A Surprising Moment
A Saarebas. Bound and broken as they always are. You feel the bottom drop out of your stomach, swirling panic conquering your mind. Why is there a Saarebas here?! You pick up on the inconsistencies even as panic overtakes you and you rise to your feet. The mask it’s wearing isn’t accurate. It still has its horns, whereas most Saarebas have them shorn down to nubs. You can’t tell from here, but you’d be willing to bet the bindings are mundane, not magical. Saarebas are not difficult to control, but the Qunari would not suffer one of them to live free of their Arvaarad.
Solas sees the expression on your face, even hidden behind your mask. “Emma?”
“I just need some air.” You choke the lie out and flee, ignoring the murmurs of the crowd. You rush onto a balcony, clutch the railing as your stomach rebels, expelling its contents out of your mouth. You manage to puke over the edge, at least, and not ruin your dress. The cloudiness isn’t helping, nor is the dark.
You see the creature and you taste true fear. You thought nothing could be more terrifying than the Qun. Until you saw the result.
Saarebas.
You gag and retch again and again, but nothing’s coming up.
Please, no! Don’t hurt me! I didn’t do anything!
“Emma?”
You recoil blindly backwards, hand going to your back for a dagger that isn’t there.
Mercy! I beg you, mercy! Ayez pitié!1 Misericordia!2
Oh Maker, oh Maker, how do you not know the Qunlat word for mercy?
“Hamin, lethallin. Ara ma’desen melar.3”
His voice catches you, the words, the sound, the gentleness. You watch cautiously as the man approaches. A mask; the enemy. But pointed ears. Those ears mean trust to you. That language means family. He catches the sides of your face in his hands; panic screams in your ears. But piercing blue eyes hold yours behind his mask.
“Look at me, Emma,” he says, Elven cool and soothing on your ears. “Focus only on me.”
You find yourself willing to do so, despite the screaming in your head. Please no, please no, anything but that! I’ll be good! I’ll be good! A strangled whimper escapes your lips.
“Ssshhh, gentle girl, you are safe. We are the only ones here.” You twist your eyes around to look. “Look at me, only at me,” he says firmly, and your eyes snap back to his. He whispers to you then, gentle, soothing Elven words. It’s the way Cole speaks to you, but without the spirit magic to calm your panic or carry you away to the Fade. It seems to be working, however. Slowly, the screaming subsides to a buzzing in the back of your head.
“S-Solas…” You sob his name, feeling wretched. You didn’t want him to see this part of you. “Ir abelas4, Solas. Emma ir abelas, emma—”
“Ssshhh, shhhh. Dar’atisha, lethallin. Ma eth.5” His hands are on your bare shoulders now, and you reach out to grasp his, digging your fingers against the thick cloth of his coat. Gently, he brings your head towards his chest, and with a shuddering gasp, you rest your forehead against him. The contact soothes you; Cole lets you do this sort of thing as well. Your life has often been starved of this kind of gentle touching.
“The Qunari?” Solas asks quietly. You nod against his shoulder. “It’s dressed like one of their mages, but—”
“It’s not, is it?” you ask softly. “The mask is a fake, and it still has its horns.”
“You are correct. It has no magic. But how did it come to be here?”
“I intend to find out,” you say, standing shakily. “This isn’t Tevinter. We do not practice slavery. Whatever loophole the Baron has abused to allow this barbarity… This ends.” You straighten, shakily, panic still not entirely gone from your mind. But you have new focus. A slave is a slave. To the Qun, to Tevinter, to the Circle, to the Chantry. Human, elf, even Qunari. It matters not.
“Emma, don’t be rash,” Solas begins as you head back into the auction. Something in your eyes makes him pause when you turn back to him. Or perhaps it’s the slightly manic smile on your lips.
“Stop me if you’re going to, lethallin.”
You turn back and enter the hall.
Solas doesn’t stop you.
In any case, you have no plans to be as rash as Solas likely fears. There’s a small crowd around the “Saarebas,” which is now housed in the iron cage. Pathetic. As if it were even dangerous, arms bound behind its back, blinded by the mask. Even if it had magic, which it does not, it would pose no risk. You make your way over to it and kneel down as if in awe, like the others. You listen, for a moment, to the conversations around you. The unfortunate creature “belongs” to the Baron. Not legally, you’re certain. He’s not selling it, just showing it off, by the sound of it. Is it a hired bodyguard? There has to be some way he’s doing this legally. But you won’t find that out here. Instead, you take the opportunity to murmur to the Qunari.
“Thing,” you say quietly in Qunlat. “Do you serve the Qun?”
The creature recoils from your voice as if struck, rattling against the chains hooked to its collar. It lets out a low, growling sound. Had this disgusting Baron actually sewn its mouth shut? There are gasps of horror and delight from all around you, a reaction to the “thing” acting wild.
“Then answer me only this. Do you wish to be free?”
The fake Saarebas’s head turns slowly towards you. A grumbling growl, and then, unmistakeable… a nod.
“Be at peace, grey one. I will bring you freedom.”
You stand, a hand over your mouth, pretending to be overcome with fear as the Qunari fights against its chains again. You hear gasps and murmurs in the crowd: “it looked right at her!” “I would be frightened too!” “What a savage thing!” The savagery here is in the people looking at an intelligent being caged, bound for their amusement. You close your eyes briefly to fight the rage that twists in with your panic, the burning desire to show these disgusting shemlen what savagery is.
You walk quickly away, and spot Solas in the crowd. You beeline for him, not trusting yourself not to do something… “rash.”
“What did you do, Emma?” he asks quietly.
“Nothing you would disapprove of, Solas,” you say, your voice shaking quietly. Bravado or no, being that close to the thing left you nauseous and terrified, a sensation doing nothing for your bloodlust. Red fog screams at the corners of your vision. “Can we leave?”
“Of course,” Solas replies. He guides you out of the estate, a hand on each of your shoulders. The two of you walk quickly down the street until there’s some distance between you and the auction.
“…Ir abelas, Solas,” you say quietly, after you’ve calmed down somewhat. “We’ve missed the auction, the dancing…” You pull part of his coat into your hand, rubbing it sadly between thumb and fingers. It was such a nice outfit. You’d been looking forward to looking at him wear it all night. You’d been looking forward to dancing. Your outfit was quite literally made for it.
“You have nothing to apologize for, Emma,” he assures you. “I understand if you wish to go back to the inn room at once. But… we are dressed for a night out.”
You stare at him, shocked. Your limbs are still shaking from the near-miss. But do you really want to just go and hide in your inn room? Admit your failure? Your weakness? A shaky grin slowly forms on your face. “Where are two elves going to go dressed like this?”
“If a place for those such as us exists here, I’m sure you know of it,” he replies, only making you smile wider, more genuinely.
“Sweet talker… Come on.” You hook your trembling arm around his, hiding your need for physical support in an act of friendship. “We’ll make our own fun, tonight. If a Chevalier bothers us, we can simply stab him and dump his body in the Miroir de la Mère.”
Solas lets out a short bark of laughter; you’d surprised him. “What happened to avoiding them?”
“Always preferable,” you agree. “But if there are no other options, well… I would prefer not to break my jaw again.”
“And you know the best place for dumping bodies, I assume?”
“I’d do it in the Miroir out of spite.” You let out a quiet sigh as the two of you walk down the quiet street. “I’ve blown my cover so completely with you,” you say with a melancholy smile. “It feel pointless to pretend at all.”
Solas is quiet for a time. “Was this so necessary to hide?”
You stare at him incredulously. “Why, of course! How foolish of me! When we get back to Skyhold, I’ll march right up to the Inquisitor and let him know he has an ex-bard of unknown loyalty befriending his Commander and half of his Inner Circle! Translating delicate material for his Spymaster!”
“Ah. When you put it that way…”
“I’ve done questionable things in the past. I’d just like to leave them there.”
“Then we shall,” he says. “No more talk of the past. Where will we go first?”
There really aren’t places for finely dressed elves to go in Val Royeaux, not really. If you wanted a drink, you’d probably have to go to a whore house or something. Anywhere else and you’d either not be able to go in due to your elfiness, or both be woefully over-dressed. Val Royeaux isn’t really set up for well-to-do elves. So the two of you wind up walking the streets. When you’re strong enough to walk on your own, you release his arm, but still find yourself walking closely enough that your bare arm brushes against his coat. Before you’ve walked far, you tie your flowing skirt in a knot above your knees, just to keep it from getting dirty rubbing on the ground.
Despite his claims that you would talk no more of the past, it seems as though that’s the only thing you two have to talk about. But you talk of more pleasant things than Qunari or bards. You make your way slowly through the streets of Val Royeaux, and you entertain Solas with tales of your past exploits in the city. You had arrived when you were still a young thing, after all. Although after a good year of wandering about Thedas, you were glad to settle into one place. That had been your “freedom” phase, the closest thing you ever experienced to the life Solas claims to have lived.
Mostly, you had learned that Templars are smarter than they let on, Ferelden has a lot of wolves and even more bears, and that it’s a very bad idea to get wet in the winter. You weren’t very good at freedom, all told.
“And then I said… Well, it doesn’t translate very well. I called him a poorly groomed sheep, essentially, but I promise it’s much ruder than that in Orlesian.”
“Perhaps the reason you’re so keen on avoiding Chevaliers is that they may all know you on sight,” Solas quips, and you laugh.
“I don’t know how I never wound up run through, honestly! I learned a lot in my first six months here, though. Things were so different than in Antiva or Rivain, or even Ferelden.”
“How young were you when you arrived?” Solas wants to know.
“Young enough to be an ass,” you reply. “And old enough to know better. I learned fast, though. I—”
You pause. You felt a drop of wetness on your head. Another… then another. Within seconds, there’s a steady drizzle coming from the skies. “Shit!” you swear out loud.
“Will you melt?” Solas asks, amused at your panic.
“I don’t want to get my dress wet!” you exclaim. “And your own outfit is hardly waterproof!” It begins to rain harder and you squeal and bolt. You hear a laugh from behind you, but you’re too busy looking for shelter. There! An alcove! You dart under its shadowy roof, panting slightly. Solas arrives only a few seconds after you. His laughter triggers your own. You must have looked ridiculous, bolting through the rain like a squealing princess.
When your laughter subsides, you take stock of your surroundings. “Thank goodness this was here. This dress would not look good wet.”
“There’s one in every district, didn’t you say?” Solas says, sounding amused.
It takes you a moment to parse his meaning… And when you do, you begin to flush from the tips of your ears down to your neck. This is a lover’s alcove. You lower your face into your hands. Oh, Maker. Seriously? Just… seriously?
“How was it you described them? Designed for the arduous task of making love, I believe?” Solas says, sounding intensely amused. You turn an ever-brighter shade of red. “Seeing the inside, I can’t quite imagine it.”
“Oh, Maker, I’m just going to go stand in the rain,” you groan, taking a step towards the exit. Solas catches your wrist as you go to leave, however.
“I apologize. It was not my intent to make you uncomfortable. There’s no need for you to ruin your dress.”
The fact he’s touching you does nothing for your embarrassment, but you do stop. You brace yourself, then turn. “Solas, I—”
His eyes are on your face, but as they glance down you, they seem to stick at your midsection. You pause, then look down yourself. The powders you’d used to cover your scar are running from the rain. “Ah, shit.”
“I had forgotten that,” he muses. “You used something to cover it?” He reaches out towards it and you flinch. He stops, as if realizing that rubbing a hand over your stomach would be more than forward.
“Y-yeah,” you say, shaking your wrist free of his grasp and taking a few steps away to sit down on one of the alcove’s benches. “Some of the powders I picked up today. Useful for this sort of thing.”
“Why cover it?” Solas asks, sitting down—mercifully, some distance away.
“It’s unsightly, but I enjoy this sort of outfit,” you reply, running a finger over the scar. It smears the make-up, and you sigh.
“We all have our scars,” Solas says. “Although that one is particularly grand.”
You snort. “Grand is a word for it, I suppose.” A crack of thunder interrupts you; it begins to rain even harder. “Looks like we’ll be stuck here for a while.”
“There are worst places to be stuck,” Solas says. “We’re dry, and reasonably safe.”
“Hopefully it dies down in a bit.”
“I was unaware there was a lake in Val Royeaux.”
You turn to look at what Solas is talking about, and realize the back of the alcove has a view of the Miroir de la Mere. “Oh, that’s the Miroir,” you explain. “It’s not much of a lake. How much do you know about Emperor Reville?”
“He was behind the Orlesian invasion and occupation of Ferelden,” Solas replies promptly, and you smile.
“Like most historians, you think in wars, Solas.”
“Wars leave indelible marks upon the Fade. Spirits still reenact them even now.”
“I suppose that’s a good enough reason,” you agree amiably. “But the Mad Emperor was more interesting for his exploits here in Orlais than his ones in Ferelden, in my opinion. Despite his success in Ferelden, Emperor Reville actually lost quite spectacularly to Nevarra. Perendale is Nevarran to this day. After the death of his mother, Reville snapped. He ordered his younger twin brother, rumored to be behind whispers of his incompetence, murdered… As well as his brother’s wife, their three children, and all eight of their grandchildren. He grew increasingly mad as time went by. He commanded the Miroir to be built in 8:49 Blessed, to be a reflecting pool large enough to draw his mother’s spirit back through the Fade.”
Solas snorts. “That’s ridiculous!”
“It is,” you agree. “There’s a reason he’s known as the Mad Emperor. He had the city torn apart for it, and even then, construction wasn’t finished until two years later—the very week of his death, in fact. The worst part is, he had the damned thing lined with lead to increase its reflectivity. Nothing will live in there. It’s essentially a giant pool of stagnant water in the middle of Val Royeaux.”
“Do they use it for nothing at all?”
“Just bored nobles in gondolas,” you say dryly. “Although it makes an entertaining way to escape from Chevaliers, in my experience.”
“I suspect there’s a story behind that,” Solas comments, and you regale him with the tale of your daring escape from a Chevalier who just so happened to be wearing half-plate. He couldn’t jump in after you, and there were no nearby boats for him to commandeer. You wound up swimming a quarter of the way around the Miroir just to get away from him.
That story leads to another, which leads to another. You never particularly noticed it—perhaps because you had no one to share them with—but you have your share of amusing tales. None can match Solas’s adventures in ancient ruins, but Solas seems to be interested nonetheless. You even manage to make him laugh, with a story about when you and Banal’ras broke into an estate during a ball. You had an important theft to make, and had told Banal’ras to “make a distraction.” You quickly learned to be more specific with him.
“And Maker, the screams!” you say, gesticulating wildly. “I thought he’d killed someone! But I had to finish the job. So then I go to exit, I look down, and it’s dark… Well, you know, humans can’t see in the dark! So they’re scrambling down there, I’m thinking I’m going to have to thrash Banal’ras, and I just see maybe a hundred nugs running around, chewing on dresses, knocking things over! It was all I could do not to laugh and give myself away!”
Solas’s laughter is a bell-ringing pleasure that only encourages you. “He’d released an entire crate full of nugs, straight from Orzammar, and this after blowing out all the lights. That ass! I don’t even know where he got a crate full of nugs!”
“Now I know why you’re so adept at dealing with Sera,” Solas says, still chuckling.
“Maker, that does sound like something she’d do, doesn’t it?” you say with a laugh of your own. “I better not tell her this story! She’ll get ideas.”
The only sound for a little bit is laughter from the two of you, and the sound of rain on the roof of the alcove. That’s when you hear the gentle tinkling of music–someone nearby must be having a party of their own. You sigh. “I regret missing the dancing the most, of everything that auction offered,” you admit. “I was going to cause such a scene.”
“Were you now?”
“You’re aware that most bards sing, play music, that sort of thing? I was most well known for my dancing.” You gesture at your outfit. “I learned in Rivain. I was never that good at it by Rivaini standards, but for Orlesians, it was quite impressive and just as scandalous. It got me into all number of parties that a bard of my limited experience really shouldn’t have had access to.”
“I have seen the way Rivaini dance,” Solas says, and you see a bit of a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’m sure you were very popular.”
“If you’re fishing for a demonstration, you’ll have to do better than that,” you say with a laugh.
“If you were to dance at the auction, would I not have seen then?”
“There’s a world of difference between that and a private show, fenrel’hahren6. I’m wise to you.”
“I would certainly never suggest anything to affront your modesty,” Solas says, and even delivered straight-faced, the comment makes you laugh.
“Solas, I—” You pause, tilting your head. Did the music get louder, or…? “The rain!” you exclaim. “It’s stopped!” You stand and poke your head out of the alcove. It’s still misting, a bit, but there seems to be a break in the storm. “Hurry, let’s see if we can get back to the inn before it starts back up again!”
The two of you dart back into the streets of Val Royeaux, not quite running, but walking quickly. The good mood follows you, and you continue cracking jokes while you walk. That is, until the rain picks up again. You’re not far from the inn, but even running, you’re properly drenched by the time you reach the hotel room.
“C’est des conneries!7” you swear. “All that and I still wind up drenched! I—” You turn to look at Solas, who’s very nearly completely dry. “…Solas. Why is that I look like I just took a swim in the Miroir, and you’re completely dry?”
“Magic has many uses, da’len,” Solas says coyly. “If you hadn’t run so far ahead…”
“Figlio di puttana!8”
“Miss, you’re dripping on my floor,” interjects the innkeeper rather irritably.
You let out a disgusted noise. “Just… send up some water!” you snap at the man. “And you! Stop looking so smug!” you add as you storm up the stairs, Solas trailing some distance behind.
“I assure you, I am not.”
“Oh, I forgot, that’s just your face.”
“You did run ahead—”
“Yes, and you let us sit in a lover’s alcove rather than tell me you had a convenient little stay-dry spell,” you reply sourly as you open the door to your shared room.
“Would you have preferred spending another evening in here, instead?” Solas asks, and you shake your head.
“Cacasenno, you are very frustrating.”
“I grow less and less convinced that is a term of endearment,” Solas comments as he closes the door. You drip sullenly onto the carpet.
“I’m going to wait in the bathroom. Please bring in the water when it comes. I don’t want to destroy the rug,” you say with a sigh, plodding into the bathroom. You leave the door open, and sit down on the edge of the large, stone bath to take your shoes off. “At least your clothes aren’t damaged.”
“Are yours?” Solas asks. You can’t see him through the doorway, but it sounds like he’s on the couch.
“Nothing a drying won’t fix,” you reply. “Can you bring me some clothing, Solas?”
“Certainly,” Solas replies, and you hear a slight shuffling sound. He must be grabbing one of the bags of clothes you bought today. It’s taking him a while though.
“Solas?” There’s a rather dramatic rustling sound, and then Solas comes into view. He is, in fact, holding one of your bags. He sets it slightly into the bathroom, and you almost laugh at his unwillingness to go into the bathroom while you’re in here. That seems more like something you would do.
You untie the knot you made in the skirt around your thighs, letting it fall back down onto the ground with a soggy thump. It really loses a lot of volume when wet. You hear a knock at the door and let out a sigh of relief; the water had been prepared quickly. When the girl brings it into the bathroom, however, you swear aloud. The serving girl jumps.
“I’m sorry,” you say with a sigh. It’s not her fault. “But that’s cold.”
“I-I’m sorry, miss, I only brought up what he said-”
“It’s no issue,” Solas says from the next room. “I can warm it.”
“Would you mind, Solas?” you ask hopefully. You could do it your damn self if he weren’t here. “I don’t want to have to wait for them to heat up more water.”
“Not at all,” he replies cordially.
“Ma serannas. I’m sorry for the fright,” you add to the girl. “I know it’s not your fault.” She bows—something that makes you mildly uncomfortable—and quickly exits. As she does, Solas enters the bathroom. He’s stripped out of the fancy robe/jacket, and is wearing just the pants that went underneath. His nudity makes your dress feel skimpier than it actually is. He joins you in filling up the tub with the water buckets, and then you step out of the way while he works his magic. Interestingly, he places some kind of fire rune in the bottom of the tub that heats the water, rather than simply blunt force pouring fire into the water, the way you would. You wish you could have him show you how to cast a rune like that. You’re willing to bet it’s a much more efficient way of heating water.
“Thank you, Solas,” you say when he steps away from the tub. “Really. And… thank you for earlier, as well,” you add with a slight flush. “With the Qunari.”
“You’re quite welcome, Emma,” he says. “In both cases, I was glad to do it. Although I do hope you’ll tell me before you do whatever you’re planning.”
You chuckle. “No promises, hahren.”
Solas shakes his head. “Emma…”
“Do you intend to stay in here while I bathe?” you ask, and the question seems to startle him out of whatever he was about to say. “Shoo!” You wave him out the door, and he closes it, but as you’re stripping out of your wet clothes, you hear his voice through it.
“Have you any idea why the Qunari was there? It seemed as though it was being kept as a slave, but slavery is illegal in Orlais, is it not?”
“From what I heard, it wasn’t being sold… The Baron keeps it around to impress people,” you reply as you slip into the water. Ooooh, it’s blissfully hot. You can’t help letting out a moan, forgetting for a moment that Solas is in the next room. You could soak in this for hours.
“Emma?” Solas says, sounding mildly alarmed.
“Oh, sorry. I’ve never had a fire rune directly under my bath before.” You let out a long, contented sigh, letting your hair down into the water. “Maker. This feels amazing.” You reach idly for the soap and your hand hits a small bottle. Curious, you pick it up. Oooh, is this scented? You hadn’t even noticed it before. You open the bottle and sniff, letting out a pleased sound at the gentle scent of lavender.
“The, um… Qunari, Emma?” Solas’ voice comes from the other side of the door.
“Oh, yes,” you say, dropping a bit of the liquid into the water. You splash around a bit to spread it around as the scent of flowers fills the room. “Mmm… I suspect the Baron has found some way to do what he’s doing legally, or he wouldn’t be so intent on strutting the thing around. The Baron is well known for his hatred of mages; I was in court once when he very nearly struck Madame de Fer. I suspect that’s tangentially related to why he has it brutalized like a Saarebas. Or, it was sold to him, and he genuinely believes it to be a Saarebas. It matters not.”
Your unpleasant talk is interrupted by a coo of delight as you run a soapy cloth over your arms. The water from the rune more evenly warmed than water heated over a fire, and it shows no signs of cooling off. “Oooh, Solas,” you say with a happy sigh. “You could charge for this. It’s marvelous.”
Solas coughs from the other room. “It’s a simple spell, lethallin.”
“No such thing,” you say happily, sinking deeper into the sweet scented water. “For those without magic, every such spell is a tiny miracle.”
“Did Banal’ras never do such things for you?” Solas asks. You sigh. He would bring up Banal’ras again.
“Practical magic is not particularly his forte, no.” And why would it be? It wasn’t yours, either. “Traveling on your own, I’m sure you learned all sorts of interesting tricks to stay safe and comfortable,” you say enviously. “And then you risked it all to join the Inquisition. I’m not sure I would have done the same, were I in your shoes.”
“The Breach threatened the whole world,” Solas replies. “It was my duty to help, were I able.”
“It needed to be done,” you murmur to yourself. “I can appreciate that. But I still don’t know I would have done it myself.”
“You came to help as well, did you not?” Solas points out.
“Well, yes,” you admit. “But that was after the Inquisition had proven itself… and after my house was burned down by monsters, leaving me stranded in the middle of a war torn country filled with demons, soldiers, and lyrium-addled Templars.”
“And yet you had connections here. People who would have housed you, friends. But you decided to travel into the mountains to join the Inquisition, instead.”
“Phrased like that, perhaps not the wisest of decisions,” you say dryly. “Still, it turned out to be for the best, I think.”
“I’m pleased you think so,” Solas says. “I find I agree.”
You soak in the bath longer than is really reasonable… you suspect you’re in there for nearly an hour. In the end, it’s the fire rune wearing out that causes you to regretfully climb out of the tub. You’re impeccably clean and you suspect you’ll smell of flowers all day tomorrow. You and Solas talked nearly the whole time through the door. At one point, he began to read one of the books he picked up at the shop and, sour at being ignored, you demanded he tell you what it was about. What surprised you is that he humored you, reading to you from the tome, which turned out to be a history of the Fourth Blight.
You idly hunt through the clothing bag Solas had left in the bathroom, a towel wrapped around your hair. He’d just so happened to bring the bag with your sleep clothes in it… or had he looked in to make sure he grabbed the right one? In any case, you’re pleased to pull one one of the night gowns you purchased. An appropriately Orlesian piece, all white and pink and ruffles and flower motifs. Still, it’s silk, and sleep clothing, like underwear, is one of the few things you can indulge yourself in. Speaking of underwear; this bag has none. You wind up just having to put on the thin underwear you’d worn with the dress; it’s better than nothing at all, considering you’re in a gown.
“I’m coming out now,” you announce through the door. “You’re decent, right?”
“I am,” Solas replies, and you open the door, shivering as the heat of the bathroom escapes into the main room. Solas is at the desk, though he’s pulled the chair closer to the bathroom door so as to be able to speak to you through it. He is, in fact, clothed, having changed from his formal wear back into his normal, comfortable attire.
“I’m sorry; I stayed in there so long the rune wore off,” you apologize. “I can have more water brought up if you want a bath as well.”
“I am fine, thank you,” Solas says, his eyes lingering on you oddly. Normally when he’s reading, he barely glances at you. Perhaps it’s the gown? It is unlike what he’s seen you wear in the past, if only because “what he’s seen you wear in the past” is whatever clothing the Inquisition deigned to give you. You wander over to another bag, pulling out the brush you’d purchased earlier that day. Finally, you can probably brush your hair.
You flop down on the couch, more relaxed than you have been in months, and hum softly to yourself as you let your hair out of the towel and begin to brush it.
“Where are you at in the book, Solas?” you ask curiously.
“Partway through the fall of Antiva City,” Solas replies. “It’s interesting how the betrayal of the Guard mirrors the unrest in Ferelden during the Fifth Blight. It seems every time a Blight takes the land, it’s made worse by humans turning on each other.”
“The Grey Wardens are supposed to be able to combat that… That’s what the treaties are for, anyway,” you say with a sigh. “It rarely works that way in reality, I suspect. Solas, where were you during the Fifth Blight?”
“Far to the north,” Solas replies, flipping a page. “By the time I’d even heard there was a Blight, it was already over.”
“The Fifth Blight was remarkably short lived,” you agree. “But that’s thanks to Warden Tabris and King Alistair. I knew her, you know.”
Solas looks up in surprise. “The Warden?”
“Yes. I was an orphan in the Denerim alienage. I remember her, and her would-be ‘wedding day.’” You shudder. “And what happened after.”
“I’ve heard little of who the Warden was before the Fifth Blight,” Solas says. “Only that she was an elf from Denerim.”
“She was older than me,” you reply. “Eight years or so. But most everyone knew each other; Denerim’s alienage is comparatively small. More orphans than anything; because of the orphanage there, just about any orphaned elfkit in all eastern Ferelden got sent there. I knew her and her father both. She was… prickly. That’s all most anyone ever saw.”
“Not you?”
“No,” you agree softly. “Not me.” You sigh as you run the brush through your hair, catching on tangles weeks old. “In Seheron, they have this fruit from Par Vollen. The Qunari call it atisha qaran, dragon fruit. It’s a hideous color and covered in spikes. It’s short lived and difficult to obtain, and as spiky as it is, it’s a wonder anyone bothers. But if you crack it open, inside it’s soft and sweet and good smelling. Leah was like that.”
You smile to yourself. “I heard what happened, even all the way in Tevinter. It trickled down to even us slaves, eventually. Loghain made a Warden, dying slaying the Archdemon.” Your smile fades quickly. “I can’t believe she… I thought… Well, never mind what I thought.”
“Have you ever tried to find her?” Solas asks curiously. You scoff.
“Why? If she remembers me at all, she likely thinks me dead. What good would it have done me to track her down? What would I have said? What would I have told her? If she cared, it would have caused her pain. If she didn’t care, it would have caused me pain. Either way, we both lose. She’s better off not knowing.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Solas agrees.
“Enough talk about the Fifth Blight,” you say abruptly. “Tell me about the Fourth.”
“Would you have me read to you?” Solas asks, clearly joking, but you grin.
“Yes! Tell me a story, hahren!”
“This is not particularly a storybook,” Solas says dryly.
“I don’t care. Read to me?”
To your surprise, Solas does. And it is dry. But you sit on the couch, listening to him tell the story of the fall of Antiva City while you endlessly brush your hair until it’s perfectly smooth. You lean back against the couch, sprawling out somewhat, and it’s then that you take note of just how bare your legs are. The gown doesn’t even go to your knees… Is this perhaps inappropriate? Solas doesn’t seem to be distracted by it, however, and you’ve long suspected he sees you in an entirely non-sexual light. Still, perhaps you should…
It’s then that you hear a raven crow. It sounds as though it’s coming from outside, and Solas pays it no mind, but you perk up.
You excuse yourself quickly to your room. Sure enough, there a raven sits on your windowsill. What timing! You pull the message off quickly. It’s from Jean, but you’re more interested in the raven then what it’s carrying. You quickly pen a message for Jean and Banal’ras both. Between the two of them, they can get you the information you need, and fast. You only have tomorrow and tomorrow night to figure out what to do about the imprisoned Qunari.
You pull on thigh-high stockings while you’re in there, just to have been said to do something. You had been increasingly self-conscious about your bare legs as the night went on, anyway, and you’d purchased several such stockings for the sake of staying warm back at Skyhold. You head back into the main room; Solas is reclined on the couch now, nose still buried in a book. You sink down onto the floor by the base of the bed, leaning back against it.
“Keep reading?” you ask, tucking your legs up against your chest and resting your chin on your knees.
He glances over at you, and does a quick double-take. Likely noticing that you’d put on something at least vaguely resembling pants, you suppose. Then he clears his throat. “Certainly.”
You can’t really think of a worse bedtime story than the Blight, but you listen nonetheless. By the end, you suspect you’re listening more to Solas’s voice than the actual words he’s saying. The book is terribly dry, but Solas could be reading a manuscript on nug breeding and you’d still be enthralled. The world around you gets foggier and heavier as your tired mind drifts listlessly towards the Fade.
You barely notice you’re asleep, at first. You’re in the hold of a horribly familiar ship. But you quickly realize that you’re an adult, not the twelve-year-old child you were when you were on this cursed boat. Still, being in the hold, even in a dream, causes your chest to tighten with panic. You need to wake up, lest this dream go horribly wrong.
You hear the door open and cringe. You know how this dream goes. That will be the captain—drunk, as likely as not—here to cash in on the “payments” you’re making to get from Seheron to Antiva. You need to wake up. You don’t want to have this nightmare, not again. Not now.
But it’s not the captain who walks in the door. It’s Solas. No surprise… You’d spent the whole day thinking about the dream you’d had about him that last night in Skyhold, and you’d fallen asleep listening to his voice.
“Oh, you would show up here,” you mutter. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Solas walks closer to you, and you find yourself hoping against hope that this will be a good dream after all. “Are you going to pop into every bad memory from now on?” you ask idly. The dream around you is hazy, threatening to shift into another scene. You don’t want it to. You want to stay here a little longer. But the way you are, you have no control over your dreams at all, and only a tenuous grip on the Fade.
Solas gestures to your surroundings. “This must be why you dislike ships.”
“How astute,” you say, standing to test the solidity of the ground. The dream seems firmer where Solas is standing; you walk towards him. A Desire demon again, perhaps? You would be so lucky. There’s an easy enough way to find out. You walk closer. “You’re correct. Spend a few months locked in the hold of a ship yourself, your only company an amorous, drunken pirate captain. I promise you, you’ll come to hate them as well.”
“Amorous pirate captain?” The would-be Solas latches onto the subject of sex, confirming your suspicions. Well, now that you know what he is, the rest is easy. You haven’t lived this long without learning how to deal with spirits, and desire demons in particular never give you much trouble, if only because you’ve so much practice with them.
“I don’t want to think about that now,” you say, wrapping the leather thong of Solas’s wolf-bone necklace around your hand. You pull him down with it at the same time as you lift yourself up onto your toes, planting a deep kiss against his lips. You’ve startled the spirit; its eyes are wide. But quickly they slide closed. It wraps Solas’s arms around you and pulls you close, deepens the kiss. You moan into it softly, looking forward to another dream similar to the one you had in Skyhold.
But then, something happens.
The spirit pulls away, recoiling quickly. On its face… guilt.
You stare, dumbfounded. “Even in my dreams?” you say, frustrated. “Not even in my dreams?!” But then you stop. No desire demon would do that. It would keep going, tempt you, get you delirious with pleasure and then whisper sweet, poisonous lies into your ear. They were always like that. Spirits are not creative things. This… What is this thing?
“It’s not right,” Solas says, and you feel the dream fading. “Not even here. I’m sorry.”
Realization hits you like a bucket of ice water to the face, jolting you the rest of the way awake. You sit bolt upright. You’re on the floor of the hotel room, but you stare over at the bed where Solas sleeps. Pieces click rapidly into place. The way he talks of the Fade, as if it’s a place he can travel. The things he’s seen. His love of sleeping, his use of enchanted blankets to sleep deeper. His knowledge, his power.
Somniari. He’s a fucking Somniari! How had you not realized sooner?! And that… That had really been him! Why hadn’t you recognized it? Because of you piss poor connection to the Fade, no doubt. That bastard! And after you had gone on and on about your supposed “fear of magic,” he just strolls right into your dreams without your permission? Not that you can say a thing without giving yourself away, no non-mage would… W… Would…
… Oh, fuck, you just kissed Solas.