… I was in Val Royeaux, as you might know—”
“You obtained a tome for me there, actually.”
“Oh! I did?” you say, only half-listening while rummaging through your bag.
“Tales from the Second Blight.”
“Oh, yes! I remember that,” you say, nodding. “I found it in my favorite bookstore.” The one you’d taken Solas to, in fact. “He doesn’t necessarily have the best books, but he does have the oldest, most obscure ones. Normally the ones people find too boring to read. I’m glad I was able to locate it for you. He had a goodly number of books on the Wardens, actually. I believe Solas bought a particularly dry tome on the Fourth Blight from there.”
“Solas? The Blight? Really?”
“Mmhmm. Ah! Here it is.” You pull out a little bundle, recognizable only because you’d written “BW” on the wrapping paper.
“I’m a little uncertain as to why you felt the need to get me anything at all,” he confesses as you press it into his hands.
“I saw it while shopping in the market at Val Royeaux. I bought gifts for… well, for most everyone, admittedly. But this one…”
He’s unwrapped it now, and holds it up to admire it. A little griffon, small enough to fit in his palm, carved from marble.
“I think you can see why,” you say with a faint smile. “And how often does one get the chance to give a gift to a Grey Warden?”
“I… Thank you, but—”
“I knew the Hero of Ferelden,” you interrupt. He blinks in surprise. “I don’t know if you ever met her. I was in Ferelden during the first half of the Fifth Blight. She stopped it, and stopped Loghain… in a particularly ironic way, I’ll admit. I’ll probably never run into her, never be able to thank her for what she did. But I can thank you, at least, and that’s something.”
“I… understand,” he says, closing his fist around the little griffon. “Thank you.” He has a bit of guilt in his expression. He won’t meet your eyes. Because of how he treated you in the past, perhaps? It’s possible that he’s also embarrassed.
“It’s not much,” you admit. “But it’s all I can really offer.” You glance over Blackwall’s shoulder as movement catches your eye. Belassan.
Time to face the music.
“If you’ll excuse me, Warden, I’ve got to go face a scolding,” you say with a sigh.
Belassan sees you as you speed walk towards him. His expression is unreadable. The absence of the bright smile he normally wears when he sees you feels like a knife in the chest. When, exactly, had you come to worry about what a Dalish thought of you? Or is it all guilt, for failing his trust?
“Belassan, I’m so sorry,” you burst out as soon as you’re close enough. “There, there was an attack, and there were so many of them,”
“Emma,” Belassan begins, but you rush on.
“And I tried to stay close to Revas and stay out of the worst of it but they were everywhere and I got flanked and Revas…”
“Emma!”
“He just pushed me out of the way, I couldn’t stop him, I’m so sorry, I’m so—”
Belassan places a finger gently across your lips, shushing you. You trail off nervously. “Hello to you, too,” he says, eyes glinting with amusement.
“Emma ir abe—” you try, but he pushes more firmly against your lips, quieting you again.
“Calm yourself, Emma. Solas already explained what happened. That Revas was injured protecting you, in a fight… and that you screamed down a Qunari in order to protect him,” he adds, lips twisting into a smile. “I would have liked to have seen that, actually.” He finally lets his finger drop from your lips, and you fumble to find your words again.
“I didn’t… No, I was useless, I—And Revas, he…” You realize with sudden horror that your cheek is wet. You wipe your eyes off quickly, a flush coming to your cheeks. Are you a child? Crying in front of the Dalish, for fuck’s sake…
“Revas is fine. As are you. That is what’s important,” Belassan says as you gulp down a sob. Belassan sets his hands down on your shoulders, as if to steady you. The fact it does help a little is mortifying. “I knew when I sent the two of you off that one or both of you could fail to return. I’m glad he was there to protect you… and that you were there to protect him.”
“I didn’t do anything,” you burst out, too full of guilt to speak coherently. You really, really hadn’t. Revas had survived in spite of you, not because of you.
“Shush,” Belassan says, and when you open your mouth to speak, he raises his hand from your shoulder, one finger raised, as if to put it on your mouth again. You fall silent, and he smiles. You feel a surge of relief despite your guilt. He’s not mad. You’d feel better if you could apologize some more, but… “These harts—all of these animals, in fact—are being used in a war. I understand that. Any day could be a day they do not return. But I’m glad it was not this day… for both of you. As for your cat—”
“Asaaranda! How is she?” you blurt out.
“Is that her name? Your hahren—Solas—explained about Revas, but not about the rather furious cat he literally dropped into my arms. She’s being seen by a healer now. Her leg couldn’t be saved, unfortunately.”
“I expected that,” you say with a nod. “I apologize. I had meant to explain about her and Revas myself, but I got caught up right inside the gates.”
“With elven refugees again, as I’ve heard,” Belassan says with a smile. “I understand.”
“You’re almost too understanding,” you admit. “I haven’t been this off-balance since Solas refused to get angry at me for breaking into his room.”
“You broke into his room? Surely not his bedroom?” Belassan asks, grinning broadly when you nod. “That’s a story I need to hear.”
“Whatever you want,” you promise. “But first… Asaaranda?”
“Of course. This way,” he says, gesturing for you to follow him. He leads you to a stall in the back of the stables; it seems they keep sick or injured animals back here. Revas sees you and gives a loud honk; you rush to him immediately and he rubs his head against you, nearly knocking you over. You wrap loving arms around his neck as Belassan gestures into the next stable. There Asaaranda is, looking grumpy but cleaner, with a woman you don’t recognize squatting over her.
The cat shifts to look up at you and lets out an unpleasant yowl that you suppose passes for a greeting.
“Hello to you too, Asaaranda,” you say sourly. “Are you being good?”
“Asaaranda?” the woman says, looking up. She has the dark skin of a Rivaini, though you hadn’t particularly noticed until she addressed you. “A Qunari name?”
“It was a Vashoth who named her,” you explain. “It’s a very long story. How is she?”
“She will survive,” the woman says with a shrug. “Although I suspect it was a close call, given the condition she’s in now.”
“How did you come across her?” Belassan asks curiously. “Your hahren didn’t say.”
“She was in the woods off the Imperial Highway,” you explain. “I just happened across her; she was hiding in a stump. She was in terrible condition, but, well, she was alive.”
“She certainly owes her life to you,” the Rivani woman says, rubbing a finger under Asaaranda’s chin. To your amazement, the cat doesn’t scratch at her. Perhaps she’s no longer in pain… Or perhaps she just didn’t like you. “She is lucky you found her when you did.”
“Thank you for taking care of her, Serah—”
“Navi,” the woman says, standing to offer you a hand, which you take and shake firmly.
“Navi,” you repeat. “I appreciate it. And you too, Belassan.”
“Are you going to be moving her into the rotunda after she’s had her kittens?” Belassan asks, looking amused at the concept.
“Maker, no!” you exclaim. “Don’t get the wrong idea. She’s not mine. My intent was to find someone who actually liked cats to care for her… and the kittens, if they survive.”
“She can stay here, if you wish,” Belassan says. “She and Revas seem fond of each other, and Horsemaster Dennet has taken to her, as well. He says no stable is complete without ‘a good mouser.’” Belassan makes little quotes with his fingers as he says that last bit, making you chuckle.
“Good. I won’t miss her yowling, or her scratches,” you say. “And if I tried to take her into the rotunda, Solas would have me out on my ass.”
“You work with him?” the Rivaini—Navi—interjects. “Are you a mage?”
You wish people would stop fucking asking you that.
“No, just a linguist.”
“What does a mage need a linguist for?” she asks, sounding amused. “Translating old tomes for him?”
“Bringing him his dinner,” Belassan says dryly.
“I don’t work for him,” you explain. “Just… in his vicinity. It’s complicated.”
“It’s not,” Belassan says. You glare at him.
“And the dinner is a mutual thing,” you add. “In any case, it’s irrelevant. But… Belassan, before I forget, I have something for you.” You gesture for him to follow you this time, mostly just out of a desire to get away of the Rivaini and her questions. Fortunately, he does follow, and you head back to the main part of the stables before digging into your bag for his gift.
“Ah… Here,” you say, pulling it out. You wrote his name in Elven, because you’re a dork. He doesn’t seem to speak it, so there’s no chance he knows how to read it. But when you hand it over, he spends a moment thumbing over the letters before carefully unwrapping it, somehow managing not to tear the thin tissue paper. He pulls out one of the little charms, running it between his calloused fingers.
“Is this…?”
“Ironbark,” you say with a nod. “Two little halla horns, made from scraps too small to do anything else with, or so said the woman selling them. I picked them up at a shop near the alienage. I noticed you have your ears pierced… I thought perhaps you could turn them into earrings?” He’s being very quiet, and it makes you nervous. “I-in any case, they made me think of you, so…”
He catches you completely off guard. He suddenly sweeps you against him with one hand, and plants a kiss firmly against your forehead. You flush bright red—he’s bare-chested, and your hands are currently resting against his bare torso—a subconscious reaction to being grabbed unexpectedly. He releases you, and you take a few staggered steps backwards, face still flaming.
“Thank you,” he says simply, positively beaming.
Was that a fucking Dalish thing?! What the Void… “I… Uh… You’re… welcome?” And he’s just wrapping them back up like nothing happened. It must be a Dalish thing. Each clan has semi-unique customs, in any case. “I… I, um… I should get back to work. But I’m sure I’ll see you before Sunday,” you say shakily, still trying to compose yourself. “I… Uh… Bye.”
And then you more or less flee, noting with some irritation how amused Blackwall looks when you rush by him.