The Past Should Stay There
“Did… did you skip lunch again?”
You glance up at Thea, who looks mildly pissed.
“…There is a distinct possibility,” you admit, glancing around at the nearly empty library.
“Alright, that’s it! Put that book away, I’m taking you to dinner. Honestly, you need a keeper!” You snort at the turn of phrase, but know she wouldn’t get it.
“Just let me finish up this sentence. Calligraphy is hard, you know.”
“If it’s so difficult, maybe you should take breaks.”
“Alright, alright…” You finish up the sentence, but leave the page open to dry. “No one will bother this if I just leave it here, right? I’m certainly not going to the tavern again.”
“It should be fine. No one here but you could read the original, and no one’s going to steal a half-written book.”
You submit to her nagging as the two of you head across the courtyard to the mess. You are utterly unsurprised to see Iron Bull loitering outside. He lifts a hand to wave, and of course, Thea waves eagerly back.
“Looks like your new boyfriend came to keep you company,” she teases, and you groan.
“Don’t even say that. He’s not anything of the sort. And nothing like you’re thinking happened!” you snap.
“Oh, really? Because word round the keep is, he carried you out of that tavern over his shoulder-“
“He did WHAT?”
“Let me guess, you two are talking about me?” Iron Bull steps in next to you as you head through the door of the mess. You scowl at him.
“Apparently, someone carried me out of the tavern like a sack of potatoes.”
“Would you have preferred I carry you princess style? I’ll keep that in mind for next time you pass out.”
You press your hand firmly against your face, then rub your eyes and take a deep breath. “Alright. It’s a rumor mill. People will move on to the next interesting thing in a matter of minutes. They likely already have.”
“Well, the two of you eating dinner together isn’t going to stop rumors, but if it makes you feel any better, this stallion’s bedded half the girls in the keep and at least a quarter of the men,” Thea points out. “He’s a favorite for gossip.”
Well, there are worse ways to blend in, you suppose. You’re still not going to encourage it. You’re not even sure how people can possibly believe it. The man probably has two hundred pounds on you. You can’t even imagine how that would work. Half of Skyhold’s women and a quarter of the men are significantly braver and more flexible than you.
The three of you get your food and settle down at one end of a long table. You turn your eyes upwards towards Iron Bull, who’s sitting across from you.
“Alright, let’s get the interview out of the way before I settle in to my meal. What would you like to know next? The name of my first pet, perhaps?”
“Don’t be so hostile,” he says with a chuckle.
“I’m unaccustomed to such prodding,” you say with a scowl, because simply replying ‘no’ seems out of character for a humble linguist just trying to get some peace in her damned life. “Please try to understand my position, ser. I am an elf making a living as a linguist. I am used to being little more than background decoration. Machinery. Manuscript goes in, translation comes out. All this attention is… I’m not used to it. I hear that this Spymaster of yours investigates everyone. But you’re not asking everyone these questions.” You pause, considering. “Or maybe you are, and you’re just more discreet about it.”
“Whatever you are, elf, you’re not stupid,” Iron Bull says with a grunt. “But what if I told you that this has nothing to do with Leliana? What if I said I was just curious? Interested?”
Your throat goes dry. You take a quick gulp of water, struggle to swallow it. “That,” you manage, “would be even more confusing. Possibly even more alarming.”
“Oh, let the nice Qunari sweep you off your feet, Emma,” Thea says with a giggle. “Live a little!” You fix her with your best glare, but she doesn’t even flinch.
“I’m already living. I’d like to keep doing so, as a matter of fact,” you say with a scowl.
“And you think attention is counter to living? Interesting…”
“You stop that!” you snap at Iron Bull.
“I think she’s intimidated by your…” Thea clears her throat delicately, counter to the wicked grin on her face. “Girth.”
“So help me, Maker, I will-“
“You Andrastian?”
Iron Bull’s interjection seems so random that it actually startles you. “W… what?”
“Lot of elves I meet, they say ‘by the Creators,’ ‘Dread Wolf take you,’ that sort of thing.”
You snort. “Dalish and those who want to be like them. I don’t need special swears to remind me that I’m an elf, the rest of the world does that for me.”
“Oooh, someone’s a little bitter.”
You roll your eyes. “Were you not here for my tragic backstory?” you ask with an exaggerated flip of your spoon. “Elves kidnapped on their wedding day by evil shems? Sold into slavery by an entirely different yet equally evil shem?”
“Speaking of which, you never did tell me how you got out of that,” Iron Bull says mildly. You glare at him.
“Yes, imagine that, it’s almost as though it’s an unpleasant memory I don’t wish to revisit. Won’t your Spymaster dig it up before long?”
“Were you not here for me saying I was interested for my own reasons?”
“I-I’m repressing it,” you say with a scowl. “It’ll be hard if you keep repeating yourself.”
“Bet that’s not the only thing hard…”
“Thea, I swear to the Maker-“
“You guys having a party without me?”
You glance over, and so used to craning your neck to look up at Iron Bull, you almost miss noticing the speaker, who is significantly shorter, and also, on a related note, a dwarf. He’s easily recognizable, as well, as the beardless dwarf you had seen when you first arrived.
“Heard you’d been harassing the help, Tiny,” he says as he sits down on the bench next to Iron Bull.
“I’ve been doing nothing of the sort,” Iron Bull says, almost managing to successfully sound offended.
“Yes, he has,” you quip before you can get control of your tongue. It’s too easy to be a smart-ass around these people.
“See? You’re going to scare her off this way, Tiny. You have to move with more finesse!” Iron Bull rolls his eyes, but the dwarf turns to you. “Please to meet you, serah elf. The name is Varric Tethras.”
You blink. “Wait, Varric Tethras? As in Tales of the Champion by Varric Tethras?”
“I see my reputation precedes me,” he says, looking quite pleased about it.
You’re not exactly a fan, or anything, but you have read his book. Who hasn’t? Everyone was curious about what happened in Kirkwall. That you have a copy in your room that you’re seriously considering getting signed is pure coincidence. “Is the part about the Arishok true?”
“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that, Stutter,” he says with a chuckle.
“The part where Hawke defeats him in single combat to save Isabella,” you say excitedly, ignoring the amused expression on Iron Bull’s face.
“Absolutely true. I couldn’t make that up, no one would believe me.”
“What I wouldn’t give to have seen that,” you murmur to yourself. You’re no fan of Hawke; he and his dumb-ass friends are part of the reason the mage rebellion even got started. Anders would have had a field day with you, no doubt, but you never had an interest in saving mages, and you still don’t. Saving yourself is more important.
“We could reenact it with Tiny here, maybe?” Varric says with another laugh.
You find yourself joining in the laugh despite yourself, but shake your head. “Wouldn’t be the same. It was the Arishok. That’s what makes it so unbelievable.”
“You seem to know a lot about the Qun, kid.”
You brush away the moment’s irritation at Iron Bull’s comment. “Tevinter doesn’t like to think about it, but if you’ve got a slave who speaks three languages, guess what, that slave is smart. They don’t realize you read, understand, and absorb the information they have you translate. Like I said, I’m used to being machinery.”
“So you learned all you know from translating Qunari documents?”
“More or less,” you say with a nod. “I was in Seheron for… for a while. Too long. You learn about the situation, or you die.”
“We should swap stories sometime.” He said it so casually, the meaning flew over your head for a moment.
“Swap? I would have thought you’d be more interested in… wait. You were in Seheron?”
“Mmmm.”
You shake your head in disbelief. That explains a lot. “No wonder you ran. That place is hell.”
“Hey. I didn’t run. I’m no Tal-Vashoth.”
You normally have good control over your expression, but your jaw gapes open at this. “W-wait… What? …But the Chargers, the…” He’s just looking at you, but you don’t need him to explain. The gears are clicking in your head, coming to the inevitable conclusion. “It’s a station,” you marvel. “It’s a station?” You stare over at Varric. “You knew? Everyone knows?” How could they possibly be okay with this?
“Yeah, Tiny here was pretty forthcoming with it,” Varric said, looking nonplussed, maybe a little confused at how distraught you are.
“But that m-means…” You turn your eyes back to Bull, who’s still looking at you with that goddamn neutral expression. You push your bowl of half-eaten stew away from you, appetite immediately gone with an onrush of memories. Ben-Hassrath. You don’t even want to say it. Fear is gripping your stomach, threatening to expel its contents, tying your tongue into knots. Ben-Hassrath, and no runaway. Still a Ben-Hassrath, still an enforcer of the Qun. “I-I-I have to g-go,” you eke out, and even manage to walk, not run, out the door. Once it shuts behind you, however, you bolt.
“Emma?” you hear Thea’s voice shouting behind you, concerned, but you don’t stop. There has to be some kind of place in this goddamn fortress you can hide. You need to think, you just need ten minutes to fucking think! You run up stairs blindly, swing a door open and charge directly into… the rotunda. Goddamnit. This place is a maze.
The elf from before is looking at you, paused in his painting, seeming mildly alarmed at the force with which you thrust open the door. You look him firmly in the eye. “I’m not h-here. I w-was never here.” You turn to leave, but see Iron Bull in the courtyard. Fuck. You shut the door quickly, eyes sliding over the room. Can’t go into the Great Hall. Can’t go upstairs. Can’t go outside. Damnit.
Your eyes shift back over to the elf, who’s still just watching you. A neutral expression is honestly the last thing you want to see. “I m-mean it,” you say, trying to sound firm despite your stupid stutter. “J-just ignore me.” And with that, you duck under the desk in the middle of the room. It’s the closest thing to privacy you’re going to get.
You hear the elf go back to painting, and breathe a sigh of relief. There are a lot of things an elf could be running from in this fortress… Seems he’s content to live and let live. Thank the Maker.
You’ve been skipping about this goddamn place with a fucking Ben-Hassrath sniffing at your trail.
You know damn well they’re not all… re-educators. Most of them aren’t. There’s no way one of those would be here, right? Right? And the Inquisition wouldn’t be letting him go running around converting people. Right?
A Ben-Hassrath of any kind has no right being here. The most obvious choice, since he claimed to still be under the Qun, was that he was Hissrad, a spy, but what kind of shitty spy just tells everyone he’s a spy? It couldn’t be that obvious. There’s something you’re missing, some piece… You want to believe he’s just an Asaad sent out here for reasons unknown, but there’s just no way. Tal-Vashoth are always bandits or mercenaries, like they don’t know how to do anything else. This is a deliberate disguise. That screams Hissrad.
And worse, he said he had been in Seheron? When? If he had been there at the same time as you, that could pose several kinds of new, horrific danger. You didn’t recognize him, or you would never have stayed in this damned place, no matter how thick the walls are. But if he even knows of you, he could put two and two together, and… Damnit, the past should stay in the past. Why didn’t you just use another excuse for why you knew Qunlat and Tevene? You could have come up with a better story, if you’d just had the damned time! Seheron explained both so easily, and you’d been lazy and sloppy. And now there’s a Ben-Hassrath stalking you.
Your thoughts are interrupted by the voice you want to hear least.
“Hey, Solas, you seen that new elf librarian around?”
Aaaah, fuck. You curl up smaller under the desk. Come on, Solas, just lie… Wait, Solas? That name is familiar… And a weird goddamn name for an elf. Who names their kid that? Some silly little Alienage elf who doesn’t even know what the words they spout mean, maybe. Still, unfortunate.
“I believe she’s hiding under the desk.”
You scramble out from under it to glare at the man. “Oh, come on! Not even a little solidarity?”
This ‘Solas’ just raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms. Your scowl deepens.
“Don’t bolt again,” Iron Bull says, as if he can see the tensing of your muscles from across the room. “I know I’m not the person you want to see right now, but running across Skyhold doesn’t really look good.”
“Oh, don’t come at me like I’m the spy!” you snap. “I’ve been dealing with your prodding for days, on behalf of a spymaster who might want me for some undisclosed job at some point in the future that I might not even want to do! I ran because I w-was f-fucking scared, okay?”
“Calm down. I believe you. But it also matters what everyone else believes.”
You grind your teeth. You really want him to stop being right; it’s annoying. “Just… just stay on the other side of the desk. And you, you… traitorous elf, you stay here too.”
“Come on, Emma, if I was going to try some Ben-Hassrath trick on you, don’t you think I would have by now?” Iron Bull cajoles gently. You glare at him.
“Would I even notice? What are you?” you demand.
“Hissrad.”
You relax slightly, some of the tension sliding out of your muscles. He could be lying, obviously, but you’d been circling around that conclusion for a while. It’s the answer that makes the most sense. “You’re the worst Hissrad I’ve ever met. What are you even doing out here?”
“Gathering intel on the Inquisition.”
“In the most obvious way possible!” you say with a nervous laugh. “They’re okay with this? Really?” You glance over at the elf, who has, annoyingly, gone back to painting.
“Honesty is a good policy.”
You snort. “For a spy? Seems counter-intuitive.” You wave your hand dismissively. “Guess I don’t know much about spying.”
“That’s a shame, you’d be good at it.”
You look at him sharply. Damn that face of his, it was impossible to read. “That’s not something I want on my resume,” you say bluntly.
“So, why’d you freak out?”
“Wh… why’d I…? Are you kidding me?” You look at him exasperatedly, then slump down into a the chair at the desk, not really caring that it probably belongs to the elf, Solas.
“Back when we first met, you said ‘Kabethari’… That you ran.”
“I don’t want to get into my sordid history with you, Bull,” you say shortly. It’s probably the most casual you’ve been with him, but you’re feeling too strained to be polite. “I want the opposite of that.”
“Then just give me an excuse. Why run?”
“You’re an idiot for having to ask. Ben-Hassrath are scary,” you say bluntly. “Tell a twelve year old girl that there are big horned beasties out there, and they can turn you to their way of thinking, just by talking. Or drugging. It’s as scary as blood magic. I was in a war zone, you ass, for years. The Tevinter weren’t my friends, the Qunari weren’t my friends, and the Fog Warriors weren’t my friends. Any one of them would kill me given a chance and half a reason.”
“So, I’m going to go with ‘trauma involving Qunari’ as an excuse.”
“Whatever works,” you say tiredly. “Tell your spymaster she can move me to latrine duty if she’s that worried about where my loyalties lie. At this point, I’d rather have the company of the shit.”
Iron Bull seems to decide that he’s not getting much more out of you, and just leaves with a nod. You sink the whole top of half of your body over the desk, flopping down dramatically. Adrenaline with nowhere to go pulses through you. It’s only an obscene amount of discipline that kept you from losing control. You were close several times. You are, at this very moment, considering walking back out into the snow tomorrow morning. If only you had anywhere else you could get to with your absolute lack of supplies. You’d starve in the damned frozen mountains.
As the tension finally begins to unwind from your shoulders, neck, and chest, you let out a torrent of curses in a multitude of languages. That makes you feel a little better.
“Your Elven is terrible.”
You glare sharply at the painting elf. “Excuse me?”
“Your Elven. The pronunciation is all wrong.”
“How could you possibly-“ You pause, then pale slightly. “You, uh… speak Elven?”
“Yes. And those weren’t Dalish curses, either. How does a Tevinter slave come to know ancient Elven?”
You close your eyes, and force yourself to take two deep breaths. “Ser. I appreciate your curiosity. Really. I’m sure it charms all the ladies. But I am very, very tired of answering questions about myself at the moment.”
“I believe the Iron Bull respects that. I, however, do not.” You don’t really care for the way he’s looking at you. Those blue eyes had gotten rather sharp.
“Do you work for Lady Spymaster, too?”
“No.”
You stare at him for a long moment, strongly considering telling him to go fuck himself in your apparently-shitty Elven and going to suffer literally anywhere else. He is, however, someone you’ve seen every day you’ve been here, who seems to work directly below where you do. You let out a long sigh, pulling yourself up to sit on the desk.
“The answer is books. Scrolls. Anything I could get my hands on. I’ve always had a knack for languages, and anyone would be curious about their heritage.” You rub the back of your neck, annoyed and embarrassed. “Never had anyone to speak it with… Is my pronunciation really that bad?”
“Abysmal.”
“Ugh. Alright then, Ser Curious, how is it that you know ancient Elven so well?”
“I am a mage, an expert on all things of the Fade, as well as the ancient elves, in particular.”
You make sure to look surprised. “Seriously? An elven mage just sort of… hanging out, in the middle of the Inquisition? Are you one of those ‘last true’ Circle Mages?”
“No. I was with no Circle, even before they fell.”
You frown, this time in earnest. “What, you were an apostate?” Are an apostate, you suppose, but that word lacks barbs considering the state of the Circles. Nearly everyone’s an apostate now. One big unhappy magic family.
“Correct.”
“And now you’re here? An elven apostate. Here.”
“Is it so unbelievable?”
“Frankly, yes!”
“I was nearby when the Breach formed. It was I who discovered the Inquisitor’s mark could be used to seal the rifts. I will not pretend everyone has been wholly welcoming, but they appreciate anyone willing to help.”
“You… what?” you shake your head slowly, trying to absorb the shit-ton of information that had just been flung at you. “Wow. I… wow. Kinda feel bad about calling you a traitor earlier, now.”
“Why? Because I’m a mage? Because I speak elven?”
“Well, mom always taught me you should be nice to someone who can set you on fire with their mind,” you say with a grin. Casual, even though your mind is racing with the implications. You’d known he was a mage, from the way he practically molested you with his mana the other day, but you’d just assumed he was with the First Enchanter. An apostate… That was really something else. Never in a hundred ages did you think you’d run into an apostate here.
You’re curious, despite yourself. You hope this isn’t the feeling you inspire in others, because just then, you would give an awful lot to know more. You consider the man, eyes narrow. “Is your Elven really any better?”
He rambles off several long sentences of Elven. A… a poem? Was that a poem, damnit? Elven sounds better when he says it, fluid, like a lullaby. Damn, your pronunciation is off. It’s got a rhythm to it you had never learned from books.
You tap your chin, considering. “What will it take for you to teach me more Elven?” you ask finally.
“I don’t believe you have anything that I want, da’len.”
“Excuse me?” you say darkly. “I have a name.”
“Did you ever tell me? I must have missed it.”
You flush with embarrassment. Come to think of it, the two of you had never been properly introduced. You only know his name because Iron Bull had used it. “Fair enough,” you grumble. “My name is Emma.”
His eyes meet yours sharply. “Emma. Who speaks Elven.”
“That’s me,” you say warily. “And you’re Solas, right?”
“I am.”
“I know other languages. Ancient Tevene, Qunlat, Antivan, Orlesian. I’m sure there’s something I could do that you want,” you insist.
“You could stop sitting on my desk.”
“You ask too much of me, ser.”
“Did being mildly bratty get you far in life up until now?” he asks pointedly.
“I take my pleasures where they come, ser,” you say dramatically. “In fact, I—“
“Emma? Is that you down there? Are… are you bantering with the mage? I was worried!”
You look up. Thea is leaning over the railing, and she does look concerned.
“You ran off, so suddenly!”
“Sorry, Thea. Would you buy that the soup wasn’t going down right?”
“No.”
“Worth a shot.”
You stand up of Solas’ desk. “You, good ser, I will win over,” you say, pointing at him. “I’m a charmer.”
“I’m feeling positively enthralled.”
You snort. “You say that now, but just you wait. I know your type. Somewhere, there’s a tome you can’t translate. And when you find it, I’ll be the one you come to.”
You take the stairs two at a time, mind already filling with a good explanation for Thea. She meets you at the top of the stairs, her foot tapping impatiently.
“I can explain!”
“I told everyone it was a lover’s quarrel.”
“You… you what?”
“Next time, don’t run off without explaining, and it won’t happen.”
“You’re a little evil, Thea.” You rub the back of your neck. “You’ve noticed I’m a little skittish around Iron Bull, right?” You make sure your voice is loud enough to be heard by the several pairs of interested ears pretending not to be listening.
“I figured it was sexual.”
“Not everything is sexual,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “Not even with Bull. I had something of a… rough encounter with a Qunari. Back in Seheron. Hearing that he was there, and that he was… Well, it brought back a lot of bad memories. I’m sorry I freaked out on you.”
She looks you up and down, then nods. “Alright. I’m not mad; I was just worried. You’re easy to worry about, Emma.”
“Sorry, Thea,” you say with a lopsided grin. “If I’m done causing drama for the day, I’m going to get back to my tome.”
“Oh, go on,” she says with a wave of her hand, and you consider yourself dismissed.
You work on the tome until the candles run low. Thea comes and informs you that she’s going to bed, and you wave her off, saying you’re just going to do a bit more and then head to bed. She looks skeptical, but she leaves. Essentially everyone is gone. Eventually, you trudge up the stairs with your book in hand, intent on placing it down somewhere safe again. To your surprise, upstairs is still bustling. You suppose spies never get to sleep. You shrug and set the book down, when you hear an accented voice behind you.
“Emma. A word, please.”
You look around, confused… who up here even knows you? And realize with growing dread that there’s probably only one Orlesian up here, and certainly only one looking straight at you. Leliana.
You approach stiffly. You’re less scared of her than you are of Bull, but only because she’s more of a known quantity. Orlesian. Spymaster. Probably a master of the Game and a very, very smart woman. Hardly safe, but at least she’s no Ben-Hassrath.
“Seheron, hmm?” she asks, holding up a piece of paper that you can only imagine contains a chunk of your life history. She got that damn fast. Did it come from the Iron Bull, or does she have other connections? Who was that lug honestly working for, anyway? She eyes the paper. “And then one day, you just vanish. Off of an island. No record of you on any shipping documents my men came across. If you stowed away, you did it well.” She eyes you over the paper. “Care to illuminate?”
“No, but I think I’ll have to,” you say, feigning a reluctant sigh. You’re genuinely impressed that she had gotten any old documents out of Seheron. The Iron Bull has to be using his connections with the Qun both ways; there’s no other explanation. Not unless Dorian is a lot more well-connected than he seems. “There are some things a captain doesn’t leave records of, s…ser?” You still have no idea what her title is, but she doesn’t correct you. “At least none that would seem interesting. If you look at the records of a rather shady Antivan trade ship—the Raven’s Flight was its name at the time, at least—that landed in Seheron near the time of my disappearance, you will find the name of the cabin boy changes. A young Orlesian lad named Nikolas Le Coz.”
The woman’s eyebrows raise up. “You disguised yourself as an Orlesian boy?”
“I was still young, and my Orlesian was good. I pretended to be an escaped slave… well, a different kind of escaped slave, anyway, and…” You delicately clear your throat. “Convinced the captain that I was worth the risk.”
“Why disguise yourself as a boy?”
“The Captain didn’t want to share. It was a very shady ship, and I was safer as a young boy than a young girl.”
Understanding and a bit of anger glint in the woman’s steely eyes. Damn, but she is quite scary. Well, you suppose she never would have gotten his post if she weren’t. “I see. And from there?”
“I wound up in Antiva. You can probably find evidence of me under the name Nikolas there, if you dig hard enough. In court records, maybe. Typical urchin things.”
“Do you change your name often, ‘Emma’?”
“Was I supposed to go by Nikolas forever? It had a built in expiration date. Besides, it’s not wise for an escaped slave to go around leaving a trail,” you say pointedly. “And I just… I just wanted the girl I was in Seheron to disappear.” You frown. “It’s been an unpleasant couple of days, reliving all of this, but I suppose it’s necessary. I came here to be safe, and it wouldn’t be safe if you let everyone in without checking.”
“How’s the manuscript coming?” she gestures towards the table you set it and your papers on.
You blink for a moment, confused by the sudden topic change. You suppose the interview is over. “Well enough, considering all the distractions. If you’re wanting an actual Common tongue tome, however, I’ll need the proper materials.”
“You’ll have them. Get me an estimate of how long it will take as soon as you know.” You say nothing, simply nod. She looks at you again, a curiosity in her eyes that you’re becoming accustomed to. People look at you here like you’re a particularly interesting jigsaw puzzle. “You’re more interesting than you let on, Emma. But if you are honest in your intents, you’ll have nothing to fear here.” You say nothing, again, and she waves you off.
You leave your exaggerated eye-roll and under-your-breath grumbling until you’re down the stairwell and into the library. “Nothing to fear, yeah, right. There’s never nothing to fear…”
You take the long way down, avoiding the rotunda, but instead of heading towards your room, you go out to the courtyard. There’s some liveliness going on at the tavern—you suspect there is almost every night—but you’re looking for something else.
You finally find it in an empty archery practice field. Silence. Glorious, blissful silence. You want to take the dagger you carry out from its hiding place, practice throwing it at the target. Without practice, you might get rusty, be unable to defend yourself when you need to. But all it would take is one guard noticing and mentioning it to the wrong person, one set of eyes looking out a window at the wrong time… You’re under enough scrutiny. You can’t risk it. You can’t risk anything, not now.
You lean onto a fence post and stare up at the frozen grey sky. No sign of any stars… too cloudy. What a miserable place… it’s the end of summer, but this place is bloody freezing.
It’s a sign of just how strained you are, or perhaps how out of practice you are, that a hand clamps around your mouth without you noticing its owner creeping up behind you. Instincts kick in and you swing around, the brunt of your arm smacking into some else’s as they block. You jump backwards to have a look at your assailant, and are quite surprised to see a grinning, blonde waif of an elf. A bow is on her back. She makes a rather striking figure, actually… kind of…
“Are you the girl off the poster?” you ask, bewildered, before you can think better of it.
She looks surprised. “What, did those things actually work? You saw those, decided to come here?”
You shrug. “Yeah, more or less. I was already considering it, but after seeing that kind of a thing plastered all over, well, I kind of had to see what you were selling.”
“Huh… Guess I owe his Inquistorialness a drink,” she muses, tapping a finger against her chin. “Never thought that’d actually work.”
“I can’t help but notice that you don’t seem to be attacking me.”
“Wasn’t gonna. Just wanted to give you a start, fine lass sittin’ out here all alone.”
You snort. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“Didn’t think you’d actually take a swing at me,” she says with a shrug.
“Next time, I hope you do that to a mage on accident,” you say with a smirk. “They’d do more than throw a punch.”
She shudders. “Ugh, now you’ve ruined it.”
“So, what do you do around here? Scare elven lasses professionally?”
“Not just the elven ones! I’m a menace to all women, equally.” The way she licks her lips is a little distracting.
You laugh, a bit despite yourself. It’s a bit nice to meet someone who isn’t immediately peppering you with invasive questions. Iron Bull would immediately demand to know where you learned to knock a bitch out, this lady just sort of took it in stride.
“It’s nice to meet someone… normal,” you admit. “Most of the people I’ve met so far have been… ah…” You hunt for the right word. “Either very suspicious or very friendly. I’m honestly not sure.”
“Bit of both, pro’ly. Though I think you’re the first person callin’ me normal since I got here.” She gestures for you to follow her, and for some damn reason, you actually do. You don’t think it’s just because she’s a woman, or even just because she’s an elf, although that one might be closer to the truth. It’s probably just because she’s a friendly face who hasn’t asked any invasive personal questions. Still, you have to admit, that’s not a great reason to wander off with someone.
“So, wotcher name?” Her question snaps you out of your thoughts a little suddenly.
“Emma,” you say with a blink. “Where are we going?”
“Back to my place, of course! S’cold out here.”
“Your place?” you ask, bewildered. “What exactly is ‘your pl’- Is that the tavern?”
“Well, yeah!”
“The tavern is your place?”
“My place is in the tavern.”
“You live in the… never mind.” You stall near the door. “Look, I really should…”
“Aw, c’mon, elfy, don’t get shy now.” She grabs your wrist and you remind yourself that you’re a shy elven linguist who doesn’t like confrontation, not the kind of person that snaps someone’s fingers backwards for daring to touch them.
“Well, but, I was just there yesterday and I kind of made a scene…” you say, digging your heels into the ground as she attempts to pull you forward.
“Wait a minute,” she says, her grip on your wrist loosening. “Are you the one that beaned the Templar?”
“Uh… …maybe?”
“That was hilarious! Alright you’re definitely comin’ in now!” Her grip tightens and she yanks, throwing you off balance. You stumble, but manage to regain your footing, twisting your feet into the dirt.
“Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I really can’t.” She lets your wrist go, pouting, and you almost feel a little bad. Not bad enough, though. “Do you have anywhere else you go? Some place not filled with loud drunks?” And Qunari. Some place one hundred percent Qunari-free would also be nice.
“Ugh, picky!” she says, sticking her tongue out. “What, you wanna go to the library or some place boring?”
“I work in the library,” you say dryly.
“Wot? Someone with a swing like that? What’re you doing in a library?”
“We’re an impressively athletic bunch. And I’m there because I’m a linguist.”
“Really? You good with your tongue, eh?”
“Oh my! In all of my long years, I have never heard that joke! You’re the first person to ever say it! I am in shock! Abash! Awe!”
“Alright, alright, smart-ass,” she says with a scowl. Then her face breaks out with a mischievous grin. “Wanna climb the roof?”
You pause. “You know, that sounds like a horrible idea, and yet I find that I really, really do.”
“There ya go!” she says cheerfully as she jumps onto a barrel by the side of the building and reaches for a windowsill.
You eye the building for a moment as Sera begins scrabbling up. You’re fairly sure climbing is a skill no one’s going to call you out for having. You’re an elf for the Maker’s sake, weren’t you supposed to be naturally graceful or something? So you kick off your shoes, grip onto the corner of the rough stone building and simply scramble your way up, fingers and toes digging into grooves and holes.
You and Sera reach the top at about the same time. It’s cold up there, with little to block the wind, but music is drifting cheerfully up from the tavern and you have to admit, the view is nice.
“There!” she says, sitting down with a satisfied thud. “This quiet enough for you, librarian lady?”
“Actually, it’s nice,” you say thoughtfully, sitting down. “Better than sulking in the archery range, anyway.”
“Whatchoo got to sulk about? Books givin’ you trouble?”
You snort. “The books are as easy as they’ve always been. I’m just… having trouble fitting in, I guess.”
“Well, coming here just ‘cause an elf on a poster told you to was pretty stupid.” You glare at her. “Wot? It was! Did you really think this’d be some kinda elfy haven?”
“It’s exactly what I thought it’d be. A very large stronghold with very thick walls. With a lot of humans trying very awkwardly to be polite, I might add.”
“That’s ‘cause of the grand ol’ Inquisitor. He told ‘em all to play nice. S’mostly talk.”
“I appreciate the effort, I suppose. It’s weird, but I appreciate it.”
“So, why ya havin’ trouble fittin’ in?”
“Mmm. I should expect it from something called the Inquisition, but people here are nosy. And I think that spymaster’s eyeing me for something. It makes me nervous; I don’t really know what to expect from people like that.”
“Ooooh, Mistress Spymaster’s got her eye on you?”
“Saying it like that makes it even more terrifying, thank you.”
“Don’t worry too much about that one. She’s scary, yeah, but she’s a good eye for talent. If she pegs you for somethin’, it’ll be somethin’ you can do. If it’s somethin’ you can’t, she won’t peg you!”
That barely makes any sense, but it’s oddly comforting. Of course, you’re capable of quite a bit more than what you suspect Leliana has in mind for you.
“So, what do you do for the Inquisition?” you ask, as much to distract from yourself and your own thoughts as anything.
“I shoot things.”
“Well, you do have a bow. Is that why you were at the archery field?”
“Yeah, but I found somethin’ more interesting.”
“I’m flattered,” you say with a smirk. “If you shoot things for the Inquisition, you must be pretty good at it.”
She shrugs. “Maybe I just make it look good in shite company.”
You grin wickedly at her. “Show me.”