A Subject for Debate
Val Royeaux gets shittier and shittier the closer you get to the walls of the alienage. You don’t particularly like coming to this side of town. The Chevaliers patrol more heavily here, and you’ve never been fond of alienages. Not that you actually go into it… No, you stay on the outskirts. And rather than going to any sort of legitimate business, Solas watches as you drop off very different lists to a chain of increasingly shady-looking individuals. You speak to each in hushed tones, praying that Solas overhears little. Each and every person you speak to that afternoon knows you, by face or by name, and the less Solas knows about that the better. Solas seems increasingly intrigued with each list delivered, however.
You stop at a very familiar elven bakery near the entrance to the alienage when you’re finally done dropping off lists.
“Alix!” the elf behind the counter exclaims when you walk in. He actually jumps over the counter, bare feet covered in flour, and sweeps you up in a warm hug. “I thought you were dead! We all did, when Jean said your house—”
“I’m fine, Luvian,” you say, flustered. “And you’re covering me in flour.”
“Oh!” he says, releasing you. “Sorry! But where have you been? What happened? We heard the red Templars are—”
“I got out in time,” you explain, trying to calm him. He’d nearly knocked your mask off, and you pause to adjust yourself while you talk. “And I joined the Inquisition.”
“What?” Luvian says, shocked. “But you called them, and I quote, ‘nothing but a bunch of Templar-loving idiots who can’t bend over fast enough to let the Chantry fuck them up the ass.’”
You hear a spluttering laugh covered poorly by a cough from behind you. This seems to draw Luvian’s eyes, as well. “And who’s this, then? Elgar’nan, Alix, is that a staff?”
You clear your throat. “This is Serah Solas, magical advisor to the Inquisition. I’m traveling as his assistant, Luvian.”
Luvian bows before you can stop him, remembering how your bowing seemed to displease Solas. “Serah, welcome! It’s wonderful to see one of our own so well regarded!” He elbows you gently. “Maybe those posters weren’t all nonsense, hmm?”
You glance over at Solas. The mask is doing well to hide his expression, but you’re experienced enough with his face now to recognize how displeased he looks with the situation. You quickly attempt to deescalate. “Luvian, we’re starving. Would you mind getting us some food? Then I can explain everything.”
“Of course!” Luvian says cheerfully. “Have a seat anywhere, both of you! I’ve got some fresh baked laise1 bread in the back.”
As he scurries off, you pull Solas to a table, embarrassed beyond reason. You should have thought better of bringing Solas here. “He has very good bread,” you say, by way of explanation. “He’s just very… enthusiastic.”
“Laise bread?” Solas asked, sounding a bit tired. The man had just said ‘bread bread,’ essentially.
“He’s very enthusiastic,” you admit, rubbing your head. “He’s got a shrine to Sylaise hidden in the back and everything. I think the Chevaliers tolerate him being just outside the alienage only because he’s well-to-do and gives them hot rolls when they’re patrolling.”
“And the two of you are friends?”
“When I first came to the city, he was the first person to hire me for something actually linguistics related,” you confess. “And I do love bread.”
“Dare I ask?”
You flush. “He was paying me to teach him some Elven.”
You see Solas twitch behind his mask, and you fight the urge to bury your face in your hands.
“W… well,” Solas said, clearly struggling. “Your vocabulary, at least—”
“You can make fun of me,” you inform him, giving up and lowering your face into your palms, blushing furiously. “I would make fun of me. I’m in no position to teach anyone Elven, I know that now, but…”
Luvian comes out of the back then, necessitating the end of that particular discussion, thank the Maker. You try to hide your embarrassment. Luvian is a very sweet man, really. He gave you a job when no one else would, bragged about you to his customers. You had gotten a small job for a Chevalier’s rich uncle thanks to him. You owed him better than being embarrassed by his presence.
“So,” he says, placing hot bread and steamed bread on the table, then sitting down. “Fill me in!”
And you do, although a tastefully edited version. You can’t help but notice that Solas is listening with great interest as you explain how you escaped your house and made for the Frostbacks with the hope of joining the Inquisition.
“Why not just come back to Val Royeaux?” Luvian asks, at one point.
“And live where, Luvian?” you say with a scowl. “In the alienage? After what happened?”
“That sort of thing won’t happen here!”
“Enough, Luvian,” you say shortly. “To get to Val Royeaux, I would have had to go twice as far, and through the fighting of the civil war, mages, Templars, demons… No. I went for the Inquisition.”
“Seems to have worked out for you!” Luvian said, cheerful despite your obvious irritation. “Look at you, assistant to some big, important mage!”
Luvian’s chatter fills the meal. Solas eats in silence; you eat in increasing discomfort until you can finally make an excuse to leave. “It’s been wonderful catching up with you, Luvian, but we’ve still got work to do, and I don’t want to be out after dark…”
“Oh, of course! Stop by again if you get the chance, Alix! It’s just good to know you’re alive.” The relief in his voice gives you another pang of guilt. You don’t have the right to look down on him the way you do. If anything, your experiences with Solas have taught you that much. As much more as you may know than Luvian, you are far, far from an expert on Elvhen lore.
You collapse onto a bench a few blocks away from Luvian’s bakery. “Maker why did I think going in there was a good idea?” you groan.
“The food was very good,” Solas said amiably.
“Even if the company lacked?” you ask sourly, rubbing your eyes under your mask. “I feel like I just aged three years.”
“You have not, I assure you.” Solas sits down onto the bench next to you; you scoot over a bit to make more room for him. “I note that your friend wore a mask, but many of the elves I see out here do not.”
“Mmm. Only the well-to-do or servants of the well-to-do tend to be able to afford them,” you say absent-mindedly. “Would you buy a mask, or food? It’s like any jewelry, really. Why wear a valuable thing around your face? It’s like screaming that you have enough money to be mugged.”
“Then why are we?” Solas asks pointedly.
“No one’s going to mug us, Solas. Even if they didn’t all think we worked for someone important because of the value of these masks, you carry a staff. The White Spire is right there. People here are used to seeing mages enough to make a wide berth for anyone carrying a staff like that.”
“That’s very interesting, but doesn’t quite answer my question.”
You eye him sourly. You let him dodge questions, why can’t he return the favor? “Appearances. We need to fit in, need to look like we know what we’re doing.”
“You do know what you’re doing,” Solas points out. “You’re more at ease here than I have ever seen you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” you say, shaking your head. “Eighty percent of knowing what I’m doing is knowing how to look, Solas. It’s Orlais. Didn’t you ever wonder why Madame de Fer dresses the way she does? It’s not because she enjoys spending an hour getting ready every morning.”
“You are not nearly so meticulous in Skyhold.”
“Skyhold isn’t Val Royeaux. Unlike Madame de Fer, I’m not actually that… pompous. Or, if I’m being more courteous, maybe I should say I’m more traveled?” You idly pull your hair loose to tie it up again. One day, they will invent superior hair ties. One day. “Outside of Orlais, all it gets you is contempt, not respect. But here… I could be a genius, but if I didn’t look the part, I’d accomplish nothing.”
“Could be?” Solas says, something in his voice causing the beginnings of a rosy blush to heat the tips of your ears. “It seems evident to me.”
Thank the Maker for masks, because you’re certainly crimson behind it. You stand up quickly. “Well we still have work to do!” you say a little too loudly. “No time for dallying!” You power walk off down the street, Solas trailing bemusedly behind you.
It’s hard to track down some of the people you’re looking for, and you wind up staying on the shadier side of Val Royeaux much later than you would like. You catch a few less-than-savory people eyeing you, but they worry you less than the chance of a Chevalier coming across you. Most of the elves are off the streets and back in the alienage by the time night rolls around. It won’t be long before you and Solas are the only pointed ears to be seen.
After one more delivery, you’ve conquered your list. You immediately begin heading back towards the inn, jumpy and eager to be off the streets.
“This has been an interesting way to spend a day,” Solas is saying as you cross a bridge over a canal that serves to separate the poor from the rest of Val Royeaux. You’re barely listening, however. The White Spire is all lit up, and it’s vibrant gleaming catches your eye. You stop in the middle of the bridge and turn to look at it, resting your hands on the railing.
Solas notices you’ve stopped and his gaze follows yours. “Quite the sight, isn’t it?” you say quietly. “Like a sword aimed at the heavens. I’m amazed they have it lit up. What’s the point? Most everyone abandoned the tower and the city both, and I doubt there’s a single Templar left in Val Royeaux at this point. There are no mages left here to intimidate.”
“We’re here,” Solas says, startling you. You look at him sharply. Did he have suspicions you’d still yet to quell?
“I suppose there’s some truth to that,” you say cautiously. “You’re an apostate. But it still seems pointless.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“I don’t think much of anything intimidates you, Solas.”
The two of you stare quietly out at the White Spire for a little longer.
“I’ve heard the Veil is thin as paper there,” you comment. “It seems like a terrible place to hoard mages. Wouldn’t a thin Veil mean more possessions?”
“Yes, but also more potent magic,” Solas says. “I’d like to see it for myself, actually.”
You turn to stare at him. “That’s… That’s really…”
“Unwise?” Solas says with a quirk of his lips.
“Something like that, yeah,” you say, grinning despite yourself. “An apostate sneaking into a Circle tower? There’s no way you survived this long doing that sort of thing, Solas.”
“No, I suppose not,” Solas says, but your mind is already spinning with thoughts and idle ideas. There are no Templars in Val Royeaux; they’re all with the Inquisition now. There are still mages holed up in the Circle, the last loyal mages that Madame de Fer “leads.” But there would still be no better time to sneak into the White Spire than this. Could you do it? How pleased would Solas be, if you could actually get him inside?
A terrible idea, most likely… But there’s no harm in looking into it, right?
It’s another night of wine and snacks in the inn. No reason not to, really… it’ll be an effort to work through all the surplus funds Josephine sent to the inn. Baptiste must have been a man generous with room service.
You try to avoid thinking of him, but it will be difficult until this trip is over. You’re looking through his notes on a daily basis, reading things in his handwriting. You can’t help musing over his excitement about meeting his grandson. But such things only serve to depress you, so you try to simply focus on your work.
You have several ravens lurking in your bedroom when you enter it, but you ignore their messages for now. You’ll need to reply, and you simply can’t do that while Solas is awake. You give them some crackers to reward their patience, and shut the door firmly behind you when you leave.
“Someone here has requested additional tomes on veilfire.” Solas is seated at the mahogany desk, idly going through the magical requisitions you had set aside for him. You’d meant to leave that one out of Solas’ stack. “My, I wonder who it could be?”
“I was curious!” you protest, flushing slightly.
“Have you already finished the tome I gave you?”
“I have. I was going to give it back to you… After I got my own copy,” you admit sheepishly. “It’s in my bag, if you want it back.”
“You brought it with you?”
“Yes, sorry… I wanted to finish reading it. I didn’t want to wait two weeks while we traipsed through the countryside.”
Solas smiles lightly. “You can give it back when we return to Skyhold, then. What did you think of it?”
“Well, I didn’t understand most of the instructions,” you lie. “How to summon it, that sort of thing. But the theory and practical application sections were fascinating. Particularly the way elves seemed to use it for… magical shorthand, essentially.”
“Of course, you would focus on the ways in which veilfire can be a form of writing,” Solas says with a warmer smile that fills you with a heat of your own. “If you are interested in that aspect, there are a few tomes I could recommend…”
The two of you sit there, side by side at the desk, while Solas walks you through suggestions for some of the vaguer magical requisitions requests. You note the names on each… Madame de Fer seems to always request specific tomes, whereas Dorian is often more vague. The “Dagna” who you’d heard about from Dorian was probably the most frequent and most vague of all, but you also see Helisma’s name, as well as several you don’t recognize at all.
He gets tired before you, of course… or perhaps it’s more apt to say he goes to bed first, as you’ve been tired all day and will doubtlessly continue to be so. It comes in waves… sometimes the dizziness hits you so potently that you would swear you might fall over. Most times it’s just an exhausted buzzing in the back of your mind. Solas reminds you to try to sleep as he wearily strips his shirt off and flops into the bed. You promise him you will.
As soon as you’re certain he’s asleep, you return to your own room to deal with the ravens. They’ve been waiting patiently, munching on crackers. One of them has gotten into your bag of food and is pecking idly at some of your bread. You wave it away, then retrieve the notes. You reply to them each in turn, and send an extra note along to one of your more… magically-inclined contacts. If anyone knows if it’s possible to get into the White Spire right now, it will be him.
After sending out the ravens, you spend most of the night working at the desk in Solas’s room… Although you know you’ll have to go to your own room before he wakes, lest you risk his ire again. However, several hours before dawn, your own exhaustion begins to overtake you. Your limbs feel impossibly heavy; you’re dizzy and can’t see straight. Your head spins and your vision tunnels. You need to lay down, if nothing else.
You stumble to the room’s couch and find you can go no further. You tumble onto it with a soft groan, close your eyes, and try to pretend you’re back on the couch in Solas’s rotunda, the one place where you slept so well.
You don’t dream, a sign that you didn’t properly sleep. But you don’t regain consciousness until you hear a quiet shuffling. That alone is enough to wake you–you’re a light sleeper even under ordinary circumstances.
You open your eyes, groggy and confused, not quite remembering where you are at first. What the hell kind of fancy… Oh… Right. Your memory from the past few days catches up to you. You see Solas stretching by the bed; nothing so fancy as you’d seen him do in the past, but he’s still shirtless, wearing naught but trousers and his wolf-bone necklace. Its black outline is fetching against his pale chest.
Solas grimaces slightly, and you worry he’s about to scold you again. “I apologize. I was trying not to wake you.”
Oh… Maker, you’d slept! That close to him! What if he’d come over and examined your sleeping mind? What would he have found? You honestly don’t know, but the thought chills you.
“Is the couch more comfortable than the beds in the other room?” Solas is saying, and your panicked mind races to keep up. “Perhaps you should be sleeping on this bed, as I said before.” He gestures towards the grand, silk-sheeted bed.
“Oh, no… I just got tired working and laid down,” you explain. “I have this problem in Skyhold, too… By the time I walk all the way to my room, I’m not tired anymore.”
Solas frowns, though he continues to stretch. “Feel free to use the couch in the rotunda. I doubt anyone will bother you there.”
Ha, of course not… No one even goes into it except for you and Solas, most days. Before you can reply, Solas squats down, beginning to stretch in more intricate ways. You quickly avert your eyes. Come to think of it, the sun was barely peeking over the horizon. He was up early… had he woken early to stretch, or had you simply interrupted his usual routine yesterday?
“…Solas?”
“Mmm?”
“What are you doing? I’ve seen you do it a few times before, but it’s not like the stretches Bull taught me.” Or any other stretches you’d seen, for that matter.
“Ah. No, I would be surprised if he’d shown you something similar,” Solas says. He doesn’t appear to have any self-consciousness about you watching him. You wish you could say the same. “It’s a technique I learned in the Fade. I find it keeps mind, body, and mana… limber.” Something in the way he says “limber” sends a shudder down your spine.
“Learned it in the Fade…” you murmur, more to yourself than anything. Exactly how much have you lost out on by purposefully limiting your ability to connect to the Fade? Do all mages have such experiences, or is Solas above average in his ability to navigate that other plane? Perhaps he is above average, but you’re almost certainly below average. As you are in all things magical. The thought depresses you, enough that you don’t pursue that line of questioning any further. You go to your own room to change into fresh clothes for the day to come. There’s a raven there waiting for you.
After dealing with the very interesting contents of the raven’s pouch, you come back out to find that breakfast has been delivered and Solas has clothed himself, thank the Maker. You don’t know how much of the man’s skin you can take, at this point. Once again, you go over your plans for the day with Solas, what little plans they are. Until you hear back from the bookstores, there’s little to do except for spend your day in the library. Although that’s hardly a waste of time… Some of the requisitions, particularly the vague ones, require research. You instruct Solas to focus on his own needs first; ostensibly, the reason you and he had been sent in the first place was because Solas’s needs were so complicated.
Everything is going well until you hear a knock at the door. You assume at first that it must be the serving girl, but realize at once that’s not the case. The knock is heavier, and strikes the door higher. The innkeeper, perhaps, to raise another fuss since Baptiste never did show up? You take a moment to adjust yourself and answer the door.
To your infinite confusion, there are two people at the door… or perhaps three, technically. The masked human man was no doubt the one who knocked, but just behind him is a woman carrying a baby. What on—
Realization and dread sink into you in equal measure.
“E… excuse me… We’re looking for Baptiste Bellerose?” the man says, his eyes fixed on your ears in some confusion. “We’re his family. He was supposed to meet us at the docks, but didn’t, and when he didn’t contact us… Well, we know he was supposed to stay here, and the innkeeper said his party had checked in… I’m sorry, did he send us to the wrong room?”
You wish that you’d already put your mask on, because there’s no hiding the horror on your face. “I… I…” you stammer, for once at an utter loss for words. You had hoped that your letters to Josephine and Leliana would save you from this situation. “I…”
Incredibly, it’s Solas who comes to your rescue. He appears behind you in the doorway. “You’ve found the right place,” he assures them. “Please, come in.”
Confused, the couple walks in the door. You’re frozen, but Solas steers you out of their way by your shoulder. You stare, transfixed, at the bundle the woman is carrying.
“I’ll have you know I’ll be meeting my grandson for the very first time! My daughter is bringing him to the docks to meet us.”
Oh, Maker, no, you can’t handle this. You can’t look this woman in the eye and tell her that her father is dead, that he was the only one who died, that you were talking to him, talking to him, “Emma, I must say—” and then an arrow, I’m so sorry, we never saw it coming, I’m so sorry.
Solas forces you onto the couch, and then sits at the table with the would-be happy family. The woman’s eyes are on you, on your expression. She knows, she has to know, how could she not know?
“I’m very sorry to have to tell you this—” Solas is saying, but the screaming in your mind blocks it out. You’re deafened by roaring in your ears, as if the ocean has come to flood the room. But there’s nothing that can block out their expressions. The woman covering her mouth, hot tears bursting from her eyes, the shell-shocked look on the man’s face. As if sensing his mother’s distress, little Baptiste begins to fuss. Solas’s expression is pained, but gentle. The man slams his fist on the table; Solas remains calm. You don’t. You fight just to remain still.
Solas comforts them, somehow. A gentle touch on the woman’s shoulder at just the right time, the right words said to calm the terrified, angry, sorrowful man. After a lifetime, the woman jerks to her feet, sending the chair clattering backwards. She thanks Solas with a short bow, and stumbles out of the room. The man follows her.
Solas closes the door behind them and turns to you. The roaring is still in your ears, and you feel inexplicably damp, as if you’re still soaked in blood, as if you didn’t scrub yourself raw to get it off. Your shaking hands touch your face and you realize why; you’re crying, quite heavily. Tears you didn’t have time for earlier are forcing their way out. You struggle to gain some control over yourself. You don’t have the right. This stupid expedition is why Baptiste is dead. If you hadn’t antagonized the Inquisitor to the point he’d sent you on this suicide mission, maybe Baptiste would—
Solas sits besides you on the couch. He’s saying something, but you can’t quite make it out. Your eyes are unfocused, bleary with tears.
“I-I-I’m fine, S-S-Solas,” you stammer. That has to be the single most unconvincing lie you’ve ever spoken. Solas brushes fallen hair off of your shoulder and rests his hand there, as he had with Baptiste’s grieving daughter. A rugged crack snaps through your walls, just enough that the floodwaters held in place begin to pour forth. Your quiet crying is broken by an undignified wail. You cover your face with your hands, and bring your forehead down to rest on Solas’s shoulder, trying to muffle the sobs. Bless him, Solas lets you.
“It’s not fair!” you hear someone yelling. You’re startled to realize that it’s you. “This stupid war! All of these stupid fucking wars! Baptiste should be here, with his family, not off serving some half-cocked military! He should never have been on the road! Those bandits should never have been on the road! If anyone in this Maker-damned world would prioritize lives over their own stupid fucking politics!” You slam an angry fist against Solas’s other shoulder. He responds only by rubbing your shoulder, urging your tensed, spasming muscles to relax.
You sob brokenly into his shoulder, swearing occasionally when hatred—for the Empress, for Gaspard, for the bandits, for mages and Templars alike—overcomes your grief.
Eventually, you simply run out of tears. You stay resting against Solas’s shoulder longer than you can justify before finally sitting up, your embarrassment winning out over all else. You quickly rub your sleeves across your face. “Now you’ll learn the other reason we wear masks in Val Royeaux,” you say hoarsely, standing quickly on shaking legs and stumbling over to where your mask rests on the table. With fumbling fingers, you try to tie it into your bun, but your hands are still shaking violently. You feel Solas fingers catch the strings, push yours gently aside. He ties it himself, long fingers deft in your hair. You let out a long, shuddering breath, then turn to face him. Your eyes are hidden behind the mask. You are hidden behind a mask.
“Good as new,” you say with a forced smile. “G… get yours on too. We should get to the library.”
- bread ↩︎