First Blood
You go the night without rest once again. It’ll catch up with you eventually, but there’s nothing you can really do about it. You’re already feeling foolish about your little moment of weakness with Solas, and the worst he could do with the knowledge you gave him is blackmail. Oh, certainly, he could kill you with it, but he’d have to work very hard at it. It almost wouldn’t be worth the bother. As long as he keeps his mouth shut, you’ll be in no real danger. Your magic, on the other hand, is a secret you can’t risk sharing. A pair of soulful blue eyes isn’t worth your life.
You make certain to change into fresh clothes towards dawn, not wanting Solas to realize just how little sleep you get. There’s no hiding all of the effects of your self-imposed insomnia from Solas, but you can at least hide just how bad it is. If he actually suspected you went for days at a time with no sleep at all, Maker only knows what he’d do to you. Magic being cast on you without your consent really isn’t one of your favorite things, mind magic or otherwise.
Solas awakens grumpy, as he always seems to, and snips at you about everything from being up before dawn to the bags under your eyes. You just placidly agree and idly wish he’d take to drinking strong teas in the morning the way you always have.
You take some of that dark, bitter tea with breakfast and feel almost immediately better. Solas makes a face as you drink it, of course, but you just stick your tongue out at him.
“Make that face all you want, Solas; I’ve sorely missed this tea. I really must pick some up to take with me back to Skyhold.”
“Have you considered simply sleeping instead?” Solas says sourly. He certainly knows it’s not that simple, but he’s still grouchy. His mood will improve with food in his stomach, you suspect; he’d simply gotten to bed late the night before thanks to you.
“I can sleep when I’m dead,” you joke, but the glare Solas fixes you with shows you that it’s still a little too early in the morning for that sort of joke. “So, our plans for the day,” you say quickly, changing the subject quickly and completely. “I’m pleased to say that—”
A knock on the door interrupts you. You freeze, momentarily terrified that Baptiste’s family has returned. You force yourself to stand and walk shakily to the door, opening it slowly. But it’s just the serving girl again.
“Sorry to bother you, Miss, but these have come for you.” She looks slightly nervous as she holds out perhaps a dozen letters of varying sizes. “I think that’s all of them, but they’ve been coming in a bit… fast. If any more come, I’ll bring them to you,” she promises.
“Oh, thank you,” you say with a smile, reaching into your coin purse for a few copper to give her. You accept the letters and head back to the table with a relieved grin. “Change of plans,” you tell Solas. “I’ll bet these are from the bookstores.”
Surely enough, they are. You open them one a time and glance over each list. You’ll need time to examine and compare them, and time to make additional lists to give to each shop. The letters contain what books they have, as well as the quality and prices. You need to figure out where you’re getting each tome, ensure you don’t get unnecessary duplicates, ensure you’re getting the best price…
“This will take me a while,” you admit. Your first instinct is to beeline for the desk, but you very quickly realize that’s a poor solution. Solas will swiftly grow bored locked in the hotel room, and you can’t simply let him wander the streets of Val Royeaux by himself, even if it’s just down to the university and back. You tap your foot with slight irritation. Well, there’s no helping it.
“We’ll go to the library,” you decide. “You can finish whatever tasks you still have there, or simply read. I can do this there. Then we’ll have to go around to the bookstores again.”
“Can I assist with those in some way?” Solas inquires, gesturing to your numerous lists.
“No, not really, but I appreciate the offer,” you say with a sigh. “It’s a one-elf job, I’m afraid. It’s all comparisons and calculations. I recommend you take the morning to ensure you have requested every single tome you want. We’ve only a few days left, and they do need time to put these things together.”
“Don’t forget to eat, Emma,” Solas chides as you begin fumbling about for a quill to jot down some notes. You glance down at the table; your breakfast is all but untouched.
“Oh. Right,” you say. You’d genuinely forgotten. Solas shakes his head, but he looks less irritated than he had earlier.
“You claim to assist me, and yet I can’t help but feel you’re the one who requires a keeper.”
“Keepers are for the rich and the Dalish,” you say with a grin. “But I take your meaning. I get distracted easily, I’m afraid. No focus.”
“You have excellent focus,” Solas disagrees. “If only on one thing at a time. Were you a mage, it would serve you well.”
You eye him suspiciously. “Is that so? Perhaps that’s why Dorian so often laments my mundanity.”
“That,” Solas agrees. “And that he lacks sorely for the company of other mages. The few mages we have at Skyhold are primarily of the southern Circle and want nothing to do with him.”
“I should introduce him to Servis,” you say sourly. “Two Tevinter peas in a pod.”
“Somehow, I doubt Dorian would see it that way,” Solas says with a chuckle. And Solas is surely right; Servis was, after all, arrested by the Inquisition for helping the Venatori. He’s a remarkably slimy individual.
“That reminds me, Solas,” you say with a frown. You’d been hemming and hawing over whether to share this with him or not, but the confession from last night has you leaning towards honesty with your apostate friend. His opinion is one that matters to you. “Servis made a request of me when he learned I was to be obtaining tomes from Orlais. I’ve made arrangements to obtain it through my connections, and I’m inclined to give it to him, but I wanted to run it by you first. Ensure there was nothing I was missing.”
“Why is your inclination to secretly obtain a tome for the prisoner mage?” Solas asks, as you point out the tome in question on a list.
“Because it seems a relatively harmless request, because I dislike his Templar leash-holder, and because I like the idea of a Tevinter mage owing me a favor,” you reply with uncharacteristic honesty. Uncharacteristic in that there’s any honesty at all; part of it has to do with a sense of solidarity as well as your endless curiosity. You sympathize with any mage being held captive, and you want to see what he’ll do with resources if you give them to him. He may well be a shady apostate with nothing but tricks up his sleeve… but you are, too.
“This is simply a book of glyphs,” Solas says, looking mildly confused. “Why did you even need to go through your contacts to obtain it?”
“It’s been banned,” you say with a pout. “And I confess that I don’t know why. I can only assume there’s something within that the Chantry frowns upon… blood magic was my first thought, but I’ve sources that say they have the tome who specifically refuse to deal in blood magic. It seemed a shame to deprive the man of his resources simply because I’m ignorant on the matter.”
“Hmm,” Solas says, tapping the edge of the paper idly. “Obtain it,” he says firmly. “But allow me to look through it first. If there is something in there our Tevinter friend means to do ill with, I will find it.”
You smile. “I’m glad I can rely on you for such things, Solas. My work for mages has been difficult, in the past, due to my lack of understanding on the matter.”
“You know more than I have come to expect, particularly of non-mages,” Solas says, and you bask in the praise like a cat rolling in a sunbeam. Him saying “non-mages” doesn’t hurt, either. Sometimes it seems he’s still nursing suspicions about you.
You work as you eat, mostly just going over the list visually and getting a feel for what you’ll need to do once you get to the library. You have to pester Solas to put on his mask, and he flat out refuses to wear his cloak. You grab it and bring it with you, just in case. It’s more evening-wear anyway, but you wish he’d consent to look more Orlesian when walking about town. You suppose you should be grateful you can even get him to wear the mask. Honestly, though, with no Templars in town and Solas carrying that staff about, you doubt anyone would bother him no matter what he was wearing.
You arrive at the library without incident, and allow Solas to do whatever it is he needs to do while you settle down at an empty desk and begin to slave away at your seemingly endless lists. It’s more time consuming than genuinely difficult. A lot of comparing numbers and doing math in your head, and then just a lot of writing. Solas comes over to check on you at one point. You stiffen as he leans over your shoulder—you seriously hate that—but relax slightly as he chuckles softly, close enough to your ear that gives you chills.
“Would you like a wrist enchantment? It seems you cannot escape a single day without constant writing.”
“Well, that is rather central to my job, yes,” you say with a smirk, pausing in your writing to turn. Maker, his face is right there. If he was a mere six inches lower you could just… You clear your throat, turning back to face your papers. “I am fine, however. I suspect I’ll be done within the hour. Have you requested every tome you want?”
Solas laughs again, still too close to your ear. “I feel as though half the books we return with will be ones I requested, but yes.”
“At least we’ll have a good selection,” you reply. “Perhaps I’ll have more down time to read when I actually manage to finish that dragon tome.”
“I’m sure I could make some recommendations. Hopefully your work will go swiftly when we return to Skyhold.”
Solas wanders back off to do whatever it was he was doing, leaving you with a pounding heart and a lot of distracting mental images. You’ve made remarkable progress with Solas over the course of a month, and even just over the course of this trip. In the end, you suppose the Inquisitor actually did you a favor by sending you on this little suicide mission… But you still can’t feel good about it, not with Baptiste dead and burned to ashes.
As if you had planned it, you finish your lists right around lunchtime. You’re quite pleased with yourself, and for once, you don’t have to drag Solas out of the library kicking and screaming—it seems he’s finally satisfied that he’ll be bringing home every book he wants. When you reach the exit of the building, however, you realize that the day—which had dawned bright and sunny—has turned grey. A miserable, constant drizzle rains from the sky.
“Ah…” you say with a smirk, glancing upwards. “If only some clever lady had purchased Orlesian cloaks for us? Oh, wait, that’s right…” You hand Solas his cloak with a broad grin. He scowls at you, but puts it on and even pulls up the hood. You pull up your own hood as well. Your cloaks may be decorative, but both are thick and they’ll help keep the rain off. Even if you’ll have to carefully dry Solas’s when this is all over.
“We’ll need to stop by the inn to pick up the Inquisition’s purse,” you explain as the two of you make your way down the puddle filled streets of Val Royeaux. “And since we’re going that way, there’s a particular bakery I’d like to stop at for lunch.”
“Oh? I’m surprised there’s a bakery that will seat us between here and the inn. Is it another like the one by the university?” Solas inquires.
“Admittedly, it’s a bit out of our way,” you say with a sheepish smile. “But it’s not too far, and I think you’ll like it.”
You lead Solas to the bakery in question, a rather upscale one. That you can be seated here at all is a case of connections, not a case of the owners being soft on elves in general. In fact, when you first lower your hood, one of the workers—a new one, perhaps, as you don’t recognize her—begins to scowl at once.
“Excuse me,” you say to the obviously offended worker. “Is Sonia here?”
“What does it matter to you, kni-”
“Alix? By the Maker, Alix, is that your voice I hear?” a voice comes from the back. There’s a bit of a clatter, and then a woman, blonde hair pulled back into a bun and pink frosting staining her cheek, rushes to the front. “It is! It’s been so long, Alix! What happened? And who is this gentleman?”
“Sonia,” you say with a relieved smile. The worker looks caught between confusion and horror, but you ignore her. “My house was burned down, but no matter. I came back to Val Royeaux for your cakes.”
“Can you afford them this time?” she teases. “You have to come see me more often to keep getting a friends of the family discount, you know. …Wait, did you say your house burned down?” she demands, your words catching up with her.
“I wasn’t inside it.”
“Clearly! But all your works…”
“Yes, at this point I believe that your stepfather has more of my tomes than I do,” you say with a self-deprecating chuckle.
“What a shame… Well, this is the first time you’ve brought a date, Alix! Clearly, it’s an occasion. Why not have a seat? The store’s mostly empty anyway,” Sonia suggests.
“I… He’s not my—”
“Sit!” Sonia insists cheerfully, spinning about and heading back into the kitchens. With a sigh, you lead Solas to a seat towards the back of the shop. No point in scaring off her customers when she’s being kind, after all.
“You have such colorful friends in Val Royeaux,” Solas comments as the two of you sit down.
“Her stepfather is a historian I’ve done a lot of work for over the years. He specializes in the history of the Qunari-Tevinter conflict, and I’m a unique resource for him,” you explain. “Her husband is a bookbinder. We travel in similar circles.”
“And you use your connections for cake?”
“I can think of no better use for them,” you say coyly. “And I believe you’ll agree with me after you’ve had her mignardises.”
Sonia actually brings out two small slices of opera cake—a personal favorite of yours—to “start you off.” You hope Solas is in the mood to have nothing but sweets for lunch, because that’s certainly your plan.
“Oh, Sonia, Sonia,” you say as you savor your first bite of cake. “Ma mie, vous m’avez tellement manquée.1”
She snorts. “Save your sweet words for your lover, Alix,” she scolds you playfully. “What if he grows jealous?”
“He’s not—”
“Not the jealous type? They always say that, love,” she says cheerfully. You sigh.
“This cake is marvelous,” Solas comments, surprising you. Up til now, he’s been very tight-lipped in public.
“Thank you, mon cher,” Sonia replies. “I’m sure they’re quite different from the cakes where you’re from! Where did Alix find you?”
“Ferelden, Sonia,” you answer quickly.
“Ferelden,” she says with distaste, wrinkling her nose. “Well, at least he doesn’t smell of wet dog.”
“Sonia, would you be so kind as to bring us some of your mignardises?” you say sweetly, changing the subject as best you know how. “I can think of no better way to showcase the tastes of Val Royeaux.”
“Pretty words!” she says with a scoff, even though you’ve clearly pleased her with them. “Very well then! If your masks are any proof, whatever group has bought you this month is making a good show of it, so I’m sure you have the coin.”
Solas raises his eyebrows as Sonia ponces away. “This month?”
“The Inquisition is the last in a long line to hire me for my services,” you say loftily, to cover for the fact that her phrasing in front of Solas made you a bit nervous.
“So it seems. Skyhold is not the only place in which you’re popular.”
You dance around the subject of your previous employers nervously until Sonia comes back with a much-needed distraction. You don’t want to get into such details with Solas, despite the fact you’d already been honest on the subject of your less-than-savory past. For one, you’re in public. Honesty in public is just distasteful, particularly in Orlais. For two, well… He doesn’t think worse of you now, and hopefully in breaking him into the White Spire you’ll frame your talents in a way he approves of. But if he knew more about the things you’ve done in the past, he might be less keen on spending time with you.
The cakes distract him well and truly, however, and to be entirely honest, you lose your train of thought quickly as well. Somewhere around the time he sucks a bit of pink frosting off of his thumb, your brain stutters out and ceases to function altogether. Watching Solas eating sweets is a greater pleasure than eating them yourself… Although you do eat plenty as well.
You’re stuffed by the time you leave the bakery… And the best kind of stuffed: stuffed with Orlesian cake. Solas seems quite content as well, and ate just as much as you. It’s still dreary out, so the two of you pull up your hoods before taking back to the streets. You swing by the inn room and dig out the purse full of royals. It makes you nervous just to hold that much money, so you quickly thrust it into Solas’s hands.
“You’ll be the one making all the purchases, Emma,” Solas points out.
“I don’t want to carry that thing! It makes me nervous; I keep thinking I’ll be mugged. You carry it… Put a spell on it or something!” you say with a frustrated wave of your hands as the two of you exit the inn once again.
You go around to the reputable bookstores first. You can lighten that coin purse considerably that way, and not go into the shadier side of Val Royeaux with a clinking coin purse full of hundreds of royals. The process would be simpler if even a single bookstore had anticipated the size of the orders. They clearly hadn’t expected you to make purchases as large as you were despite the size of your lists. You take advantage of their alarm to haggle prices even lower, however, which helps make up for the increased price due to the rushed nature of such a large order.
You arrange to have each and every bookstore deliver the books to the docks. You know from Baptiste’s notes that the Inquisition has already made preparations to have a very large wagon and two draft horses ready at the docks to be loaded into the ferry. You’re just as glad the Inquisition made those preparations ahead of time. One less thing for the “knife-ear” to try and accomplish against the rushing flood waters of racial prejudice.
You drop off list after list at bookstore after bookstore. Your exhaustion is starting to catch up with you as the effects of the morning’s tea wear off, but you try not to sag too much… Solas is watching, you’re sure, and Orlesians are always watching.
“I’m not looking forward to the trip back,” you comment on the walk from the fourth bookstore to the fifth. Almost done… Maker, you’re tired of walking, but you’ve only more of it to do.
“Oh? I can think of a good number of reasons why. The boat ride? Another three days on hartback?” Solas suggests.
“Those too,” you admit. “But mostly it’s the idea of traveling back with this wagon full of tomes. We’ll be moving more slowly, and it feels like we might as well be waving a flag saying we have valuables. We were already attacked by bandits once—” Your voice catches, trembles when you continue. “We’ll have more guards for the trip back, but…”
“With something of value to guard, our soldiers will surely be more alert,” Solas says, clearly trying to comfort you. “And I will be as well. I promise.”
You manage a shaky smile. “The idea of your protection comforts me more than that of the soldiers,” you admit. “That bandit slipped right through their guard. If not for you, I think I’d have joined dear Baptiste on that pyre.”
“The guards took out the bandits,” Solas points out, but you shake your head.
“I doubt they would have without your help, not without sustaining much worse injuries. And me? None of them could have doubled back in time to protect me from that bandit. Your barrier saved me.”
Solas has an odd look on his face. Perhaps you should let this line of conversation drop… but you are grateful. You don’t have his knack for subtle magic. You can’t cast a barrier. You can wiggle your way out of wards and set everything in the immediate area—yourself included—on fire. You’ve few other talents, and you wouldn’t have had much luck taking on a bandit armed with one little dagger. He may not have saved your life, precisely, but he had gotten you out of a very sticky situation much more intact than you would have been otherwise.
Was that why you had trusted him last night? You can’t help but wonder; the confession was out of character for you. Was it the adrenaline still pounding through you? The subtle, seductive feeling of camaraderie from sneaking about the Grand Theater together? Your own foolish schoolgirl’s crush? A combination of all of these things, perhaps? It’s anyone’s guess; even you don’t know. Solas’s effect on you, whatever the cause, is dangerous. A smarter woman than you would run. Your mother, certainly, would have chosen now to break free; it would be more easy in Val Royeaux than anywhere else in the world. You know this place. You know how to disappear.
But in the end, you never were as clever as your mother.
You’re staying right where you are.
It’s getting towards dinnertime by the time you finish with the legitimate bookstores, but you head towards the alienage anyway. It will be easier to find a place to comfortably eat closer to the alienage, where your pointed ears will be less of an oddity. It’s stopped raining, finally, although the sky is still dark and dreary, making it seem as though night is coming more rapidly than it actually is. You’re near the walls of the alienage when trouble finds you… or, to be more precise, you find trouble.
The sight catches your eye immediately, even before you hear the shout… an elven girl bumps into a Chevalier. That can be the start of an altercation right there, but the Chevalier simply gives the girl—who looks to be no older than thirteen—an angry shove before continuing on his way. You’re ready to continue on yours again when you hear it.
“What the—You! Wretched knife-eared thief!”
You freeze mid step, despite the fact you know he’s not talking to you. You mentally urge the girl to run, but she’s not fast enough. The Chevalier catches her wrist in an angry, gauntleted hand, spins her back towards him. You stare in horror, transfixed as the scene you’re so intimately familiar with begins to play out. Other elves quicken their pace to avoid getting pulled into the trouble. You should too. You’re in no position to be—
The man shoves the girl, and you see his arm swing back, ready to backhand her with the sharp metal of his gauntlet.
Quicker than the Iron Bull has ever seen you move, with more agility than Sera will ever witness in you, you dart between the man and the elven lass. “Wait, please!” you cry out, shoving the girl behind you, but the gauntlet is already coming down. You hear a sickening crack, too close to your ear, as metal strikes flesh and bone. Your first thought, ridiculously, is of Commander Cullen. These gauntlets are remarkably like his—how often have you feared he’d strike you like this? Your second is relief—he’d missed your mask, which was infinitely more expensive than your jawbone. The pain makes you dizzy, and worsens when you attempt to speak, but you push through it.
“Get out of the way, wench!” the Chevalier snarls as you grasp the girl’s shoulders behind you, keeping yourself between her and the angry man. “There’s only one way to teach a knife-eared brat to respect her betters!”
“Please, ser, she’s young! You’ve struck a terror into her, let her simply return what she’s stolen—” you attempt to reason. But the Chevalier is still angry.
“If you coddle her, she’ll never learn!” he snarls. “You have to put the fear of the Maker into motherless brats like that! Out of the way!” He grabs the shoulder of your cloak, but you simply hold tighter to the girl behind you; you can feel her crawl up under the back of your cloak, clinging to you in terror. As the Chevalier shakes you, your hood falls, and when his eyes land on your pointed ears, his face distorts with rage and disgust both. He’d mistaken you for a human woman at first. You steel yourself as the arm not gripping you draws back a second time.
You don’t even notice Solas beside you until his hand comes to rest gently on the arm that has a death grip on you. Horrified, you stare over at him. His eyes are a stormy rage to match the grey-blue sky. His voice, however, is calm. “Do not think to strike my companion again.”
This is it, you think to yourself. This is where it all goes to the Void.
“Fucking knife-ears, I’ll show the lot of you—” The Chevalier makes a mistake, then, even more than Solas’s mistake to lay a hand on him. He releases you and makes to shove Solas. You don’t know what Solas would do upon being struck, and Maker knows you don’t want to find out. But today won’t be the day you learn that. Fury screams in your ears, your aura untangles itself from your stomach and fights to break free of your skin. Your own pride you can swallow, but the thought of Solas having to suffer the indignities you have at the hands of Chevaliers is simply too much.
You grab the man’s arm before he can lay so much as a finger on Solas, snatching it out of the air and forcibly yanking it down. The man’s eyes turn to you, disbelief and rage. What you’d done was, quite frankly, assault.
“I would think twice, ser,” you say, unable to keep fire and hate from your voice. “Before striking the magical advisor to the Inquisition.”
The man’s eyes flit back to Solas. He takes in the steely grey rage, the expensive cloak, the silver and opal mask… and the staff strapped proudly to his back. Then back to you, a mask to match, though no staff. You can see the pieces click in his head as he begins to second guess his actions.
“…Goddamn fucking knife-ears, sticking themselves where they’ve no place,” he snarls, but he’s all bark now, having decided that the two of you might have a worse bite. “Fine! Waste your time on a brat like that! She’s probably already stolen your own purse!” He throws his hands into the air in frustration, and then begins to storm off. You see Solas’s hand twitch towards the Chevalier’s exposed back; you catch his wrist, shaking your head firmly. If you escape this with no more than a broken jaw, you’ll count yourself quite lucky.
You heave a long sigh of relief as the Chevalier turns a corner, and turn to Solas. “I can’t believe—”
“Do you ever think?” he explodes, catching you off guard. “Throwing yourself in the way like that!”
“What would have had me do?” you snap right back, at once hurt and confused. “Watch him strike the girl?”
“If you’re going to put yourself in these situations, learn to block with something other than your face!” he counters. His hand comes to your jaw quickly, and you flinch, thinking he’s about to strike you. But his hand is gentle on your broken flesh. “You must let me heal this at once. Do not fight me on this,” he adds as you open your mouth.
“Fine, Solas, but we must get off the streets… and the girl with us. The Chevalier will be waiting for us to part ways, no doubt. He will get his hands on the girl if we leave her now, and it will be worse than if I had not intervened at all.”
“Very well. Bring the little troublemaker with us,” he says with a sigh. “I would be happier out of sight, in any case.”
You duck into a tavern nearby, one you’re familiar with. It serves food and will do as well as any other as a place to have both dinner and privacy. You slide into a booth, table and chairs both attached to the wall. You slide onto one bench, expecting Solas to sit across from you as he normally does, but he slides in right next to you. The girl stands, awkwardly, before he gestures at her. “Sit, child.” She does so, quickly. She looks as though she thinks you’ve kidnapped her… She might, actually.
“Don’t worry, da’len,” you comfort her. “Solas is grumpy, but safe.”
“Is he a mage?” the girl asks quietly, wide eyes fixed on his staff.
“He is, yes. I—Ow, Solas!” you snap, as his hand twists your face towards him.
“Quiet,” he says with a scowl. “I need to examine your jaw.”
“You don’t need me to be quiet for that,” you say with a scowl. “Child, did you steal from that Chevalier?”
“No!”
“The truth, da’len,” you say darkly. “You’re not the only da’ahlras2 here.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means she’s as much a thief as you, child, and even worse at following instructions,” Solas says sourly, running a hand over your bloody jaw.
The girl pouts, but after a moment, she pulls out a small coin purse. The Chevalier’s, no doubt.
“Da’len, remember this lesson. Chevaliers are never worth stealing from, no matter how tempting their low-hanging purses. You—”
“The lesson in thieving protocol can wait, din’samahlen3!” Solas snaps. “Child, you at least seem to listen. Fetch me a clean towel. Go.” You know that tone. You would have run off to find the towel yourself had it been directed at you, so it’s no surprise that the girl immediately scurries off.
“She needs to learn, Solas, or she’ll just wind up getting herself killed,” you explain, frowning.
“I appreciate that sentiment,” Solas says with a scowl. “But you have yet to learn that lesson yourself.”
“Don’t lecture me, hahren,” you snap. “I did the right thing.”
Solas lets out a long, pained sigh. “…Yes, you did,” he admits. “And you handled yourself well. But you give me no end of anxiety.”
“…Ir abelas, Solas.”
The girl returns then, having somehow obtained a towel. Nabbed it, probably. It’s what you would have done; it’s quicker and easier than trying to explain why you need it, in any case. Solas thanks her and takes it, pushing it against your still-bleeding jaw. The girl pulls herself back into her seat. You wince; despite Solas’s gentle hand, the pressure hurts quite a bit.
“It’s been fractured,” Solas explains. “Badly. You’ll need quite a bit of healing.” But your eyes have already returned to the girl.
“Chevaliers are not marks, da’len. They are to be avoided. His gauntlet fractured my jaw. Think for a moment of what it would have done to you.”
She nods vigorously. “I’m sorry. I was just…” She bites her lip.
“Hungry,” you say with a sigh. “Hungry and angry. I understand. But the death is worse than hunger. No matter how drunk a Chevalier appears, no matter how distracted, they are well trained. A Chevalier will always notice a pickpocket.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Emma, be still and silent for once in your life,” Solas says, his irritation returning. “I need to heal this.”
“I—”
“Have no room to lecture a child about not taking risks after the one you just took.”
“But she—”
“Is a spitting image of you when you were her age, I’m sure.”
“But, Solas—”
“Emma, if you will not be quiet on your own, I will gag you.”
You clamp your jaw shut. The girl watches in fascination as Solas heals you. His magic is like a thousand pinpricks, then a pleasant, numbing warmth. Your jaw aches deeply as his magic probes it, but you stay quiet. It would be much worse if he wasn’t around to heal you.
“This will take more than a little healing to fix,” he says with a frown. “I can handle the superficial damage now, and begin to coax the bone into growth, but it will require time and additional healing.”
You wait until he drops his hands. You are at once relieved and desolate. The feel of his warm hands on your face had been… beyond pleasant, with or without the pleasurable tingle of his magic.
“That’s so cool,” the girl whispers, hands eager on the table, leaning forward to watch. “His hands glow.”
“What’s your name, child?” Solas inquires. “We can’t simply keep calling you da’len.”
The girl shifts uncomfortably in her chair. You know that look. That’s the look you had before your mother took time to coach you, ”Dirth’len. Your name is Dirth’len4.”
“My mother called me Banal’len5 before she left,” the girl says nervously. “So I think that’s my name. But the people at the alienage mostly call me Len’alas6?”
Both you and Solas stare in abject horror.
“Th… those aren’t names, are they?” she says with a nervous laugh. “I kind of figured…”
“Your mother only ever called you banal’len?” you ask, voice cracking slightly. “Nothing else?”
“Nothing worth repeating,” the girl says quietly. You swallow, hard. Your mother loved you dearly. You can’t imagine…
“That’s…” Solas begins, but he seems unable to finish his thought.
“You deserve a better name than that,” you say gently. “A proper name, one you can make famous when you’re older.”
The girl snorts. “Me? I’ll never be famous.”
“I grew up in the Denerim alienage. An orphan, like you,” you say seriously. “Solas calls me da’ahlras because it means little thief. That’s what I was.”
“Still are,” Solas quips. You glare over at him, and the girl cracks a smile.
“And now,” you say, giving Solas one last pointed glare before returning your gaze to the girl. “I work for the Inquisition. I made my name one worth respecting in Orlais. And you need a name for people to respect, too.”
“I could go by Da’ahlras!” she says cheerfully, and you laugh.
“A little on the nose, perhaps,” Solas says, and you’re relieved to hear he sounds somewhat amused. “Ati’asha7?”
You snort. “Does she strike you as peaceful, Solas? She’s a pickpocket! She needs a name that’s clever, like her.”
The girl is grinning now as the two of you hash out elven names. Giving her an Orlesian one was out of the question, for the two of you.
“How about Dirth’len?” you say finally, glancing over at the girl with perhaps a bit too much emotion. Her hair is a messy brown, the color your mother dyed yours sometime when red hair would stand out a little too much. “Little Dirth’len.”
Solas can’t possibly know what the name means to you, but he nods along.
“I like it,” the girl says. “It has ‘len’ in it. It’s familiar, but it sounds better than Banal’len. Dirth’len. Diiiiirth’len,” she mumbles, trying it on for size.
“It’s a good name,” you say with a melancholy smile. “It fits you.”