The Mask Slips
Solas, mercifully, lets you recover from your humiliation with grace. He doesn’t poke or prod at you, simply lets you gather your things in peace and head out the door. The mask on your face soothes you as surely as his touch had, although that thought threatens to fluster you in a different manner. You should apologize for your behavior, but that would require drawing attention to it. Instead, you prefer just to pretend it never happened, and for once, Solas seems content to let you do just that.
You walk briskly to the library, and you’re ready to settle in for a long, long day of research and bullying Orlesians. Unfortunately, after only a few hours of work—and before you have the chance to bully even a single Orlesian—you’re pulled aside by a rather nervous looking human. “Ambassador Gagnon?” Oh, that’s interesting. Almost all of the humans here insist on calling you ‘Miss Alix.’ “Chancellor Haulis wants to see you.”
Oh, well… balls.
Two other men—large men, you note—whisk you off before you can so much as protest. You notice nervously that this trio had waited until you were out of anyone’s sight to do this. This could be ugly… But this is Chancellor Haulis, not a Knight-Captain. He can’t just have you assassinated in the library, for the Maker’s sake.
You are, in fact, delivered to the Chancellor’s office. It isn’t your first time seeing it; you have broken in three times prior, in fact. This is certainly your first time going in legitimately, however. You enter with trepidation, noting that the hall is uncharacteristically empty. Hoo boy.
The Chancellor is a very average looking Orlesian man, insomuch as you can’t see his face at all. He’s wearing a rather elaborate golden mask, suited to one of his stature. You’re glad you have a mask of your own today. “Ambassador Gagnon,” he says, a little stiffly, and you bow as properly as you’ve ever bowed in your life. You don’t like this situation.
“Chancellor, it’s a pleasure. I did not expect to be invited to your office,” you say politely.
“I suppose we’ve both been surprised this week, then,” he says, a little sourly. “But never mind that. I didn’t bring you here to scold you for the terror you’ve put into the library staff, but to thank you. Your assistance with Mother Hevara and her… ilk… has been invaluable.”
You have absolutely no clue what he’s talking about, but you smile. “I’m pleased to hear that, Chancellor.”
“She actually came in here and apologized!” he says with a low chuckle. “The look on her face alone was worth the hassle you’ve given me.”
“I’m glad the matter could be settled so well,” you lie through your teeth. “Although, I wouldn’t have minded seeing that myself.”
The man laughs again. “I may not see eye to eye with the Inquisitor on everything,” he admits. “But he does seem to have an eye for talent… no matter how blind he might be to social niceties.”
“Thank you, Chancellor,” you say with an easy smile. He gestures for you to sit, and you do, crossing your ankles in the polite Orlesian fashion. “I try very hard to reward the Inquisitor’s faith in me. I understand that my associate and I were not precisely what the University was expecting. Would that the Inquisitor had sent slightly more clear word ahead of us, we may have avoided some unpleasantness.”
The Chancellor waves you off with a sigh. “No, the Inquisitor was right. I wouldn’t have even let you in the front gate had you not caught me unawares.” He eyes you. “But I suspect you knew that.”
“I may have had some suspicions.”
“I’ve looked into your work, Alix. It surprised me very much to learn that we have some of it here at the University,” the Chancellor says dryly.
“I’m very prolific, Chancellor,” you say with a smile, the smugness in your eyes shielded by your mask. “As you no doubt found, seven of your professors used my services regularly.”
“And every single one claimed ignorance to your race.”
“I never did meet any of them in person, now that you mention it. Still, I’ve never claimed to be human.”
“Just as the Inquisitor never said you human, I imagine. A very Orlesian thing to do for a man who professes exhaustion for our politics.”
“The Inquisitor has advisors as fine as his servants.”
“Mmhmm… And which are you?”
“I serve as many roles as I can for the Inquisition, of course,” you say gamely, watching in satisfaction as the corner of the Chancellor’s mouth quirks.
“Well, I appreciate your assistance… and the Inquisitor’s wisdom in sending someone so astute. I won’t go so far as to say the dear Empress was onto something with her… insistence elves be allowed beyond the gates, but… Since you are here, you should take full advantage. I’ll be sure to let the library staff know you are to be given full access to our archives… as thanks.”
Your lips curl upwards, but you manage to keep from grinning broadly. “That’s very magnanimous of you Chancellor. The Inquisition appreciates your generosity.”
“Appreciate it quickly,” the Chancellor says pointedly. “I’m sure the Inquisitor is eager to have you back at his side.”
You leave the office as smug as can be. You have no idea what the shit you just took credit for, but even if you get found out, it’ll probably be too late for the Chancellor to do anything but throw a fit. You can’t wait to tell Solas the good news; you spend a few moments fantasizing about how pleased he’ll look—will he praise you again—as you walk back to the library.
Solas is engrossed in his work when you return. You sincerely doubt he’d even noticed you were gone. Ah yes, your guardian: the man who doesn’t even notice when you’ve been fully kidnapped by multiple guards. But perhaps you won’t mention that to him; you don’t need him to be even more fretful over you than he already is. Instead, you decide to drag him out for an early lunch. He protests a little, but in the end your insistence—along with the knowledge you’ll be spending the whole day in the library either way—wins out.
Since you’ll be coming right back to the University, you drop in at the same bakery you had before, for soup and day-old bread. As you eat, you tell Solas the good news.
“So, I spoke to the Chancellor,” you begin. Solas already looks mildly surprised—had Baptiste perhaps mentioned something to him about the Chancellor’s strong opinions regarding elves? Or maybe he’s just now realizing that he had lost track of you rather completely. “And I’m pleased to announce that we have access to all of the archives… and his word that we’ll find their resources fully ours to expend.” You grin wickedly. “I intend to take advantage. I suggest you do as well—there is likely more than one rare tome of magic locked away in their vaults, and I know for a fact they keep books banned by the Chantry in there. All ours, now.”
Solas looks delighted. “That’s wonderful! Harel’asha1, how did you manage that?”
You laugh, pleased as punch by both his exuberant expression and slip into Elven. His reaction was everything you’d hoped. “I suppose I’m just very good at what I do, hahren.”
“Do you honestly expect me to be satisfied with an answer like that?” he says, a touch of wickedness in his voice and grin sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.
“It’s as close to the truth as I can manage,” you chuckle. “I believe I may have played the Chancellor for a fool. He seemed to think I’d done something that assisted him in some manner… Something about a Chantry mother. I was quick enough to take credit, in any case.”
You regale an increasingly pleased Solas with the entire story, delighted by his enthusiasm. You find yourself slipping into the same storytelling you used to entertain the kitchen staff, mimicking the Chancellor, exaggerating him into a cliche of a stuffy, racist Orlesian. Solas chuckles along, and each smile and laugh is a bolt of purest energy, a high more potent than any drug.
“The image of you as an advisor to the Inquisitor…” Solas laughs. “I suspect the Chancellor believes you able to grant far more favor with the Inquisitor than you ever could.”
“Hopefully I’ll be long gone from Orlais before he realizes how much he’s been had by a little rabbit named Alix Gagnon,” you say with a wicked grin. “And hopefully, we’ll have a very full cart of books to soothe any temper the Inquisitor takes over my creative interpretation of reality.”
“We must get back to the library,” Solas declares. “I suspect the workers there will suddenly have become much more pleasant.”
The two of you sweep through the library, a renewed terror to the people therein. The word has obviously gotten out to the library staff, as they’ve gone from endlessly hassling you about every little thing to bending over backwards to give you what you want—and get you out of there as fast as possible. That’s fine with you; the faster you finish your work for the Inquisition, the more time you have for entertainments with Solas. In fact, you’re plotting something for this very evening, although you’re sure dragging Solas away from the library will be a challenge.
Solas works steadily and swiftly through the afternoon, but your focus is somewhat more fragmented. Jean drops by to see you, and with him brings a letter from your aforementioned magically-inclined contact—a mutual friend. You pour over it, even discuss parts with Jean in a quiet, private corner of the library. Things are as you hoped; the White Spire is not abandoned, but it’s never been less defended. There are essentially no Templars, and the mages that are there are few. None of the “loyal mages” of Thedas were mages that had ever been confined solely to the circle, no doubt the cause behind their supposed loyalty to begin with. No, every single mage left has a home they can go to, so comparatively few are in the Spire at any one time, especially overnight.
There are magical protections to contend with, but even if ward nullification and avoidance wasn’t one of the few things you do know how to do… You have Solas. Bringing a third party with you would normally be unthinkable, but in this case, he doubles as a cover.
You send word back to the contact—who likely won’t be thrilled with you involving some random mage with no background and only you to vouch for him, but also won’t be able to resist the opportunity—through Jean. You still need to hash out the details, but Solas has inadvertently given you quite the useful idea. He probably hasn’t survived so long by breaking into Circles, but you have. This seems a much easier way to get your hands on some precious tomes than living under Templar watch for months at a time. You just need to be careful about the timing—Vivienne will know you were in Val Royeaux, and she already has her eye on you somewhat.
You communicate back and forth with your contact—through Jean—several more times throughout the afternoon. It’s a little silly, but necessitated by Solas’s presence. Your contact is probably on or near campus, and you’d love to simply slip off to speak with him yourself, but you have to at least look like you’re doing the job you and Solas came here to do. It’s still several hours before sunset when you’ve officially run out of things to do, however. You mill about, assisting Solas with a few last things, for perhaps half an hour before finally deciding you’ve done all you can. Even Solas is more or less just reading.
“Solas, come on,” you say, idly tugging at the corner of his sleeve to try and get his attention after repeatedly saying his name has failed.
Solas finally looks up from his book, mildly irritated. “It’s well before sunset. Surely you can’t want to leave already.”
“I can, in fact, though it has little to do with the sun. We’re obtaining a copy of the very tome you’re reading, Solas. You can read it when you’re bored back at Skyhold. This is Val Royeaux. We have free time. There are things I want to show you.”
Solas frowns, and you can feel the sharp dismissal coming, but he hesitates. His frown fades into curiosity mingled with frustration, and he sighs. “Very well.”
“I’ll make it worth your while, I promise,” you say with a relieved smile. You’d been worried you’d receive a lecture—it’s been nearly record time without one. Val Royeaux has put Solas in a good mood, it seems.
You drag him out of the library and onto the bustling late afternoon streets of Val Royeaux. For once, the two of you don’t stand out; between the crowds and your masks, you’ve essentially become invisible. You don’t have time for proper clothes shopping so late, but you lead him towards the shopping district nonetheless.
“Where are we going?” he asks warily as the thickness of the crowd intensifies.
“Trust me, Solas,” you say, gripping him by the sleeve so he doesn’t lose you in the crowd. He stands a full head above most elves, and while you’re slightly tall for an elven woman, you’re still rather short, and easily lost in a crowd of humans.
You stop by a food stand, rather than going into a proper restaurant. Solas seems entertained by the concept of food sold on the roadside, even though it’s simply hot sausages in bread and popped corn. You let him eat one sausage now, but tuck the rest into your bag. “For later,” you say, and of course he wants to know more, but you just grin.
Then down the street to visit more vendors. You don’t stop until you find one that sells elaborate Orlesian cloaks in the latest fashion–well, near latest, anyway. You examine each one carefully, holding one or two up to Solas for evaluation. “Emma, no,” he says, scowling. “I have no need for such… frippery.”
“Nonsense! You have every need for it,” you say cheerfully. “As do I. Have I been wrong yet?”
“I’m certain you have,” Solas says dryly.
“And I’m certain you could list every time,” you say, voice just as dry. “But indulge me.” A little longer of browsing the racks and you select two cloaks that suit your fancy. The vendor, once wary of your pointed ears, immediately cheers at the sound of clinking silver. You walk off down the street with Solas, pulling your own cloak on. It serves to hide your travel-worn clothing somewhat. Between the dramatically ruffled hood and the mask covering your eyes, you doubt anyone will tell you’re an elf at a glance. And Solas is so tall for an elf, honestly, all he needs is a hood.
By now, you’ve left the bustling market place and are on to less densely packed streets. The sun is rapidly setting, and you’re eager to reach your destination. You’re used to navigating Val Royeaux’s streets at nights, but with Solas, you feel as though you have a weight tied to your leg. He simply doesn’t understand the place the way you do.
You pester Solas into putting his cloak on. It’s black lace over beautiful royal blue velvet, and would be fetching on anyone, but on Solas’ broad shoulders, it causes your breath to hitch and your heart to skip a beat. Solas seems displeased by it, however.
“I look ridiculous,” he says with a scowl.
“You look… fantastic,” you say, mouth switching out a more appropriate word at the last minute, thank the Maker. You really couldn’t go around calling the man gorgeous and expect your secret crush to actually stay secret. “Orlesian fashion suits you, Solas… Or perhaps I just have good taste?”
Solas opens his mouth to make a sharp retort, but your eyes catch on an approaching figure behind him. You recognize the uniform at once. Chevalier! In one smooth moment, you snatch his hood with both of your hands and yank it up, hiding his pointed ears from sight and pulling him closer to you. You lean back against the wall of a nearby building and drag Solas with you, using his body to shield you from sight. He seems alarmed, but you hold him there, faces close enough that you could be mistaken for lovers, until the Chevalier passes.
His eyes follow your gaze as soon as you release him, and he sees the Chevalier’s back as he walks out of sight. You take that moment to compose yourself somewhat. Solas’s face that close to yours is not something you could ever get used to. Wanting to cover your embarrassment, you pull your own hood up to hide your blushing face.
“Your fear of them is somewhat distressing,” Solas comments as he turns back to you. “Would they run us through simply for walking?”
“On this side of town? Probably not,” you admit. “But they would stop us and pester us for identification papers. It wouldn’t do for us to be late.”
“Late?” Solas asks, eyebrows arching.
“Honestly, Solas, did you think I would let us leave Val Royeaux without seeing a show at the Grande Royeaux Theater?”
“I was not aware that the theater was in the habit of allowing entry to elves,” Solas says dryly. “It seems more places here than not bar our entrance.”
“Perhaps not officially, but in practice, yes; you’re correct,” you agree. “Which is why we have hoods and why we’re not going in the front door.”
You have seen dozens of plays at the Grande Royeaux Theater over the years in this manner, always alone. Despite your friendship with any number of coy Orlesian men, you never shared your knowledge of the loose window in the alleyway, nor the balcony that makes it so easy to climb into. Solas is the first to ever climb up beside you and hoist himself over the balcony railing. You have a history of liking things that are just yours, but Val Royeaux is no longer a place you can call home. There’s no point in hoarding, not anymore.
“Is this the sort of thing Orlesians normally get up to?” he says with a slight huff as you begin fiddling with the window. But the smile on his lips tells you he’s enjoying himself nearly as much as you are.
“A certain brand of Orlesian, perhaps,” you say with a quiet chuckle. “Ah! Here we are.” You pop the loose latch open and slide the window up. “Tourists first,” you add with a smirk. Solas tsks gently at you, shaking his head, but climbs in through the window nonetheless. You follow him, then close the window gently behind you.
It’s dark, and the play is already starting. You catch some part of Solas’s arm and lead him, both of your eyes glinting slightly in the dark.
This particular balcony is old, and rarely ever used. There are other balconies, closer to the stage and with better views, and rarely is a performance so packed as to warrant its usage. It’s dark and empty tonight, and you lead Solas quietly to the railing, where you sit to watch the play through the bars.
“How many times have you done this?” Solas asks, his voice a breathy whisper. He kneels onto the floor beside you, finding a good spot from which to watch the show.
“Dozens, at least,” you reply, voice just as quiet. “Perhaps I’d deign to pay them if they let me in the front.” You ruffle silently through your bag until you pull out the bread-wrapped sausages and popped corn. “Dinner and a show,” you say, your grin going unseen in the darkness of the balcony.
“Is that man an elf?” Solas says, clearly surprised. He’s pointing down at the stage.
“The actor, yes, the character, no,” you reply softly.
“They won’t allow elves in the front door, but they may play on stage?”
“Since Empress Celene removed the religious and political restrictions from theatre, it’s become something of an… unusual subculture within Orlais,” you explain, still watching the show below. “It used to be, both the court and the Chantry had to approve of a play. After the Empress did away with that, it was inevitable that it would become a haven for the more liberally minded of Orlesian citizens. But the Grand Royeaux Theater is very old and very important, so the only elves you’ll find here will be on stage or serving food and drinks.”
“Or in the balcony, apparently,” Solas adds, and you chuckle.
“Oh! I think this is supposed to be about Lord Bellemont. See that mask, gold and rubies? That’s rather similar to his style… Yes, that’s the Baroness Choffard. I knew there was something there! I’m so behind on news… Maker, did he really?”
You half-narrate the play to Solas as the two of you lurk on the balcony, idly eating popped kernels. A lot of the intricacies of theatre and Orlesian culture in general are lost on him, you suspect, but he seems to be enjoying himself nonetheless. During intermission, the theater lights come on, and the two of you skitter behind a row of chairs to avoid detection. There, you explain your motivation somewhat.
“I really couldn’t leave Val Royeaux without seeing a play if there was a chance to,” you confess. “I used to do this every time a new play began showing.”
“With a friend?” Solas inquires. It strikes you as an odd question to ask.
“Never, until now,” you say with a smile, glad the hood is hiding the slight blush of your ears. You would consider Solas a friend, by now, but you’ve no idea if he thinks of you the same way. Perhaps he does. Perhaps his fret over you is caused by genuine concern, and not related to your work at all. Although, really, that’s quite silly, and more appropriate to nighttime fantasies than any honest consideration. “And, if I’m being perfectly honest,” you add, noting how he perks up at this. “I wanted to see how well you could sneak.”
“A test, da’len?” he says dryly, a teasing note to his voice. “Have I passed?”
“With flying colors, hahren,” you reply, grinning. “Perhaps in your youth, you were a da’ahlras2 as well.”
Solas doesn’t respond. The lights dim once again, and the two of your scuttle back to the balcony to watch the rest of the play.
“If that man is supposed to represent a real person,” Solas asks around the time that ‘Lord Bellemont’ is attempting to negotiate a threesome between Baroness Choffard and her son. “Isn’t this somewhat slanderous?”
“Technically, I suppose,” you whisper back. “But it’s expected. Even the Empress has been made victim of political scandal through the theater.” That thought sours you somewhat. You don’t want to dwell on Celene and Gaspard right now. You want to focus on the play, on Solas, on enjoying your limited time back in Val Royeaux.
The play comes to a hilariously orgiastic climax when ‘Baron Choffard’ walks in, and you pull Solas quickly away from the balcony as the actors march gleefully across stage to bow. “We should go before the lights turn on,” you whisper, and he follows you back through the darkness of the theater to the window you’d snuck in through. Back out you go, and back down the side of the building. It’s well and truly night outside now, and you’ll need to be careful heading back to the inn, but adrenaline and enjoyment of the play have you giddy. You spin around when your feet finally hit the pavement, cloak swirling out from you.
“Val Royeaux!” you exclaim gleefully. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“You seem to bear the city no small amount of love,” Solas notes as he watches you twirl.
“I love it and I hate it,” you confess. “I want to burn it to the ground and I want to live here forever. Come. Let’s get back to the inn before I remember all the reasons to hate it. Hood up, hahren, lest the wolves find us.” You yank your own hood up, covering your pointed ears.
The trip back to the inn is mostly peaceful. You explain a few more things about your life in Val Royeaux while the two of you walk. You have too much pent up energy from excitement and adrenaline; you jump up to walk on raised sections between paths, even on railings, hands out to keep your balance. The beginning of an autumn chill is in the air. The marketplace will have fresh apples, honeys, and jams. You cannot wait for your own day to shop, to spend your own coin on necessities and trinkets alike, rather than all this endless shopping for the Inquisition.
You’re walking backwards along a railing, chirping cheerfully about the theatre, when Solas suddenly grabs your waist. You let out a startled squeak, but have time for little else. He spins you down onto the ground, and then, hands still on your waist, pushes you into the shadows of a building.
“Solas! What are you—” you cry out, but he lifts a hand from your waist to place a single raised finger gently across your lips.
“Shhh, Emma. One of your Orlesian wolves is prowling about.”
You see the man as Solas tells you this—a Chevalier you hadn’t noticed thanks to your backwards gait. Solas mimics your actions from earlier, shielding you from sight, holding you close enough that the two of you would be taken for lovers, were you seen at all. But with Solas pushing, one hand on your waist and a single finger brushing softly against your lips, your body reacts in a way it hadn’t when you’d been the one pulling. You feel a flood of liquid heat between your legs and fight against a crimson blush. It seems like eternity before the Chevalier passes. You want it to be longer.
When Solas finally steps away from you, you find yourself struggling for breath. Your hand goes absentmindedly under your hood, checking to make sure your hair and mask are still in place. You struggle for something intelligent to say. “Well,” you manage finally, your voice somewhat strained. “You definitely pass the test.”
You’re giddy and foolish with adrenaline and arousal in roughly equal parts by the time you and Solas slip back into the inn. You note the innkeeper watching you; the two of you must look quite the sight all of a sudden, decked out in beautiful Orlesian cloaks, silver masks and opals glinting in the lantern light.
“Send up some wine and fruit, if you would,” you call out to him cheerfully as you head up the stairs.
“Is it not late enough to retire to bed?” Solas asks as you crest the final flight of stairs.
“I’m too pent up,” you say with a laugh. “I’ll have to drown myself in paperwork to calm down.”
You open the door to your shared room, pausing only to strip off your cloak before throwing yourself down onto the couch and sprawling out luxuriously. “Aaah! To live like an Orlesian!” you say with a giggle. “Soft pillows, fine silks, chilled wines. I would have signed up with the Inquisition months ago if I’d known I would be living the high life on their coin.”
Solas chuckles as he hangs up his own cloak next to you and immediately removes his mask, seeming relieved to be rid of them both. Underneath is the same rugged looking elf with hand-stitched clothing. He’d looked so fetching dolled up in fancy Orlesian wear, but there’s something comforting about a man who simply tosses a pelt over himself when he wants to be kept warm.
“Are you heading to bed already?” you protest, sitting up as he sits down on the corner of the bed to yank his shoes off.
“It is quite late, Emma, and unless you have managed to procure all of the necessary tomes already, we have another long day tomorrow,” Solas informs you. You pout.
“You’re just eager to get to sleep. Do you turn into a turnip if you don’t get your full eight hours, hahren? No energy left in those old bones for late nights?”
Solas scowls at you, but doesn’t raise to your bait. “Sleep is not merely rest for me, da’len,” he chides. “Your greatest adventures may be on the streets of Val Royeaux, but mine have always been in the mists of the Fade.”
You pout, idly reaching up to remove your mask. “I suppose that’s true. And there’s so much history in Val Royeaux… your dreams must be incredible. I’m jealous,” you confess. “Still… I hope our waking adventures entertain you somewhat.”
“Oh, they certainly do,” Solas says with a faint smile. “I doubt I would think to sneak into an Orlesian play on my own, but I enjoyed myself nonetheless.”
“Good,” you say with a relieved grin. “Maybe I’ll come up with adventures good enough to keep you awake all night before we’re done,” you quip. The mirth quickly drains from your face as you realize the obvious implications of what you’d just said. You’re horrified with yourself, but Solas doesn’t seem to have noticed the unintended innuendo.
“You’re very comfortable here in Val Royeaux,” Solas comments, as he has before, but there’s a glint in his eye. “You know people. Places. Secrets. Am I to believe Alix was simply a scribe, after all I’ve seen?”
You flush. You’d known you wouldn’t be able to keep that part of yourself secret from him forever in Val Royeaux, but there are still many lies to tell. You hesitate only slightly. “Being an elf in Val Royeaux automatically aligns you with the seedier underbelly of Orlesian politics,” you begin, but your heart’s not in the lie.
“Emma,” he says, cutting you off. “You are not the only person with a roguish past. You needn’t hide.”
His words strike to the heart of you. Cole’s words echo in your mind. ”Solas is similar, somehow. He sounds the same. Tell him. Trust him.” You swallow, hard. Emotion is overtaking your good sense, you need to…
You glance up. Solas’s blue eyes are on yours, piercing.
“…To have any margin of success in Val Royeaux, one must play the Game,” you say softly. “…However, I played it more than most.” The crack in your walls that your tears came through that morning widens, and, hands shaking, you allow a gentle trickle of secrets to spill forth. “It began with the elves. It’s not difficult to become involved with a certain kind of criminal when they all lurk so close to the alienage. But I wasn’t satisfied with that sort of life. My position for Comte Pierre was one I was placed into, in order to better smuggle secrets, but when he offered me a job as a linguist, I took it in honesty. I cut my ties with the foolish thugs in the elven underbelly of Val Royeaux. I moved out of the alienage. But the Game pulls you in. Always.”
“I played as much as any elf can. I will not burden you with the name of my patron. I’m free of him now, in any case. That’s how I have the connections I do, and a part of how I was able to make Alix Gagnon a name to respect in Orlais,” you admit. “All was well in my life, until… You remember I mentioned the Empress had not been spared humiliation at the hands of the theater?”
Solas, still silent, nods. You continue, breathless now with the secrets spilling from your lips. “It was a ploy by the Grand Duke Gaspard, I believe, though I have no evidence. I was in the balcony that night. A play twisted to imply she was sleeping with her elven handmaiden, that she was soft on the elves because of an unnatural lust for them. I don’t know the truth of it, but her response… Even you, traveling as you doubtless were, must have heard of the massacre.” You stare down at your hands, wrung tightly together. “The elves in Halamshiral had been rebelling. Mien’harel3, they call it. A quiet rebellion, soft. The bite of a poisonless snake, simply tired of being tread upon.” There are tears in your eyes and you’ve no mask to hide behind; this line of storytelling always brings up painful memories. “She murdered them to the last child. The streets of Halamshiral ran red with elven blood yet again. It was then, that I… I gave up.”
You rub your arms, as if you can warm yourself against the chill that memories have struck in you. Twice before had you seen an alienage massacre. You hadn’t needed to see it a third time for it to strike you when you learned of it in Val Royeaux. “That was when I left. I retired to the countryside to work my linguistics in peace. I wanted nothing more to do with filthy Orlesian politics. No matter how well I played the game, no matter how well Briala played the game… We will always be the ones to lose.” You spit the words out. Briala’s human lover had betrayed her as surely as yours had. As surely as every last one always would.
Solas is beside you on the couch, a comforting hand on your shoulder. When he’d moved from the bed, you didn’t know. You’d stared downwards for the entire length of your confession, unable to look up.
“I hate Orlais. I love Orlais. I want to watch it burn and I want to watch it bloom,” you confess. “It’s my home and my prison. My abusive lover,” you add with a bitter chuckle. “It beats me and I come back for more because of the sweetness that runs like honey through the streets. There is so much good here, so many kind and wonderful people… Like Baptiste, like Jean. I thought I could count the Empress among them, for a time. I thought there could be change. Now…?” You sigh. “I don’t know. But it’s still so satisfying to be back.”
You finally glance over to Solas, and find, beyond all hope, compassion shining in his eyes. “Thank you for trusting me with this, lethallin,” is all he says. The word thrills your wounded heart–he could not have rewarded your honesty more perfectly had he been trying.
Solas attempts to return the favor as well as distract you, and accomplishes both with more stories of his travels. You listen with rapt attention as the two of you half-assedly fumble through paperwork, distracted and downing wine at an alarming pace.
Solas eventually retires to bed, and by then you’re quite drunk. But you simply slow your drinking to allow yourself to sober at a controlled rate. You redouble your focus on your work as you do, though it’s somewhat difficult to focus while waiting for the drunken haze to clear. Now that Solas is asleep, you’ve letters to send, although it seems pointless to hide it now. At least he won’t be suspicious of your present to him now. You’ve finished concocting your plans to sneak into the White Spire, as well as your goals in doing so. Beyond simply giving Solas a very unique gift, in any case. And now that you’ve shown yourself to him, it seems even more fitting to impress him with your talents. Well… your mundane talents, in any case. Some things must ever be a secret. You’ll see how he handles the new information you’ve given him… as well as a live demonstration.