Picking Fights
Katari sees you and Sataareth return from outside. And he doubtlessly sees your bandaged hands. You’ll have to try and wear gloves tomorrow, to hide the damage from Solas. You can’t risk him asking to heal you, not with him as drained of energy as he is. Bandages or no bandages, your hands are going in gloves in the morning.
You head to your tent. You see Katari pull Sataareth to the side and you bristle internally… but say nothing. You’ve spent enough time antagonizing Katari today. Instead, you head into your tent to try and get some rest.
Unsurprisingly, rest won’t come.
After an hour or two of tossing and turning, you give up. You unwrap most of Sataareth’s careful banding, leaving only a thin layer to protect you from chafing. Then you cram your hands into simple leather gloves. Thin, the only kind you have. Not much protection, but hopefully Solas won’t pay them any mind. It’s less important that your knuckles heal than it is to hide the damage from Solas. You can have them healed in Skyhold, away from his watchful eyes.
You exit your tent and head towards the fire with the bag of tea you bought in Val Royeaux. You carefully step around Sataareth, who has fallen asleep outside your tent again. Katari is still up, to your chagrin… You’d been hoping the watch would have changed by now. You do your best to ignore him where he stands watch by the cave entrance, despite being nearby at the fire. It’s still raining, but the force appears to be gone from the storm. It’s a steady, pouring rain, but the wind is dying down and the thunder and lightning has passed. Perhaps it will clear by dawn and you won’t be put in the position of fighting with Katari again.
Unfortunately, it seems the Qunari is not as content with the silence as you are. While you’re heating water for your tea, he speaks up.
“Tell me, elf. What do you intend to do with your dathrash?” he asks. You stiffen. Dathrash could translate as “pet,” if one could carry a whole world of meaning with that simple word. He’s implying much more than the Common word would. You react poorly.
“How dare… He is no such thing!” you exclaim hotly. “I realize Qunari have no sense of altruism, but—”
“You have a strong grasp of the language,” Katari interrupts you, eyeing you sourly. “As well as of the Qun. Are you of it, elf?”
“Vashedan Qun. Ka-antir vas Qun.1” you say darkly.
Katari snorts. You would swear he almost smiles. “A runaway like your Vashoth, then?”
“The only runaways from the Qun here have horns,” you spit. “I was in Seheron.”
“Ah. That explains it. But my question remains. The Vashoth. What will you do with him?”
“He is not mine to do something with!”
“You do not intend to keep him?”
“Of course not! He follows me for want of anything better to do. He’s Vashoth. He’ll need time to find a new path; they always do. But he’s not mine to keep. He belongs to no one. I saw to that.”
“That Baron of his… will he not try to recapture him?”
“No,” you say shortly. Katari looks on expectantly. “I ensured it,” is all you’re willing to add. He grunts, but says no more. At least now he seems content to let you make your tea in peace, although it takes a while for your temper to burn back down. You’ve had a very shitty couple of days. Fortunately, Katari doesn’t speak again for nearly an hour, giving you time to stew in your own thoughts.
You have to apologize to Solas. Properly. Somehow. You’d shown you didn’t trust him by hiding your plans with Sataareth, then snapped at him over something stupid. And thrown your time in Val Royeaux in his face, in front of everyone… things that should have remained private, just between the two of you. You’d tarnished them, in your anger. And now he’s exhausted himself, for your books, and you let him do it with no help because you didn’t trust him.
He has every reason to deplore you, even if he doesn’t know the full extent of your treacherous nature.
But you don’t want him to. That’s just how selfish you are, you suppose.
So you have to find a way to make it up to him. You’re just… really not sure what that might be. Hopefully, something will come to you. You’ve a long way to Skyhold yet, and you don’t want to be miserable the whole trip. And when you get back to Skyhold… You…
You know things will be different than in Val Royeaux. That knowledge stabs painfully at your core. But maybe they don’t have to be so different. There will be no cuddling on the couch, no Solas reading to you through a bathroom door. But there could be other things, different things. Sharing meals and conversations and little, tiny secrets. The only kind you can afford to give.
“Do you not sleep?” Katari’s voice jolts you out of your miserable trance. You glare blearily over at him.
“No,” you say flatly. “I don’t.”
“Good,” he replies evenly. “We can always use another pair of eyes on watch.”
“Wait, what?”
“Good night, elf.”
“I-”
But Katari is already walking away. And who’s walking up to start his turn at watch but Adahlen, who looks almost as confused as you feel. “You’re taking the second half of Katari’s watch?”
“I… Uh…” Katari is wandering further back into the cave. “…Apparently…” you say.
Adahlen squats near the entrance of the cave, his eyes away from the fire. If you’re going to actually try to keep watch, you should move away from the fire too, you realize. Elves have good night vision, yes, but staring directly at a fire will wreck it. You put on water for another cup of tea and then move around to the other side of the fire, letting it warm your back but keeping your eyes on the darkness outside. The light from the fire means that a lot of things could potentially see you and attack, even in this rain. After your run in with bandits before… well, it pays to be careful.
Unfortunately, Adahlen isn’t content to watch in silence. As you steep tea into your hot water, the talking begins.
“So neither you nor your companion are Dalish?”
“Could you not tell by the lack of vallaslin?”
“Some Dalish never get their vallaslin. Some leave. Did you have Dalish parents?”
You stiffen, hands clenching around your cup so hard you suspect it would break were your hands not weak and bandaged. “No,” you say, your voice dark with promises of pain should this avenue of questioning continue.
“What about your friend? Is he a circle mage?”
“No.”
“But—”
“He is neither Dalish nor circle mage,” you say shortly. “If you wish to know more, you should perhaps try speaking with him. I am not simply here to provide gossip about Solas.”
“I… It’s just, I didn’t think there were mages outside either,” Adahlen insists. “I thought humans bound and broke all the city elves, and dragged their mages off to Circles.”
“You’ve not spent a great deal of time away from the Dalish, have you?” you ask dryly.
“I… No, not really,” he admits. “My clan sent me to spy on the Conclave. I was late, and… Well…”
“You stuck around, rather than return to your clan? Why?” you ask with a frown.
“I didn’t,” he says with a laugh. “I went straight back. The Keeper sent me back again. This time, to help.”
You can’t help chuckling at the mental image.
“I… feel like we got off on poor footing. Ir abelas, da’l-”
“Do not ruin your good intent by finishing that word.”
“It doesn’t mean—”
“I know what it means. Not all elves look up to the Dalish as superior,” you say sourly. “Do not do me the disservice of presuming I should.”
“What is your problem with the Dalish?” Adahlen snaps right back. “Allergic to halla?”
“Right now, you are my problem with the Dalish,” you snarl quietly. “How much older do you think you are, to call me a child? How much wiser? And yet you didn’t even know that there were free elven mages outside the Dalish! Your Keeper has done you a service by allowing you to see more of the world than the inside of an aravel. Perhaps spend some of that time attempting to learn, rather than attempting to teach.”
“Do you think you know more than me?” he demands. “The Dalish are the best hope for preserving the culture of our people!”
“The Dalish are so obsessed with their half-forgotten legends that they’ve closed their minds to outside influence! They are fools acting out stories misheard and repeated wrongly a thousand times!”
“Oh, but you know the truth?”
“Of course I don’t! But the fact of the matter is, neither do you! And perhaps if the Dalish would consent to compare notes, something could actually be learned.” You glare down at your tea. “But they barely even speak with each other. Some clans trade mages like resources while they spit empty words against slavery. Few trade much else, even during arlathvhen. More knowledge is lost or twisted with each generation. And we have so little left.”
“The Dalish are doing everything we can to restore elven history,” Adahlen hisses. “If you know something new, share it.”
“Oh, what a solution!” you say, voice dripping sarcasm. “Share! That never even occurred to me! Please. You aren’t interested in my knowledge of elven history. You were more interested in teaching me, this entire time. Lecturing me on the history of the Dales as if I haven’t torn through every tome on the subject. As if I haven’t torn apart ruin after ruin searching for answers!”
“Tomes don’t contain everything. The Dalish have stories that have never been written down!”
“Because the Dalish won’t write them! If the Dalish tried to reconcile those legends with existing records, maybe we could learn something!” you reply hotly. “But the Dalish won’t even speak with historians who are Elven! They don’t want to hear what a flat-ear has to say! They spit seth’lin2 in my face, and you have shown me no different!”
“Venavis. Ma u’nadas, harellan.3” You all but recoil from his words. You finally stand from your seat at the fire, clenching your battered hands into fists despite the bandages.
“Banal’athim, banal’dirthara,4” you say coldly. “It took me twenty years to learn. How long will it take the Dalish?”
The two of you glare at each other for a while. Adahlen breaks the staring contest first to glower back into the darkness. You sit back down at the fire and frown into your tea. Fucking Dalish. He meant for his words to sting, but they cut deeper than he could realize.
It’s a miserable few hours of sulking. You would go back to your tent, but you don’t want to give Adahlen the satisfaction of being able to tell Katari you flaked out. The man winds up getting his revenge later, in any case. Solas rises slightly before dawn, to your irritation. You don’t even notice until he moves next to the fire.
“Solas! You should still be in bed,” you say, long standing irritation melting into concern. You stand quickly to press the back of your wrist against his forehead. He seems a normal temperature.
“I am fine, da’len,” Solas says evenly. You can practically feel Adahlen’s rage; you would let the flat-eared mage call you child, but not him. “You are up early as well.”
“She never slept,” Adahlen says shortly. Solas’s eyes narrow and you bite your lip guiltily.
“Emma…” Solas begins. You drop your eyes down to stare at your feet. “This is what I meant. How can you attempt to care for others when you take such poor care of yourself?”
“Ir abelas—” you begin, but Solas cuts you off.
“Mala abelas na banam.5” His tone is that of gentle scolding, but it’s more than you can bear.
You stare at the ground, as much to hide the watering in your eyes as anything else. He’s right, of course. You’re amazed it took him this long to figure out what a shitty, wretched little thing you are. You remain silent; there’s nothing to be said. Solas sighs and steps around you towards the fire. You stumble out of his way, and then walk quickly back towards your tent. You need to find something useful to do.
The rain stops completely a bit after dawn. Solas is still clearly tired, and you suspect his mana has not quite recovered. His exhaustion makes him snippish, but you’re more than willing to accept the abuse, scurrying about him in an attempt to assist despite the fact it’s clearly annoying him. You fuss after Solas to eat a large breakfast, load up his bags onto Ashi’lana before he can do the work himself, anything you can to try and ease his morning. You even offer to tie Ashi’lana to Revas if he wants to travel on the wagon rather than ride. The only person perhaps more annoyed with you than Solas is Adahlen, who seems to take your submission to Solas as a personal insult after your clear refusal to accept him as your superior.
By the time you’ve all saddled up and hit the road, however, Solas seems to have given up on verbally whipping you. Perhaps your placid acceptance of the punishment bored him. Even without his sharp words, however, you spend most of the morning staring at your saddlehorn.
The day is grey and bleary, with a freezing wind whipping down off the mountains. The road is a muddy mess, meaning slow going for the poor horses pulling the wagon. Twice the progression has to stop to help yank the wheels out of the muck. Despite your small stature and lack of physical strength, you jump off Revas into the mud both times, pushing and straining at the wagon with the strongest of the guards. You want to help. You want to feel less wretched. You want to feel less like the giant inconvenience you’re certain you are.
You’re uncertain if anyone else notices your strained, anxious mood, but Sataareth certainly does. After you needle Solas to have a mid-morning snack after his too-small breakfast, the unlucky Vashoth makes the mistake of calling you Solas’s “arvaarad” one time too many.
“Mages here neither have nor need arvaarads, vashoth!” you snap, much more roughly than he deserves. “Because we do not insist on making mindless beasts of them!”
Sataareth, to his credit, seems to take little offense. “But you care for him,” he points out, seeming genuinely confused. It only fuels your frustration, and your strain is great that you almost feel tears coming to your eyes.
“I care for him because he is my friend, Sataareth! Why is that so hard for everyone to understand?!”
Sataareth is silent for a moment, and you catch your breath. People are staring, Kelsie in particular. “…I apologize. I should not have shouted,” you say hollowly, returning to your sullen contemplation of your saddlehorn. You can feel eyes on you, but you refuse to look up. Perhaps the lack of sleep is finally catching up with you. Your grip on your emotions is practically non-existent.
Your mood hasn’t necessarily improved by the time lunch has rolled around, but the sky is much clearer and you’re less worried about rain, at the very least. You’re still keeping a close eye on Solas, but he seems to be fine. But your mind is still bouncing around with the events of the last few days… picking fights with Adahlen and Katari both, bloodying your hands… You’ve kept them firmly in your gloves despite the pain. You don’t think Solas suspects anything. If they aren’t healed on their own by the time you get to Skyhold, you can get a healer to look at them there, simple as that.
Your group happens across a merchant caravan stopped for lunch by the side of the road, and Katari decides to stop there as well. Safety in numbers and all that. The caravan is more than happy for the well-armed company. It’s all surfacer dwarves carrying goods direct from Orzammar, and you’re more than happy to look through some of their wares while the others settle into their meals.
To your pleasure, they’re mostly transporting enchanted goods. You can tell just by looking that the vast majority of it is well out of your price range, but it’s fun to look. One of the dwarves makes quite the attempt to sell you a lyrium-engraved quill upon learning that you’re a linguist. The quill is gorgeous, and when you set it in ink, the enchantment pulls the ink up inside it. No more constant dipping for more! It’s quite ingenious, really. It’s far more than you can afford, however.
There are magical trinkets and the like as well, ones obviously designed for a mage’s use that could come in handy in quite a few situations. But of course, you have no “excuse” to buy those, so you have to pass them up as well. In the end, however, you do buy a single small bauble that you can afford. It’s just a little lyrium ball that glows. It’s got a limited charge, so it’s relatively cheap, but it’ll serve you well in your tent tonight.
A few of the others peruse the wares as well, although Kelsie and Solas are the only two that actually buy something. Katari and Sataareth both keep their distance… superstition, probably. Korbin has a good time chatting with the merchants, catching up news from Orzammar. You mostly just watch Solas and Sataareth to make sure they’re eating properly.
There’s less mud as the afternoon wears on, and your pace improves somewhat, as does everyone’s mood. You wish Solas would consent to rest on the wagon and get some more sleep, but he insists he’s fine, and you don’t want to irritate him by pushing. He’s finally stopped glaring. That improves your mood enough that you find yourself able to chat idly with Sataareth as you ride. He’s as full of questions as always.
“This Inquisition was formed to seal this… hole in the sky you spoke of, yes?”
“Mmhmm,” you say, half distracted from his words as you eye Solas. Is he slumping in his saddle slightly? Perhaps he might sleep like that; you’ve seen him do it before.
“But they are still an organization. Why did they not end when the hole was fixed?”
“They’re going after the group responsible for creating the hole, the Venatori,” you reply, still slightly distracted.
“Why did these ‘Venatori’ wish for a hole in the sky?”
“I promise you that I don’t know, Sataareth.” He frowns, seemingly unsatisfied by your answer. “They were Tevinter, if that helps,” you add.
“Ah,” he says, nodding as if he understands. “Idiots.”
You snort. Thank the Maker Dorian isn’t here. “That seems as good a motivation as any I’ve heard, yes.”
“And you joined with the Inquisition… to stop them?” he presses.
“Not really, no. I joined the Inquisition because they have a sizeable standing army and their base, Skyhold, has extremely thick walls.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The world is very chaotic right now. My house was burned down by red Templars. I needed somewhere safe to go; I went to the Inquisition.”
Sataareth is quiet for a while after that, possibly thinking over what you’ve said. It would be easy for you to overthink your words to him. You know he’s carefully absorbing everything you say. But you figure the best route is just to be honest with him—well, as honest as you can be, anyway. He’s a thinking creature. He can draw his own conclusions, given time.
The day is nearing twilight when it happens. The sun is low on the horizon, painting the Dales a glorious, burning orange. You’re just starting to feel the twinges of wanderlust again.
Solas and Katari see the bandits, even before you do. They shout their warnings in tandem, and you’re instantly alert. This time, the first of the arrows are caught in a hastily raised barrier from Solas. By the time the second wave comes, everyone is armed and ready. Solas’s first action this time, after hastily blocking the arrows, is to throw a personal barrier over you. Seems he doesn’t want to take any risks with you this time. You can feel his magic through your skin, and you pay it close mind as you grab the first of your four remaining throwing daggers from your waist.
Your gloved hands are clumsy, flesh still raw and broken against the inside of the leather. You grip harder to compensate, feeling the broken skin crack open and bleed once again.
It’s bandits; a lot of them. Far, far more than the first time. They’re coming from both sides of the road; there is nothing for you to hide behind. You’ll be in the fight whether you like it or not. All eight of the guards engage with a brutal fierceness, and once again Solas strives to control the battlefield with lightning, ice, and even raw power torn from the Fade, if the slightly metallic taste in your mouth is any indication.
Your first dagger goes into the skull of a man bearing down on Kelsie. The second goes into the back of the neck of a bandit attempting to chop Korbin in half. That’s when you notice Saatareth has joined the fight out of sheer necessity, his bare hands around the neck of a bandit, keeping him just out of stabbing range. Another bandit comes towards Saatareth from behind; you use your third throwing dagger to sever his spine.
One dagger left.
You want to save it to use in Saatareth’s defense; the Qunari is unarmed for the Maker’s sake! Unfortunately, there simply aren’t enough guards to keep the bandits away. Several are bearing down on you. Revas rears back wildly and caves in the head of one of the attackers. You put your last throwing dagger through the throat of another.
Now you’re in a position nearly as bad as Saatareth’s. Worse, possibly; the Qunari is, at the very least, much larger than any of his assailants. You quickly realize you can’t do shit from Revas and slide off the hart’s back. He seems fully capable of fighting, and more than willing to, so you stick somewhat close to him, letting him protect your back while you take stock of the situation.
There are a lot of bandits. Leliana had doubled your guard and still you wish she’d given you more. But at second glance, you realize that your side is controlling the field. Solas is wielding his magic masterfully despite the fact he must be weakened. He’s keeping the bandits away from the wagon and the horses, for the most part. Ashi’lana is as much of a terror on the battlefield as Revas is, rearing high and caving in skulls with power hooves, and Solas is much more skilled at fighting from hartback than you. Adahlen has gotten on top of the wagon somehow, probably by jumping from the back of his horse. He shoots arrow after arrow, barely seeming to pause after each, and each time he hits a mark. He might not be Sera, but he’s good.
The warriors are a force all their own. You wish you could stop to be impressed by the sheer range of fighting styles on display: Kelsie with a longsword and dagger, Elaine with a shield and sword, Korbin with a tower shield and axe, Garrick with that terrifying giant axe of his… and Katari. Katari in particular is a holy terror, swinging a ludicrously huge sword as if it weighs nothing at all. You don’t even see Argent, but that’s probably for the best.
Despite the advantage however, the numbers are what they are. You’ve no time to consider hiding or to figure out how to remove yourself from the combat. Already two more bandits are rushing you.
You slip your dagger out from its sheath at your back but keep it hidden behind you, only revealing the fact you’re armed when you can move to slice the hamstring of one of the charging men. As you’re moving to parry a blow from the other, however, you feel a painful jolt against your head. You swear and roll forward, barely avoiding the bandit’s swing. An arrow on the ground reveals what struck you; it had bounced off of Solas’s barrier, which is now wavering and weak.
Solas seems otherwise occupied, but you hear him call out in alarm as you’re overwhelmed. Your desperate lunge out of the way has left your back vulnerable, something quickly taken advantage of by a man with a greatsword. You’re flanked, a bandit on each side, and you doubt the barrier will take much more. Oh, and you’re attempting to defend yourself with a single dagger.
Two blades swing. You catch one with your dagger, your battered hand leaking blood out of the glove and your arm straining with effort. The other one strikes your barrier and shatters it. You try to dive out of the way as the man with the greatsword heaves it around to slice you in two, but the longsword is pushing down against your dagger, locking your arms in place, pinning you. You reach desperately for you mana, out of other options, dread and terror knotting in your stomach at the realization that you’re dead either way.
You hear the high pitched scream of a hart; you’re vaguely aware of something huge lunging behind you. Then Revas thuds into your back, sending you sprawling forwards onto the man with the longsword. Fortunately, this catches him off guard as much as it does you. You recover first, taking advantage of the smaller heft of your weapon. You plunge the dagger into his sword arm as the two of you fall. He screams; his grip on his longsword loosens and it clatters to the ground as you thud down onto his chest, your knees on his thighs. You yank the dagger out and stab again, this time straight through his hand, pinning it to the ground.
He screams again. His other hand comes up, punches you square in the jaw. You leave the dagger piercing through his hand and grip onto the man’s armor for support, refusing to get off and allow him to regain his footing. He wraps a powerful fist around your bare neck while you reel from the blow to your face. One of your hands instinctively goes to wrist as you stave off burning, useless panic.
With his other hand crucified to the ground, his longsword is left unguarded. You grip it shakily; you’ve little experience with swords, and it’s heavy for you to attempt to lift with one hand. He sees you struggling with it and squeezes your neck tighter, trying to choke the life out of you before you can run him through.
He does not succeed.
You plunge the longsword through his neck, the most exposed part of him you can find in your blind desperation. You thrust so hard and with so much panic that the blade not only sinks through his flesh—showering you with a bright red fountain of the man’s life—but travels a few inches into the ground below, as well.
You scramble back off of the man, a whimper wet in your throat. It has been a very long time since you killed a man that… brutally. You have just enough sense to yank your dagger from his hand. The fight isn’t over yet. But when you turn to see how things are progressing, a scream tears from your throat.
Revas has fallen. His ruddy brown-red fur stained brightest crimson from the gaping wound in his side.