Tired
You’re still flushed when you skid into the rotunda, closing the door behind you as if you fear you’re being chased. Who kisses someone over a present?! None of the Dalish you’d worked with in the past ever did that… But you’re aware that cultures vary from clan to clan, and Belassan was from a largely Ferelden clan, whereas all the Dalish you’d ever known had been from Antiva or Orlais.
Maybe Solas would know…? No, that seems like a bad idea.
“I can always tell when you’ve been to the stables,” he comments as you wander back to your desk, and your flush starts creeping back again.
“Do I smell? I’m sorry. Honestly, I should have had a bath by now, I just–”
“It’s not unpleasant,” he interrupts you. “Quite the opposite. The scent of hay, horses, the outdoors… It makes the rotunda smell more… lived in, perhaps?”
You can’t help smiling. “You really do like traveling, don’t you? Being outdoors. I couldn’t wait to be back in Skyhold, but I suppose it’s less thrilling for you.”
“One can only explore so much of the Fade from a single location,” he admits. “There is much history here, but I can only sleep for so long.”
“You’re bored,” you realize with a laugh. “Here I am, trying to do a thousand things a day, and you’re bored!”
“The irony is not lost on me,” he replies.
“Should I put you to work?” you ask jokingly. “Perhaps you could be my assistant.”
“Oh?” he says. Is his voice slightly lower than normal, or is it just you? “What sort of tasks would you have me do?”
Your brain splutters to a halt. “I, um…” You clear your throat, trying to think through the sudden rush of unwelcome mental images. “W-well, you know, you’re a faster reader than I am. I could have you digging through these dragon tomes for the information I need.”
“Practical,” Solas agrees. “Have you had others to delegate tasks to, in the past?”
…This son of a bitch, is he pressing you for information now? Still? You bite back irritation. You should be grateful for the reminder that your walls need to be up around him still. “No, not particularly. It simply isn’t difficult to think of ways you could be useful.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course,” you say blithely, turning back to your work. More drawing, ugh. You’ll be at this for at least another day. Maybe two. “You’re intelligent, a fast reader, a skilled mage… What little you don’t already know, I’ve no doubt you could learn quickly. What couldn’t you do?”
“I…” he seems slightly taken aback, but you’re almost too distracted in your own mind and your own work to notice.
“I’ve mentioned this before; mages are inherently useful. If more people worked with them and understood that, I think fewer people would be scared of magic. Tevinter is full of wonders achieved only because of their liberal use of magic. Terrors, as well, certainly, but it isn’t as though you can’t have one without the other. The north and south Chantry both act as if it’s a zero-sum game, as if mages must be either imprisoned or the true rulers of mankind, with no limits placed on their steady rise to power. It’s a ridiculous false dichotomy.” You’re idly rambling at this point, muttering more or less to yourself as you strain to copy down the details of a dragon’s claw. “It’s ridiculous. I don’t know who they think they’re kidding, honestly. I suspect more people think as I do, but of course, the Chantry is famous for censorship, and—”
“Emma?”
“I mean have you ever read the works of ex-Sister Plinth? The things she was excommunicated for are laughable in comparison to—”
“Emma, you are speaking Orlesian.”
You pause, looking up from your work. “Ah. I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter; I was simply rambling.”
“I didn’t mean to stop you; it was an interesting subject,” Solas says. “Is Orlesian your first language, perhaps?”
“No, but I’m accustomed to speaking it.” Not quite a lie. “It’s easy for me to slip into without thinking.” As easy as it is for you to ramble irritably against the Chantry, apparently. “I should know better. Le silence est d’or1, as they say.”
“Do they? In Orlais?” he says, and you laugh.
“They do, although perhaps dishonestly. In any case, I apologize.”
“Don’t. I enjoy listening to you.”
You flush then, a bright twinge of pink rushing to your cheeks. He enjoys…? You can’t handle this. Between Fenris, Belassan, and Solas, you’ll be dead by the end of the week.
You manage to shut your mouth and get some work done before dinner. Quite a lot, actually. Thanks in part to Solas enchantment, you really hit your stride. By the time your candle starts burning low, you’ve completed a good four different drawings. Your bandages are stained with different colored inks, which gives you the amusing appearance of having tripped and fallen into a rainbow. Still, bandages are scarce in wartime, so you’ll just have to suck it up and deal with it until you can take the damn things off. Which you definitely won’t until Solas says you can. No matter how much they itch.
You’re relieved when Servis doesn’t jump you on the way to the kitchen. You’d said you’d meet him after dinner, but he doesn’t appear to be the most patient man in the world. Rather than rushing to gather Solas’s meal, however, you take a moment to pull Celia aside.
“Celia, do you have a moment? I know you’re busy, but…”
“Um, yes, certainly,” she says, and you can’t help but notice she seems a little jumpier than normal. That’s saying something, too; she’s always jumpy. Your eyes flick around the kitchen suspiciously, but no one appears to be taking any note of the two of you.
“I brought something for you from Val Royeaux… sort of a thanks for all the help you’ve been,” you explain, reaching into your bag to pull out yet another ribbon. The sooner you can be rid of all of these, the sooner you can stop feeling like you’re carrying an Orlesian trinkets shop around your waist. “It’s a—”
“A ribbon from Val Royeaux!” she exclaims, actually bouncing a little in excitement. You blink; you hadn’t been expecting someone who sounded like a Marcher to know the tradition. “Ooooh, is it silk?” Seeing the slight confusion on your face, she exclaims. “Lily got one from her sister yesterday!” She gestures to a girl standing in front of one of the bread ovens. She looks no more than fourteen or fifteen years old, with short red hair barely long enough to be pulled back. Strands of it keep falling loose from the Orlesian silk ribbon she’s wearing.
“Oh, Kelsie’s sister,” you realize.
“You know Lily?” Celia says, sounding surprised.
“No, not really. Her sister, Kelsie, was one of the guards on my trip to Val Royeaux,” you explain, tearing your eyes away from the girl. Something about her… But you’ve no time to speculate.
“This color is beautiful,” Celia coos, running her fingers across the pale blue silk. “I can’t believe you thought of me!”
“I thought it would suit your hair,” you reply with as charming a smile as you can manage. It isn’t as though this is the first time you’ve bought a lady a thoughtful present in order to win her over. It won’t be the last, either. “Here, let me tie it into your hair.”
Celia continues to be charmed, murmuring about how she wishes she had a mirror, as you tie the ribbon into her ponytail. It does compliment her long, black hair. Orlesian silk compliments anyone well, in your personal opinion.
“Really, I can’t believe you!” she says, fingering the silk in her hair.
“Just a way of showing my appreciation,” you say, a kind—if practiced—smile on your lips. “It’s nice to have my mornings free, after all.”
“There are worse things than delivering breakfast to your apostate,” she admits. “Although…” She looks up at you, eyes twinkling. “He looked rather disappointed to see me this morning.”
You fight to keep a straight face, and not to let the heat rising to your cheeks show. “He’ll have to learn to live with disappointment, I suppose. We all do, sooner or later. Still, no need for me to disappoint him right now; I should get his dinner together.”
Thankfully, Celia takes that as the dismissal it is and the both of you get back to work… although the way she keeps running her fingers over the silk in her hair makes you smile. Such little things, gifts, but they stay with people longer than words or deeds.
You say that, but you can’t quite build up the courage to give Solas his present. Particularly not after the way Belassan reacted. You can’t imagine Solas doing something like that, but… You just don’t have the strength. Maybe you’ll just leave it on his desk after he leaves for the night? But he’ll know who it’s from. Who else would get him a present, let alone brave the rotunda and leave it on his desk? That’s just delaying the inevitable. So instead, it stays in your bag, burning a hole in your nerves.
You sit on your little stool and share dinner with Solas, and can’t help hoping that this one thing never changes. Logically, you know it will. It’s only a matter of time until Solas gets called out of Skyhold again. Honestly, you could even get called out of Skyhold again. Once Leliana realizes your “contacts” are all based out of Val Royeaux, she’ll see how useless you are to her here. She might respond by leaving you alone, for once, but you doubt it. She might just send you to Val Royeaux.
If she did… would you go? You gain nothing from being associated with the Inquisition in Val Royeaux. Their resources could be used to your benefit, but you’d retired, damnit. You don’t want to get caught back up in that mess again, only with another group added onto the list of ones scrabbling to control you. The only reason you hadn’t already bolted out of Skyhold was the security of being behind fortress walls and the tantalizing possibility of knowledge that Solas offered. Without those, your association with the Inquisition would be rather pointless.
It’s all a moot point, however. For now, you’re in Skyhold, and for now, so is Solas. You can enjoy that for as long as it lasts.
Solas is talking rather animatedly—for him—about the book he’s been reading. From what you gather, it’s a book on Rivaini spirit summoning.
Sometimes, you have to pretend you understand less of what Solas is saying than you actually do.
This is not one of those times.
You can barely understand what the fuck he’s talking about.
But he just seems to be enjoying explaining it to you so much that you don’t have the heart to tell him you can barely grasp the concepts he’s speaking of. He’d probably be better off speaking to Dorian, who also has a tendency to ramble on endlessly about subjects you’ve no real way of comprehending.
From what you gather, the Rivaini summon spirits across the Veil, but don’t bind them. It sounds sort of like what little you understand of spirit healing. When you mention that, Solas immediately branches off on a tangent about Ferelden spirit healing versus Rivani spirit healing, which is apparently fascinating and complex because he’s been explaining it to you for about ten minutes now.
Honestly, it doesn’t really matter to you that you’ve nothing to compare his descriptions of “vibrations in the Veil” to, because his voice is gorgeous and the subject matter is fascinating, for all you don’t understand it. You’ve no intention of attempting to summon spirits across the Veil. It’s one of those things that just resonates in you as a terrible idea. But it’s interesting to hear Solas’s thoughts on it.
“Solas, you’ve said before that our expectations of spirits can alter them,” you interject.
“That’s correct.”
“Wouldn’t it be inherently dangerous to summon a spirit, then? Even if you have a solid grasp on the spirit in question, pure intentions, all that… Couldn’t another person seeing the spirit alter it? Just how fragile are spirit’s natures, exactly?”
“It depends upon the spirit. The Rivani have methods of protecting a spirit’s nature without binding, and in fact, of protecting spirits from forceful binding and alteration. As for spirit healing in southern Thedas, spirits are summoned briefly and then released back into the Fade. The less time they spend touching this world, the less likely they are to be corrupted.”
You hum curiously to yourself as Solas continues on about the natures of spirits. Your mind is on Cole, more than anything, and his remarkably concrete nature. Is that related to his remarkably concrete appearance? Solas has said in the past that Cole is unique. How unique? You don’t have the knowledge base to even speculate, really, and it’s probably considered rude to want to poke your dearest friend with sticks to see what happens, even metaphorically speaking.
It’s only your after-dinner date with Servis that has you cutting Solas off, and reluctantly, at that.
“Solas, have you had a chance to look over that tome of Servis’s?” you ask when there’s a brief lull in his lecturing.
He blinks, as if his mind is having to quickly shift gears. “Ah… yes. I believe I’ve found the reason it was banned. There’s a single ward in it, not blood magic, but a protection from demonic interference. If inverted, it could be used to bind a demon to a location or object. I doubt that’s what Servis wants the tome for, however. Any Tevinter mage would know half a dozen significantly easier ways to bind a spirit.”
You chew thoughtfully on your bottom lip. “Should I give him the tome?”
“Personally, I’m inclined towards giving it to him. There are certainly spells he could use to get into trouble, but no more than books we already have in the library here.”
“Another case of the Chantry being a little over-zealous in the banning of books, perhaps?” you wonder. It would hardly be the first time.
“All book banning is over-zealous,” Solas points out, and you smile.
“Good point. Alright. Thank you for wisdom, Solas. As always, it’s invaluable. Is the tome here?” Solas shifts a stack of books on his desk to pull one out and hands it to you. “Wonderful. Thank you.”
“Off to visit the Tevinter?”
“Yes… Hopefully without Fenris, this time,” you say as you gather up the dishes from dinner.
Servis doesn’t jump you on the way to the kitchen, so after dropping of the dishes, you go hunting for him, tome in hand. The first place you look is that little hidden library, and you’re not surprised to see him there. What surprises you is that his Templar doesn’t appear to be present. It’s enough to make you hesitate. What would be worse? If the Templar was hiding in an attempt to ensnare you doing something incriminating? Or if Servis actually had a way to be rid of his Templar watcher, even temporarily?
“Ah, Emma, please come in,” the man says before you can decide whether or not to bolt. He does so without looking up… so Tevinter. You can’t help rolling your eyes. What if it hadn’t been you? What if you’d been a maid? He’d look like an absolute tit.
“I can’t help but notice someone’s missing from this picture, Servis. What happened to your Templar friend?” you ask dryly as you enter the library. You take your time, eyeing the books on the shelves. You still haven’t had a chance to explore this place, more due to the presence of the Templar than of Servis. Although you’re certain if anything particularly good were down here, you’d see people other than Servis.
“He got called away,” Servis says loftily. “Some sort of emergency. I’m considered rather low risk, at the moment.”
“Convenient timing.”
“I rather thought so, myself! I’m sure you’d rather have your privacy when handing over a banned book of magic to a Tevinter mage, after all. Even a… what’s the lie you came up with? A praeteri?”
You scowl. “You should be grateful. Were you unaware of who I was speaking to? Or do you just have a death wish? Because there are easier ways to die than by irritating an ex-slave like Fenris.”
“What about irritating an ex-slave like you?” You stiffen. “It’s no secret,” he points out.
“No, I suppose by now it’s not,” you say, as if the fact it’s common knowledge would do anything to make you less uncomfortable about it being brought up in casual conversation. “Regardless, I’m far from being dangerous, let alone as dangerous as Fenris. Have you had your head buried in the sand? Or do they just pretend nothing happened to Danarius, back in Tevinter? Do they say he died in a tragic accident, rather than admit he was murdered in a filthy bar by an ex-slave and a ragtag bunch of southerners?”
“Yes, actually,” Servis replies. “Although the truth is known. I know who Fenris is. I’m more interested in why you’d lie to protect me.”
“I don’t dislike you, Servis, despite your best attempts to be unpleasant,” you reply. “I’d rather not leave your fate up to Fenris’s mood. I don’t know if he’d actually hurt you, but honestly, I didn’t feel like finding out. I doubt the Inquisitor would actually protest if he simply maimed you, so long as your mind still worked. Now, do you want to test the lengths of my goodwill, or do you want this book?” You hold it out, and he takes it from you. He flips through it quickly, as if to see if it’s actually what he wanted.
“I can’t help but wonder how you managed to get your paws on this,” Servis says as he glances across the pages. “I know the southern Chantry’s influence isn’t quite as strong as they might wish right now, but it is a banned tome of magic.”
“Why would you ask me to get it if you didn’t think I could?” you counter.
“Apparently, you’re even more capable than I thought,” he admits. “I heard you got quite a number of banned books out of Val Royeaux. No wonder our spymistress likes you.”
“A word to the wise, Servis. If you wish to pepper someone for information, do it when there’s something keeping them in the room,” you say dryly, already turning to go. “You’ve got your book. Do me a favor and don’t do anything incredibly stupid with it.”
“You don’t want to stay and explore the library while the Templar’s gone?” he asks. To your credit, you stop only momentarily before continuing towards the door. “Or perhaps you’re just eager to return to your lover.”
You grind your teeth at the obvious jab. “Which one are you referring to?” you ask dryly, pausing to glance over your shoulder. “I’m supposed to have so many at this point; I’m afraid I can no longer keep track of the manner in which I’m being insulted.”
“No insult. You could do worse for yourself than a powerful mage like Solas. Trusted by the Inquisition, yet a notorious loner… You’ve done well in seducing him.”
You bristle despite the fact his game is obvious. “I’ve done no such thing. As you no doubt know.”
“No? I suppose the rumor mill is wrong once again.”
“I’ve yet to see it be right,” you snap, and then finish storming out of the library. Ass. Does anyone actually believe these rumors about you? How, when they seem to change with the hour? Or has Solas simply become a more popular target due to your traveling with him?
And why does that irritate you? It hadn’t before. No one is likely to bear you ill will for being Solas’s supposed lover, and being seen as even having a lover could make Solas seem more approachable. But the thought chafes at you nonetheless.
You manage to focus on your work when you get back to the rotunda, despite the fact that Solas is just sitting there, a glorious beacon of knowledge. It’s amazing you manage to get anything done at all at this point, honestly. Why can’t your job just be sitting and listening to him talk? But you do have a lot of work to do, and not a lot of time to do it in. Or maybe you do. It’s hard to say—no one’s given you anything resembling an actual deadline yet. But you’re still feeling the pressure to perform. You’d proven your worth to the Inquisition handily in Val Royeaux, but you’d rather indicate that you’re worth more here, in Skyhold. The idea that Leliana might want to station you elsewhere is a bit nerve wracking, considering you’d only done this to be here.
You don’t know how late it is when you pause in your drawing. You only do so because your arm is starting to ache tellingly. It’s the joints in your fingers more than anything else, but the stiffness is setting in. It could be due to pain, or cold, or just having worked all day.
“Solas?” you ask, sitting back after finishing another piece. “Could you touch up the enchantment on my hand? I think it’s wearing off.”
“No.”
…No? “…Please?”
“Absolutely not.” You pout, looking over your shoulder. Solas isn’t looking up from his book, but it seems he can sense your pout from across the room. “If you are growing tired, that is an indicator that it’s time to rest, not time to use magic in order to redouble your efforts,” he says pointedly.
…Oh, right, you promised him you’d rest. You frown, but he’s not necessarily wrong. You get up before dawn every day. An ordinary person would go to bed at a reasonable time to compensate. Well… might as well get maybe one or two last pictures in before the enchantment wears off entirely, then, and then just head to bed. Admittedly, your plan for sleeping is… well, you don’t have one. You know you won’t be able to. You’re just sort of planning on lying uselessly in bed for six hours. That’s as far as you’ve planned this out.
You work your way through another picture, at this point aware of how late it’s getting. You intend to go to bed soon, but you’re surprised by the fact Solas is still up. Normally, he’s retired by now. Are his new books keeping him awake? Or…
A horrified thought strikes you.
What if he’s staying up to make sure you go to bed?
You immediately stop working to swivel in your chair and look at him. He’s sitting at his desk, reading. Nothing to indicate he’s thinking about you at all. You’re being silly. He’s probably just caught up in reading.
He yawns.
You’re almost too distracted by the way he haphazardly covers his mouth, long fingers splayed out, the way he closes one eye sleepily. Almost too distracted. Not quite.
He’s sleepy.
Guilt stabs at you; you’re nonsensically, utterly convinced that he’s staying up because of you. You have no proof for this assertion but you just feel it in your gut.
You don’t even finish the drawing, you just grab a few of the nearest dragon books, blow out the candle, and stand. Solas pauses in his reading to look at you, and his eyes immediately fall to the books in your arms. He frowns, but says nothing.
“I’m going to bed,” you tell him. “Actually going to bed. I promise. I won’t just read all night,” you say, a twinge of nervousness in your voice. You mean it, but will he believe you?
“Good night,” he says simply.
“I… Good night,” you repeat, then duck out to face the night.
You try.
You really do.
That you utterly fail isn’t really a surprise, though.
You spend the first hour wrapped up in your blankets, staring blankly at the ceiling. You spend the second hour tossing and turning. By hour three, crippling anxiety has set in. Not being able to sleep is making you feel a bit like a failure, even though you’d known when you started that you wouldn’t be able to. Eventually, you pick up one of your books just for a distraction. It helps, sort of, but you can’t help feeling like you’re lying to Solas. Which is stupid, because you are lying to Solas, every single day, about hundreds of things way more important than whether or not you’re sleeping.
You try to brainstorm little ways to drain your mana, maybe ways to sleep. If you can drain yourself a little at a time, you might not get to the point where you have to melt the ice off of an entire lake. Might not get to the point where you almost kill Bull. Because if that sort of thing happened with Solas instead, you would be dead in the water.
You could cast little spells in your room. There aren’t any mages in this wing. But what if a Templar walked by your window? What if a skilled mage could pick up the ambient magic in the air, even hours or days later? Maybe a… quiet, private corner of Skyhold? Some place you won’t be stumbled upon, but some place you could walk away from?
You’ve read three pages and you don’t remember a word.
You set the book down with a sigh, spend another hour flopping about and trying to sleep and wondering and worrying.
All told, it’s a terrible night. By morning, all you have to show for your night in bed is a headache, some extra knowledge about high dragon nests, and a vague plan to ride out of Skyhold before Iron Bull gets back. Solas doesn’t have Bull’s tendency to stalk you, so if you do it now, you can at least drain yourself one last time before you have to start coming up with more reliable alternatives.
The only pleasure you have that morning is delivering Solas’s message to Argent.
“Why have you not already had your hands healed?” she demands, clearly irritated.
“I’m in the process of having them healed. It takes time.” Apparently. You don’t actually know why, or how badly you’d damaged your hands to require this kind of a slow heal when you’d dislocated a hip and then proceeded to fight a Qunari literally the next day.
Although if Solas knew about that… Ha! Well, you’re glad he doesn’t.
“Ridiculous…” the woman grumbles.
“Solas said that if you had issue with it, you could take it up with him. I’m sure he could explain his reasoning far better than I,” you say, not even hiding the smile that ghosts across your lips.
The woman lets out a displeased grunt. “Do you report to him first and foremost, then? I’m certain he’s not the one who handles your pay.”
“You’re a professional, serah, so this might not be your first instinct, but whom I obey first and foremost is based on who’s the scariest,” you lie cheerfully. “And Solas is much scarier than you when he’s angry.” That part isn’t a lie. You’d barely glimpsed Solas’s anger, once or twice, and both times it had chilled you to your core.
“Are you more scared of him than you are of the spymaster?” A threat? No, pressing for information.
“Absolutely. There’s only so much a human woman can do to you, unpleasant though it may be. Magic has no such limitations.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Of course. You know my history, I’m sure,” you reply. There’s no way Leliana would leave it out, and half the damn fortress knows at this point. “Now if you’re finished attempting to gather information on the relationship between Solas and I, we can begin. Unless you’ve nothing for me to do without strenuous use of my hands, in which case I would love to get an early start on the actual work I’m supposed to be doing.”
Sassing an assassin is not your brightest moment, but you’re in a bad mood. A night of feeling like a failure for not being able to do something you’d no chance of being able to do… Well, you’ll be cross until you get some tea, at the very least.
Argent takes you outside today. There’s not a lot of people in the courtyard; there never is this early. Mostly, you spend the day running along the ramparts and through the grass in the courtyard. It reminds you sharply of when you fell down the stairs outside of Cullen’s office, so you play it safe, and slow. You sprint when she tells you to, but not nearly as fast as you can actually move. After you’ve run around enough to satisfy her, she spends some time throwing things at you. Apparently there was also supposed to be climbing, but that would be considered strenuous hand-activity.
You dislike having things thrown at you, though. You perform decently well out of a desire not to get struck repeatedly and have Solas cross with you again. But you still have a performance to keep up, so you have to allow yourself to get struck multiple times. By the end of it, your ‘bad mood’ has turned into a full blown irritable rage. Why, exactly, are you submitting yourself to this? You’re a fucking linguist! You’re not a spy, and you’ve no intention to be! Not for the Inquisition, in any case.
This isn’t what you signed up for. You’re wasting your time, and despite what Leliana seems to think, your time is valuable.
You’re fuming by the time you make it to breakfast. You almost skip, just because you know you’re not in any state to put up with Thea’s uniquely annoying brand of tomfoolery. What will she ask you about today, you wonder, as she spoons your honey into her gruel. Your sexual habits? Details on whether or not you and Solas fucked in Val Royeaux?
Ding ding, you have a winner. But she’s not as irritating about it as she could be, perhaps picking up the sharp, angry movements of your hands as you pick at your breakfast. That doesn’t spare her entirely from your ire, however.
“I appreciate your attempt at tact, Thea,” you say after she’s danced around the issue long enough. “But to answer the question you’re working your way towards: no. Nothing untoward happened between me and Solas. We went to Val Royeaux. We slept in different tents and different inn rooms. It was a delight, yes, but for none of the reasons you’re clearly itching to hear.”
She pouts. “Tha’s a shame. You like him, don’t you?”
“Perhaps not in the sense you mean,” you reply sourly. “I enjoy his company.”
“You say that about everyone you’re rumored with, though,” she points out.
“Imagine, it could even be true!” you snap, then bite your tongue in an attempt to cool your temper. “Those blasted rumors have everyone thinking I’m some kind of dread harlot. I don’t even know why they started! I’ve not slept with a single person since I’ve gotten to this stupid fortress!”
Thea shrugs. “Dunno. But if it makes you feel better, with you bein’ gone for a week an’ all, they kinda died down. People are a bit curious if this means you ‘n’ Solas are somethin’ serious, but generally, they’re on to other subjects ’til you do somethin’ interestin’ again.”
“I’ll have to try very hard to be boring,” you say with a scowl. Something you’ve been trying without much success for quite a time now. But it’s an option. An appealing one. Perhaps you can even find a way to call off this bullshit with Leliana. Speaking to Argent had made you realize at least one thing.
Solas has pulled your ass out of the fire several times, and continues to express concern over your well-being. It’s more than an enjoyment of your work; he’s as much as told you that he likes your company. Forget playing the part of Leliana’s pet… you actually would likely have a place here as Solas’s.
You have stopped being afraid of Leliana, to an extent, and it is because of Solas. But not because you fear him more.
You’re starting to suspect Leliana is pissing you off on purpose. You can barely register that Solas is talking over the rushing sound in your ears as you stare down at your desk.
A missive.
A fucking. Missive.
One of your hands rests on the desk by it as you stare down, disbelieving, and you barely catch yourself before the bandages on your hand start to smolder. You’re not even at risk of losing control of your aura from size… You’re just that angry today.
“…a poor night’s sleep?”
You catch on the very end of what Solas is saying.
“Something like that,” you reply. You hope he doesn’t believe the irritation in your voice directed at him, because you have no chance of hiding it. You snap the missive off the desk, angry hand clenching too tight and crinkling it. You turn to show it to Solas. “Another Qunlat message for me to translate,” you say, voice tight with rage. “On top of the morning training she seems to desire for me—for no real reason. Despite the fact she informed me that this book was my top priority.”
“Perhaps you should speak with her about it?” Solas says delicately.
“You may be right,” you agree, turning your angry gaze back towards the missive. “If nothing else, I could use some clarification as to exactly what it is I do here.” You slump angrily into your chair, throw the missive onto the desk. ‘Deliver to the Commander,’ that bitch, ugh… Fine. You can give the Commander his stupid missive and his stupid present at the same Maker damned time, and then maybe you can get some actual work done for once.
You’ve already begun angrily scribbling out a translation when a shadow falls over you. You don’t even pause in your writing, pen scratching across paper in sharp, furious slashes. To his credit, Solas actually waits for you to finish a line before reaching around you and grasping your wrist. The sensation of his hand on you, his chest against your back, is almost enough to improve your mood. But not quite. Instead, you turn irritably in your chair, eyeing him wordlessly. You’ve no doubt he has a reason for interrupting you, but you suspect your expression says it better be a good one.
“I need to look at your hands, Emma,” he reminds you gently. “And I believe your work will go faster with an enchantment, no?”
Tensed muscles in your back begin to relax. He’s right; you’re still wearing the same shitty, stained bandages as yesterday. You rub your other hand across tired eyes, realizing only now that you’ve a horrid headache. “Yes, thank you, Solas. I’m sorry, I just…”
“It’s fine. But it won’t do for you to injure yourself in your anger.”
You try to focus on calming yourself while Solas unwraps your hands. Just the sensation of his gentle hands on yours goes a long way towards that end. You close your eyes and sink into the sensation… and that’s when it hits you.
You’re tired.
Not just tired, not just exhausted. You’re damn near dead on your feet. You can’t imagine sleeping, but your mind is in a fog, your chest is tight with anxiety, and you had gotten so accustomed to the sensation of exhaustion that you hadn’t even noticed it.
And there’s not really anything you can do about it.
A little bit of sleep might help, but connecting to the Fade will build your aura back up, without any way of discharging it. And at this point, you suspect you’d need something like a week of sleep to get even close to feeling normal again.
Cole was right. At this rate, you’re going to come apart. And you’ve no solution.
Your realization of what’s wrong does you no good, and it doesn’t even improve your mood. The second you finish the missive—easier now, your hand doesn’t tremble thanks to Solas’ magic—you’re out the door and headed towards the Commander’s office. You can deliver his present at the same time, that way it won’t be a thing. Why did you even buy the Commander of the Inquisition a present? It wasn’t like Leliana, a gift with meaning, it was just… You’d seen it and thought of him. Thought of stories of his family he told you over chess.
Stupid.
At least Fereldans are free and easy with gift-giving. It’s much more casual there than it is in, say, Orlais, where custom dictates a whole scene around gift-giving. In some ways, it will be easier to give him something than Leliana… and you still can’t even picture yourself giving Solas his present.
Unfortunately, fate is working against you once again. It’s still extremely early in the morning; Solas rises early enough that you forget when normal people roll out of bed. And were it not for the fact you’d once witnessed it, you wouldn’t believe the Iron Bull slept at all.
The Commander is not still in bed; he must be one of Skyhold’s many early risers. But neither has he started his work day. The guard posted outside his office informs you that Commander Rutherford likes to walk the walls and survey Skyhold before he starts his morning. The implication is clear: you shouldn’t bother him.
You’re gonna.
Any other day, you would return to the rotunda and do some other work, then come back at a more reasonable time. But today, you are angry. At Leliana, at the missive, and—ridiculously—at the Commander. For being the recipient of this stupid missive, for being so utterly terrifying, for not being in his office. So you thank the guard and stalk off over the battlements, looking for that ridiculous fluffy pauldron.
You find the Commander near the tower that’s being refitted for Templar use. Of course you do. Because your life is determined to be as unpleasant for you as possible. It says something for just how out of fucks to give you are, that you stalk right over to him.
“Pardon me, Commander?”
He looks shocked to see you. He’d been staring out over the mountains, more or less oblivious to his surroundings. He looks tired; there are slight bags under his eyes that probably mirror your own. Quite a pair of workaholics, the two of you. How funny would it be if you advised him to get more sleep? The fabric of the Veil itself might tear and form another breach in the sky at the sheer irony.
“Emma?” he says, still confused. “Ah…” He straightens somewhat; his hazy, tired eyes focus. “Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you so early, Commander, but this missive was on my desk this morning, so I assumed it important,” you explain, a simple lie to hide your irritation at being used like a buy-one-service-get-one-free sale. You’re not a messenger, damnit. “I confess, I also had a question for you, myself.”
You hand the missive over it, and his eyes flit down the page. “Hmm.” The corners of his mouth twitch into a frown. You hope he’s getting more use out of the missive than you did; it was a stupid thing about, as far as you could tell, the romantic liaisons of a bisexual Tal-Vashoth in Nevarra. That the Ben-Hassrath found it important to report on is the only thing of interest you could really locate. You need to copy down the reports you’ve been translating and see if you can notice some patterns, honestly, because this is getting silly.
He glances back up at you. “What was your question?”
You take a deep breath; your heart had jumped into your throat when his eyes met yours, your stomach twisted into unpleasant knots. Perhaps this fear reflex of yours in regard to the Commander is unnecessary—he seems to like you well enough—but there it is, nonetheless. He has the shoulders of too many unkind men in your memory, the rugged chin and rough, round ears of too many humans who’ve done too much to you to ever be forgotten.
“A Tal-Vashoth came to Skyhold recently. He arrived with me; he’s likely going by the name Sataareth. I was pulled away when I first arrived, and I haven’t seen him since. I was wondering if you knew what’s become of him.”
“Oh, yes,” the Commander says immediately. He doesn’t even need to think; you suppose a Vashoth is something of an irregularity in recruits. “I’ll admit, I was at a bit of a loss of what to do with him. Came right up and said he wanted to join, but he makes the other recruits a little… nervous.”
You frown. On one hand, you can’t really blame them; Qunari make you nervous too. But surely the Inquisition wouldn’t turn him down?
“Fortunately, Katari offered to oversee his training personally,” the Commander continues. “And we get enough odd-balls amongst the recruits that we have a bunk specifically for them. Is he a friend of yours?”
“Ah… Something like that.” Had Leliana mentioned nothing? “I’m glad to hear he’s becoming situated, in any case.” Although you’re not particularly pleased to hear he’s being situated with Katari. Your dislike for the Tal-Vashoth is possibly irrational, and you’re willing to admit to yourself that you’re perhaps feeling a little over-protective of Sataareth. But… checking in on them both wouldn’t hurt. “Thank you, Commander. Oh, and… I obtained something for you, in Val Royeaux,” you add quickly, immediately reaching into your back. You’d placed it on the top so you could grab it easily and not spend a few awkward minutes rummaging through your bag. It’s barely even wrapped; the tissue paper opens as you thrust it into his hands, already preparing to turn and walk away. No need to see his reaction. Both of you are interrupted, however, by the oddest sound you’ve ever heard.
Maaaaaaaaaaaaasplat
- Silence is golden ↩︎