You awaken, confused, to the sound of movement; something that’s becoming somewhat habitual for you. When exactly you’d passed out, you’re uncertain. You’ve drooled slightly onto the paper you were working on. You sit up slowly, body aching miserably. It seems your acrobatics from yesterday—including being punched in the jaw and hanging from one arm off of a three story windowsill—have finally caught up to you. Particularly when combined with sleeping hunched over on a desk.
You groan as you straighten, hand going to your lower back. Oof.
“Three beds and a couch we have,” you hear Solas quip. “And yet…”
“I must’ve… fallen asleep writing,” you say, a yawn interrupting you. “That rarely happens. I must still have been feeling the effect of your healing.”
“I apologize for turning you out of the bed, even accidentally,” Solas says. You finally turn to look at him. Shirtless. Of course. Finally get him to sleep in a shirt and he strips out of it the second he awakens.
“I appreciate you letting me sleep in it a bit in the first place,” you reply. “It’s a very comfortable bed.”
“Help yourself to it. The couch here is as easy to sleep on as my bed in Skyhold.”
You stand and stretch, letting out a pained grunt as you do so.
“Have you injured yourself yet again?” Solas asks dryly.
“Nnn, no, just sore,” you say, wincing as you try to unclench stiffened muscles.
“I’d like to have another look at your jaw—”
“Then put on a shirt,” you say firmly. Solas laughs, and you can’t help but smile. Come to think of it, would you ever have dared to speak to him so before this trip? You’ve never complained about his unintentional eroticism in the past. At least not out loud. Or to his face. The other serving girls get it.
“I need to change into fresh clothes, but I thought you might be displeased if you woke to find me unclad.”
You stop smiling as your mind helpfully suggests several mental images to go along with that thought. “…Ah. I thank you for your gentlemanly courtesy, then,” you manage. “I’ll just… adjourn into the other room so that you might have your dignity.”
You scoot into the other room quickly, if stiffly, face threatening a crimson blush. You close the door firmly behind you; you need to change as well. You wouldn’t mind a bath, either, to rest your aching body, but for now, fresh clothes alone will have to do. You strip, and manage to pull on fresh trousers before you’re interrupted by a raven flying in the window. You pause in your dressing to intercept it, pulling the message off its leg. It’s from Banal’ras, of course… He’s found Dirth’len like you asked. You let out a sigh of relief, and move to your bag to grab a bit of parchment to pen a response then and there. You can’t exactly be sending out ravens in front of Solas. Well… you suppose you can, really, but it goes against your instincts.
You’ve just finished writing your reply and tucked it onto the raven’s pouch when you hear a sound at the door. Concerned you’ve been found out, you turn quickly. Solas has opened the door and taken a step inside. His eyes widen and his jaw goes slack, and it’s that exact moment you remember you’d not actually put on a shirt yet. He quickly about-faces as you squeal, covering your chest with your arms. He closes the door right as you throw a pillow at him; it bounces harmlessly off the wood.
“You were correct!” you hear him exclaim from the other room. “The door does not lock.”
“Wasn’t it you who said we should knock?!” you screech through the door at him.
“I suppose that now we’re even,” he comments. You throw another pillow at the door in your frustration.
You dress quickly, but wind up simply sitting on your bed, stewing and attempting to regain your composure. It wasn’t as though he even saw much of anything. You’re lacking in the chest area, even for an elf. But still, you find yourself more than a little mortified. It takes you a while to gather the courage to come out of your room; it’s only the sound of breakfast arriving that does it.
You come out to see Solas—fully dressed in fresh clothing, of course—already sitting down, knees crossed, at the table where breakfast has been placed. He seems rather composed, but as you get a bit closer, you could swear you see the slightest pink flush to his cheeks. You write it off as a trick of the light, though. He’d seen you in your breastband once already and hadn’t seemed to think anything of it then. If he’s embarrassed, it’s because of how you reacted.
You try to gather your own composure as you sit. You’re a grown woman. These sorts of things happen. You can be mature about this.
“So, our plans for the day—” Your voice cracks. You clear your throat, then continue. “Baptiste had a day off planned, and we’ve worked fast enough to allow it. Today we can spend however we choose. I have my own shopping to do, of course, but I’d love to show you a bit more of Val Royeaux.”
“I would like that,” Solas says. He smiles; your heart skips a beat. This is what you’d dared to imagine when you’d first heard you would be going to Val Royeaux with Solas. It had seemed stupid at the time. The fact that it’s happening is a shock.
“Are there any sort of shops in particular you’d like to visit?” you ask, unable to keep the excitement from your voice. “I’m sure you’ve shopping of your own you’d like to do.”
“I trust your judgment in such things,” Solas says, and you can’t help but smirking. You tsk gently, shaking your head.
“I thought you’d be deferential! Old bookstores and magic shops it is.”
“You only prove my faith was well-placed,” he says, another smile ghosting over his lips.
He could have walked in on you completely nude; if he smiled at you like that, you’d forgive him anything.
You start the day out with something you want: clothes shopping. Part of it is simply that it needs to be done. The other part is that you’re really damn sick of only having five pairs of trousers. The vast majority of the clothing you “own” was given to you by the Inquisition and is horribly ill-fitting. You have enough money to buy yourself a more suitable wardrobe, even in Val Royeaux. Solas seems amused by the situation, as if you’d fed into some expectation or stereotype.
You go to elven clothing stores first. It’s not preference so much as it is necessity. You don’t have time to wait for a human shop to take in a full wardrobe. An elven store will have clothes that fit you. Solas mills about patiently as you try on multiple outfits. You try to get him to try things on as well, but he declines. You can’t imagine why; his own clothes look as though he made them.
You focus on the necessities. Work clothing, trousers and tunics. New underclothes. Clothes that can take wrestling with a Qunari. You gravitate automatically towards skirts and long, flowing sleeves, but force yourself away from them. There’s no point in having clothes you’ve no reason to wear.
You pick up the majority of your new wardrobe at elven shops near the alienage. As before, you refuse to go into the alienage itself. Solas seems to pick up on this, and finally deigns to ask you about it.
“I don’t like alienages,” you reply, a bit shortly. At his quizzical look, you sigh. “They’re depressing, they have walls, and I have far too many bad memories in them. Additionally, you and I are both armed. Agents of the Inquisition or no, elves aren’t permitted to carry weapons within the alienage.”
“Those are good reasons,” Solas agrees. “Is it so difficult to share them?”
You glare, but there’s no passion in it. “I’m… not accustomed to…”
“Honesty?” Solas interjects as you trail off.
You scowl. “The next shop is over here. Come on.”
“This is not an elven store,” Solas says, sounding a bit surprised.
“Conveniently, accessories know no race.”
You did your research first. You won’t be causing a scandal today; these stores normally outfit elven servants. And in any case, it’s nice to have an opportunity to look at some proper Orlesian goods. The elven stores are nice and you could get clothing for a good price, but the fashion leaves something to be desired.
It’s even harder to focus on being a responsible shopper when surrounded with the opulence of Val Royeaux, however. You pick up and set down a pair of sandals several times as you repeatedly talk yourself out of purchasing them. When you reach the smalls and breastbands, however, you’re finally undone. The ones this shop has are adorable, and surely you’ve enough money to indulge yourself slightly? It isn’t as though these are the sort of things that will impede your ability to work, after all… You do tuck them under a scarf you’re purchasing, however. There are some things Solas really does not need to know about you.
Solas manages to keep his good humor even when you stop by a rather elaborate store that specializes in Orlesian formal wear, although a morning spent watching you pick out clothing is doubtlessly wearing on him. You had stopped chasing after him to try on clothing after you left the elven stores, but here, you’re back at it again. With every dress you try on, you subtly—or not so subtly—suggest he might find Orlesian formal wear an interesting experience. He doesn’t seem to be having any of it, however.
But between the fourth and fifth dresses, you see it. Your eyes just glance over it the first time, but they come back and latch onto it.
It’s men’s formal wear, something that flirts with the line between a long coat and a robe, perhaps designed with Circle mages in mind. But that’s not what makes you stare.
It’s so remarkably similar to what Solas was wearing in the dream you had, the night before you left Skyhold.
You straddle Solas there in the alcove, run your tongue perversely down the length of his bared ear. He shudders underneath you; your mind has assumed his ears would be as sensitive as yours. His hand slips underneath your dress, taking advantage of the spread of your legs.
You shudder slightly as the memory briefly overtakes you. It had been a very good dream. And that was a very nice outfit.
“Solas,” you begin, your voice taking on a slight begging whine.
“No,” he says from where he stands, a few racks over, idly examining a pair of boots.
“You have to look at it before you say no,” you say with a pout.
“I find that I really do not.”
“Please, Solas?” You let your voice beg shamelessly. “I was right about the mask and the cloak, wasn’t I?”
Solas sighs. “I do not need anything from a store like this.”
“Just… try it on? Humor me, please?” you continue to beg. “You said you owed me a favor.”
“I said I would repay you,” he corrects you. “And I don’t see how trying on Orlesian formal wear would do anything of the kind.”
“I think it would go quite a long ways towards paying me back, actually,” you insist. Solas lets out a frustrated noise, between a sigh and a grunt.
“Very well. What has caught your eye so effectively?”
You show him the outfit. He appraises it slowly, eyes tracing up and down it. He seems mildly displeased, but less than he had been with the cloak. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve seen from Orlesian ‘fashion,'” he says with a sigh.
You wait with baited breath outside the fitting room. When he comes out in it, your heart thuds painfully in your chest. It fits him. It fits him well.
He forces your legs back open again, pushing his knees against yours and spreading them wide. You gasp, then groan in approval as his mouth finds your neck.
“See?” you say, voice coming out slightly breathless. “That’s not so bad, is it?”
“It’s pointless,” he insists. “I’ve no need for such a thing. Is your curiosity satisfied?”
“Yes, Solas,” you say with a smile. “Thank you.”
You don’t complain as he changes out of it. But you make sure he’s not looking when you slip it in with the rest of your purchases. You’ve enough bags now that it’s easy enough for him to overlook one more. It helps that he seems to be getting a bit restless. The good news is that you’re essentially finished with clothes shopping and can now perhaps move on to something Solas will enjoy more.
The used book store you drag Solas to isn’t one you visited to get books. It doesn’t have anything particularly valuable, and isn’t that organized, either. It’s more like the result of someone piling every book that no one else wanted in one place. It’s disorganized and chaotic and the books are all very old.
It’s one of your favorite places.
Solas seems similarly enamoured. You catch up with the shop owner, an old Anders man with whom you’re casually acquainted. You used to do work for him pro-bono, just because you liked his shop so much and he didn’t mind your ears. Back when you were still struggling to make something of yourself, he would let you come in and read even when you didn’t buy anything.
You’re not surprised when Solas leaves the shop with bags as big and heavy as all of your clothing bags put together.
“Let’s go by the inn to drop off our bags,” you suggest. “I have some place special I’d like to take you for lunch.”
“Very well,” Solas agrees. He seems quite cheered by his hour-long stint in the bookstore. Personally, you can’t wait to dig through his bags and see what he got.
There’s no further news from Banal’ras in your room. You chew your lip a little nervously. Have you done the right thing? He will see her set up somewhere safe, if nothing else, surely? But this is Banal’ras. Whatever he does, it will be precisely what he wants to do, and nothing else. You sigh slightly. There’s no helping it. Anything is better than leaving her to starve, one orphan among many, in the Alienage.
You stew a little bit in your own hypocrisy as you walk back into the main room—you helped her only because she caught your eye, there were hundreds like her. Solas has already taken his mask off and has a book open, despite the fact you’re turning around and leaving right away. You can’t help but smile.
“Do you know, Solas, there is a stereotype in Orlais. A little boy who won’t put on his mask, makes his mother chase him around the room…” you say, grinning. He looks up from the book he’s reading.
“That boy must find the masks exhausting as well, then,” he says dryly.
“You look good in it, Solas! Don’t make me chase you around the room.”
“Very well,” he says coyly. “For the sake of mother dearest, then.” With a small sigh, he picks up the mask. “What on earth will you do with this after we leave Val Royeaux?”
“It’s yours; keep it,” you say with a small shrug. “The Inquisitor may require you to be in Orlais again.”
Solas runs a thumb over one of the black opals embedded in the filigree. Then he seems to snap out of whatever he was thinking, and ties the mask onto his face. “You said you had something in mind for lunch?”
“Yes!” you say, unable to hide your excitement. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
You have to admit, the look on Solas’s face when you enter the restaurant is priceless. Perhaps you should have warned him? The two of you enter and are immediately greeted by a handsome young elf, face and bare chest covered in swirling vallaslin, a dedication to the god Sylaise. Solas actually flinches backwards, face the absolute picture of shock. You watch as his eyes take in the restaurant. Every single one of the servers is elven, most with vallaslin, in showy faux-Dalish outfits. Seated around the restaurant are Orlesian nobles and tourists, come for dinner and a show.
His face changes from shock to something bordering on outrage, so you decide it’s time to intervene. “Hold your temper, Solas,” you say quietly. “I’ll explain.”
His expression is thunderous, but he follows you as you’re led through the restaurant towards the back. “Emma, what is this?” he hisses into your ear. “Do the Orlesians hire these elves to make fools of themselves for their pleasure?”
You wince. Perhaps you should not have surprised him after all. You quickly shoo him through a curtain to the back. From here, you can see the kitchen—it’s staffed entirely by elves as well. In this back area, there are many guests seated… but the only human faces you see are those of half-elven children with their families. Solas takes this in, and you explain.
“I should have warned you, Solas, ir abelas. Have a seat and let me explain, please.”
You finally steer him to a table. His eyes are wandering about his surroundings. Finally, they come to rest on you, narrow, confused, suspicious.
“This place is run by a friend of mine. An elf,” you explain. “The front is a show. It brings in the pompous Orlesians, tourists, fetishists, mostly. It gives this place an excuse to be open. But the real restaurant is back here.” You gesture around you. “You have to be an elf, or elf-blooded, to be here. It’s a place we can relax. Chevaliers cause problems at elven taverns in and around the alienage, but here…”
“The vallaslin—” Solas begins, and you rush to intercept him.
“Real, with a few exceptions. This place employs most of the ex-Dalish who live in the alienage. Human-run businesses won’t hire Dalish, not even the ones that will hire any elves to begin with. They think them savage. Here, they can blend in; there are enough elves with fake vallaslin here that the humans assume them all fake. They think we’re painting our faces for their amusement. Instead, we pocket their coin.”
The irritation and confusion both are fading from Solas’ face. “How—”
“Emma!” The voice startles Solas, but you recognize it. You stand, gleefully, and are immediately all but tackled by an elven man of short stature, shorter even than you. “It’s been so long! We heard from Jean, but we weren’t sure if we’d see you!”
Behind him is a human man, who moves to embrace you somewhat more gently. “We were so worried when the reports started coming in,” he says, his voice a low baritone.
“I’m fine. I’m sure Jean told you the details. Aldric, Enansal, this is Solas,” you turn to face Solas as best you can with Enansal still clinging to you. “Solas, this is Aldric,” you tilt your heads towards the human man, “And Enansal. They own the restaurant.”
“Technically, Aldric owns it,” Enansal says smartly. Aldric plants a gentle kiss on the top of the elven man’s head.
“I’m pleased to meet you both,” Solas says, and he sounds sincere. You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Ir abelas, Solas, I should have told you… But I wanted to see your face.”
“Yes, I’m sure it was very amusing,” Solas says sourly.
“Actually, it was terrifying,” you laugh. “I thought you were going to set me on fire!”
“Ah, yes, the front entrance can be a little alarming,” Aldric says with a chuckle. “My apologies. But the motif explains our all-elven staff and allows our Dalish friends gainful employment.”
“No apologies are necessary,” Solas says. “It’s quite clever.”
You manage to pry Enansal off of you and sit back down. “You know,” Enansal comments. “She used to work here.”
“Enansal!” you protest.
“Oh, you should have seen her. Thin as a rail and dressed in that ridiculous ‘Dalish’ leather breastband and collar… thing. We had to pad i—oof!” He stumbles backwards as the cloth napkin you throw hits him in the face.
“That’s how we know her,” Aldric adds with a smile. “A lot of our workers go on to better things once they get a foothold in the city. It’s nice when they come back to see us.”
“Better things?” you say with a snort. “I suck up to just as many humans now as I did here. The only improvement is that I get my ass pinched less.”
“Do you now?” Enansal asks, pulling the napkin off of himself. He eyes Solas knowingly. “Now there’s a shame. You’ve an ass that deserves pinching.”
You grab Solas’s napkin and make to throw it as well. Enansal laughs and darts behind Aldric, sticking his tongue out at you.
“We’ll have Lin bring you some drinks, on the house,” Aldric says with a fond smile. “And we’ll let you two enjoy your meal. Thanks for dropping in to see us, Emma.”
You wave as the two depart. “It’s true,” you admit. “They helped me get onto my feet when I first came to Val Royeaux.”
“I can’t imagine you dressing up like a Dalish,” Solas says, sounding amused.
“It was a paycheck,” you say dryly. “And it was a relief to be around other elves. My coworkers were able to help me understand how the city worked, keep me out of trouble with the Chevaliers.
“You lived an interesting life here. I note they called you ‘Emma.’”
You nod. “Yes. A few people know me by that name here.”
“Like Banal’ras?”
You flinch and look around quickly to see if anyone’s listening in. Fortunately, there’s not really anyone within earshot, even elven earshot. “I didn’t think you’d stay your curiosity for long.”
“Would you?”
“When I make demands for your knowledge, I don’t get them,” you point out.
“Will you deny me?” The way he says it makes you shiver.
“…Not yet.”
“How did you come to know him?” Solas presses.
“I met him when we were both younger. Two brats who wanted more than life would give them willingly, determined to take it by force. We worked well together,” you admit. “He wasn’t happy when I left Val Royeaux.”
“He explains your comfort with magic and fondness for mages,” Solas comments.
You sigh. “Yes. As well as why I kept that hidden. Average women don’t go cavorting about with apostates in the evening hours.”
Solas is smiling slightly; you’re not sure why. “You’re certainly not average.”
The drinks come then, and you order food for both of you that you know is good. It serves as an adequate distraction from the subject of Banal’ras. The little brat had done you a great disservice by showing up like he did. You dislike forced honesty; you prefer to tell the truth only when it’s on your terms. One never knows when hidden knowledge may be useful, and the less people know of you, the less likely you are to be caught in your web of deceptions.
But… you had done Banal’ras a disservice too, retiring when you did, and then proceeding to vanish off the face of Thedas after the red Templars hit your village. You’d wanted to get word to him. There had simply been no way of doing so safely. This past month can’t have been fun for him. You wish you could get time alone with him, but you’d known that wouldn’t be possible since the moment you learned who you’d be traveling here with. You don’t like the idea of trying to deliver messages out from under the Nightingale’s nose, either. You’re certain she’d root you out in an instant. Once you’re back in Skyhold, you’ll have to go silent again.
Your stress must show on your face; Solas switches the subject off of Banal’ras rather graciously. The two of you linger over the subject of magic, however. It feels dangerous, having this kind a conversation in public; you’re not used to it. But Solas wears his staff proudly, as if he’s never feared Templars a day in his life. You wish you could have his bravery, his pride. Solas. Maybe that’s why he calls himself that.
“In Tevinter, it’s all about the most flash, the biggest boom. You’ve seen Dorian. They’re all like that… elaborate, showy. Nobles are nobles everywhere; in Tevinter they just do it with magic,” you’re saying. “I was surprised, when I came south, by how… demure the mages were, in comparison. It was like seeing a caged wolf. You don’t know whether to be relieved that you’re safe, or sad that such a powerful creature has had its freedom taken away.”
“Most people would not be so kind to the wolf directly after having been mauled,” Solas points out.
“I’m not short-sighted enough to believe magic to blame for all of my life’s woes,” you say with a sigh, thinking of Fenris. “It’s not that simple. It wasn’t a mage who enslaved me. It was a man, barely even a noble, who cared for his own petty squabbles more than for the innocent lives he was destroying. Should I hate all such men? Blame nobility? Fereldens? War?” You shake your head.
“Were it your choice, what would be done with the mages?” Solas inquires.
“It’s not my choice,” you say shortly.
“And you’ve never imagined it were? Never thought about what you believe to be right? Even if you would never fight for such a change, I do not for an instant believe you have no opinion on the matter.”
You eye Solas over your entree. He’s a tricky one. But so are you. “I think that sort of thing might be better discussed in the comfort of our inn room.”
Solas shakes his head, a motion so small you barely catch it. His corner of his lips quirks upwards in the slightest smile… no, smirk. “Should I drag you there now? Lock the door so you can’t escape? I suspect you’d jump out the window to avoid a conversation you didn’t wish to have.”
“I might, at that,” you reply, ignoring the shiver that runs down your spine. “And besides, if you dragged me off now, we wouldn’t get to finish our meals.”
“That is true,” Solas agrees. “And this food is too good to waste.”
“You like it, then?” you say, relieved despite not having noticed you were worried. “When I saw your face upon walking in… I thought I’d make a terrible mistake.”
“I would have appreciated some warning,” Solas says with a light chuckle. “You certainly keep me on my toes, Emma. But I’m glad you showed me this place. It’s… enjoyable, to see elves thumb their noses in such a blatant manner.”
“I rather agree,” you say with a grin. “It’s a nice little metaphor isn’t it? We may be forced to serve them, to submit, to bow our heads and wag our tails… But seeds of rebellion are spread wide. Occasionally, they grow into a little oasis like this.” You gesture at the restaurant around you. Elves hard at work and elves relaxing. An escape from the world where shems ruled, just for a little.
“Dare I ask what you have planned for our afternoon?”
“Dismantling the upper class, one shem a time?” you joke with a snort. “More shopping of course, Solas.”
“More?” Solas asks, looking surprised.
“Would you be satisfied with a single bookstore? This is Val Royeaux! I won’t stop until you’re half as enamoured with her as I am.”
The truth is, you also just have a shopping list to get through. Your very first stop is a writing supply store. You hit it first solely because you know this is where you’ll spend the most money—and because you can justify dipping into the Inquisition’s purse for some of your purchases. You buy the only magnifying stand the shop has. It’s a bit fancier than your previous one, and it’s expensive, but you can’t be picky right now.
Solas eyes some of the inks and brushes while you swoop through the store. You wind up spending a small fortune on inks, quills, paper, pre-bound books… But it will last you. You arrange delivery for the magnifying stand; the rest you carry out of the store. Solas surprises you by taking one of the bags for you. In the past, he’s been quite content to let you carry things, be it pillows and blankets or his dinner.
Next, you go to a magic shop. This is for his benefit; you can’t actually buy much of anything with him present. You follow him around the shop, nervously avoiding the Tranquil shopkeeper. You don’t want Solas to notice how terrified you are of them and wonder why. Solas is distracted, however, cheerfully explaining the uses of different enchanted items to you.
“The selection of items for actual mages here is shockingly limited,” he comments as he flips through a book.
“This is the Circle store,” you explain. “They sell things that the Tranquil enchant, to fund the Circle. But since it was assumed all mages would always be in the Circle, items for actual mages are handled through there.”
“I see…”
Solas leaves without buying anything, but you’re just glad you won’t have to interact with the Tranquil. Embarrassingly enough, next you stop by a home supply store. Solas seems a bit confused when you enter.
“I have things I need,” you mutter. When Solas sees you heading towards the blankets, he laughs.
“Blankets, Emma? As you no doubt recall, I have many you could use.”
“And risk another of them being enchanted? No thank you,” you say with a snort, although the thought of a warm, soft blanket, that sharp, sweet smell resting gently on your nose, carrying you off to— You clear your throat in an attempt to clear your mind. “The Skyhold blankets are horribly scratchy, in any case. I’ll appreciate having my own.”
You select two blankets it soft wool, more concerned with how soft and warm they are than anything. Back in Skyhold, winter is rapidly approaching, and your room has a window without glass and no fireplace. Hopefully the sleeping clothes you bought earlier will go a long way towards keeping you warm.
You make your rounds through the store, selecting items seemingly at random as you see something you need. You have a list, but you’re barely consulting it. You do make sure to pick up a few large bags of your favorite tea leaves, however. Maker only knows when you’ll next get the chance.
Solas follows you about once again, seemingly amused just by seeing you buy mundane objects like herbal candles and a lock for the chest that came with your room in Skyhold. Well, you’re just as glad he doesn’t seem to be boring easily. In truth, you’d follow him around shopping all day as well. It would be interesting to see what he picked out. But you doubt that sort of thing would be satisfying for him to see you doing. Perhaps he’s just being polite.
In any case, you hurry out of the supply stores and head towards the shadier side of town. Solas seems more intrigued the shittier the buildings around you get, although Val Royeaux is never completely awful looking.
“Should I be concerned?” Solas asks as you lead him into a rather sketchy looking alleyway.
“Have I ever given you cause to be concerned?” you say coyly, ignoring the look Solas gives you. You lead him through a remarkably shoddy door into a dark, run down house, and then down a nearly-collapsing flight of stairs. To a door, which you knock on in a peculiar manner. Solas shakes his head slowly. You can’t blame him; the owner of this particular shop has quite the stereotypical flair. But the door opens, and Solas sees why it’s worth playing into his eccentricities.
On the walls, staffs of every kind. In the back, a lyrium crate, firmly locked. Blasting rods and tomes of magic.
“Everything an apostate needs, right here in Val Royeaux,” you say with a grin. “I suppose I have to thank Banal’ras. Without his little stunt, I would have been too nervous to show you this place.”
This is clearly the magic shop Solas had expected. You watch as he cheerfully peruses the wares. His mouth seemingly never stops; each item gets an explanation, whether you have any hope of understanding or not. In truth, you grasp most of what he’s saying, although some of it does fly straight over your head. What in the Maker’s name is ambient energy, and how does one redirect it, exactly? But you’re pleased to listen anyway as he rambles on about the uses of different crystals in staffs. In truth, you would be content to watch him all day.
Solas makes purchases here: a new staff blade, half a dozen tomes, a handful of magical trinkets. You’re surprised at the amount of coin he drops, actually. Does the Inquisition pay him? You suppose they must. They pay you, after all.
In truth, you lust after a few of the items yourself, but of course, you can’t buy them. Even under ordinary circumstances, you deny yourself most such things. Like Banal’ras, you’ve barely ever trained with a staff. You pull your magic from yourself and warp the Veil by hand with nothing to help. More effort for the same result, perhaps, but you can’t all be proud little apostates like Dalish and Solas. A staff is a guaranteed death at the hands of Templars.
After the magic shop, you head back towards the inn. You’ve one last surprise for Solas, but as with the White Spire, you’re not sure how he’ll react.
“Solas… “ you begin, a little uncertainly. “I can’t say I’ve shown you Val Royeaux without taking you to a salon. With that in mind, I arranged invitations for us to an auction that Baron Sauveterreis is putting on. It’s not much of an event, and the Baron is a dull, pompous man of little standing. But I had very little notice, and, well…” You gesture vaguely towards one of your ears.
“Do you believe it worth attending? Would you enjoy yourself, even were I not there?” Solas inquires. You think over your answer.
“I’ll enjoy myself more with you there,” you reply finally. “There may be interesting items for sale, but… In truth, I would not go on my own. Just as I wouldn’t have gone on my own to the magic store. It’s not the place alone… It’s that I would enjoy seeing you in such a place.”
Solas looks a little shocked. Perhaps it’s your honesty? It’s true, you’ve become a great deal more forthright with him during the trip to Val Royeaux. You wonder if the sensation of faux closeness will remain when you return to Skyhold or if, like the strike of midnight in the oldest of fairy tales, the world will go back to dull normalcy.
But what he says then surprises you, as well as the softness in his eyes when he speaks the teasing words. “But this is Orlais, da’asha1.” A strange smile lingers at the corners of his lips. “What on earth will we wear?”
“I cannot believe you!” Solas exclaims as you reveal the outfit you’d bought for him. “Harel’asha! Famin harel’asha!2”
You’re back in the inn room now, and you grin despite the harshness of his words. “You looked so good in it, Solas, and I’d hoped I would be able to talk you into going to the auction. If I told you then that I wanted to stick you in Orlesian formal wear, would you have even consented to try it on?”
Solas shakes his head slowly, smiling lightly despite his disbelief. “And what about you? Did you purchase something for yourself?”
“The Inquisition did, as a matter of fact,” you say loftily. “As thanks for saving them so much money despite the fact I was woefully under equipped for the task.” Solas snorts. “I was considering keeping my ears covered,” you add with a slight frown, fingering the edge of your pointed ear. “I’ve done it before. But somehow, I doubted you would be interested in that.”
“I can’t imagine we’re going as servants, dressed like this,” he says, gesturing towards the outfit you’ve selected for him. He probably thinks it’s flashy, but it’s quite understated for Orlais.
“Agents of the Inquisition,” you say with a thin smile. “So be prepared for a lot of shocked gasps. The Baron knows we’re elven, though; he’s likely looking forward to the drama. A surprise wouldn’t go as well here as it did at the University.” You lift your own outfit from its bag. “I’m going to change in the bathroom. I will knock loudly before I exit, lest we see so much of each other we’re forced to wed to protect our modesty,” you say sourly.
In truth, changing is something of a task, and you have to do your hair, as well, so you’re in the bathroom for quite some time. Fortunately, there’s a mirror, so you’re able to adjust yourself. Your outfit is Rivaini themed, a nostalgic nod to your time as a bard that you’d been unable to resist. It is… a daring outfit, to say the least. The ruffled, multicolored skirt is cut so far up the thigh as to be bordering on indecent, but that is the Rivaini style. Current Orlesian trends feature low cuts and cleavage, but you have none of that to show off; the top is actually comparatively modest, though it leaves your midriff bare. It’s not Rivaini if they can’t see your stomach, after all.
You’re tempted to style your hair into a braid, but resist the temptation. You pull it into a rather dramatic updo that leaves some of it cascading down the back of your neck. You won’t be the prettiest peacock at the ball, but at least you’ll leave an impression. It isn’t as though you have a reputation to worry about—aside from the Inquisition’s, you suppose.
You spin briefly for the mirror, admiring the way your skirt straddles the line between “autumn leaves” and “actively on fire.” Really, you’ll probably never have another excuse to wear it, but you couldn’t pass it up when you saw it in the store. You lace up your sandals, give yourself one last look over, and knock on the door. It seems silly to knock on this side of a bathroom door, but oh well.
“Come in,” Solas’s voice comes, muffled through the door. You open it cautiously, as if expecting him to be nude despite his invitation. He’s not, however. He’s dressed fully in the outfit you’d selected for him, and somehow even more attractive in it than he’d been in the store. Perhaps it’s the shoes you’d picked out to go with it. Your breath catches in your chest and it feels as if your heart ceases to function altogether.
Their gasps and shocked murmurs serve to fuel your perverted fantasy as Solas slips a finger inside of you.
You force your mind away from the memory of the dream, but it’s difficult. As Solas slips his mask into place, it becomes almost impossible. His hand on your waist, his teeth on your neck, his hands in your—
Fortunately, Solas seems nearly as dumbfounded to see you. His hands freeze in the middle of tying his mask as he takes you in. His eyes fix on your face first, and then slowly trace down your body. You suddenly feel self-conscious about your bare midriff, ridiculously.
“You look…” His voice sounds somewhat strained at first, but he catches himself quickly. “Fantastic. Is that truly Orlesian fashion?”
“Not quite,” you admit, happy for a conversation subject to distract yourself from his broad shoulders and long, slender fingers. “It’s Rivaini-inspired. Your outfit is traditionally Orlesian; I’ll be seen as the exotic accessory. And since you no doubt plan on carrying your staff, it will serve us well to look slightly foreign.”
“Do you put so much thought into all of your decisions?”
You grin and shake the skirt back and forth slightly with your hands. “Also, it’s pretty.”
Solas laughs. “That it is,” he agrees. “Shall we be off?”
You get quite the look from the innkeeper as you leave, but he must be getting used to seeing the two of you dressed in all sorts of finery by now. You eye the sky nervously as you head towards the Baron’s auction. It’s rather cloudy… will it rain again? You hadn’t brought your cloak; it wouldn’t even begin to match your outfit.
At the very least, it remains dry for the walk over. You get a little perverse flurry of glee as you’re announced as “Alix Gagnon and Serah Solas of the Inquisition.” You haven’t had an introduction that grand in a while. You haven’t been “of the” anything for a while now. It feels a bit like coming home, even if it is quite the lie. You delight in the shocked murmurs as well, which double when you get close enough for people to see your ears. You take a seat at a table with Solas, a properly wicked smile resting on your lips.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Solas comments.
“I don’t normally get to make scenes like this,” you reply. “It’s quite satisfying.” You eye the stage. There’s already some items you believe will be for auction up there… But what’s with that giant, empty iron cage? It’s eerie to look at. Is that for auction? Or will they be attempting to sell a live animal? You had gone to an auction once in which they had sold a dracolisk. It mauled its new owner just outside. Now that had been a party. You hope nothing similar happens tonight, however. You doubt Solas would approve.
Dinner is brought out, and you have a splendid time explaining each dish to Solas. He has a delicate palate; you’re as pleased as you are surprised. He seems to have no issue eating the crassest of Ferelden stews, and yet he enjoys delectable sweets and delicate Orlesian fare as well. It doesn’t make a great deal of sense, but you enjoy it.
Everything is going wonderfully, in fact, until the auction starts.
The Baron takes the stage, which is expected. What you don’t expect is the… creature on leash behind him, towering and huge yet visibly bound and broken.
Saarebas.