The Inquisitor

The afternoon is spent in peace, long hours slipping away as you work on your transcript. It’s relaxing, and quiet, interrupted by nothing but the occasional echoing crow. You manage to clear your mind of wandering thoughts about Iron Bull, Sera, Solas, or the fact that you actually sent what amounts to a fan letter to Fenris, through Varric. You’re so in the zone that when the door to the rotunda slams loudly open, you swear, and again barely manage to keep from making a mess. You glare upwards, but the man who slammed the door open isn’t even looking at you. His eyes are firmly locked on Solas.

He’s such an average looking man that you don’t recognize him, at first. It’s only your tendency to never, ever, forget a face that allows you to realize: he’s the fellow you talked to, upstairs, your first night here. A spy for Leliana, you had assumed. From the way he’s speaking to Solas, however, you suspect you assumed wrong.

“Solas. There’s a situation in the Fallow Mire; one of my patrols has been taken by Avaar. I need to ride out and deal with the situation immediately. I may need magical support, and I’ve no desire to drag Vivienne or Dorian through a swamp.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

In… In… Inquisitor?!

“Excellent. We ride as soon as we have light to see. Make preparations tonight.”

Your mind is reeling from the information, but you can’t allow yourself to be distracted by that just now. The way Solas and the …Inquisitor, apparently, are looking at each other is rather telling. It’s a sort of barely-suppressed hatred covered over poorly with a thin coat of manners. At least, on Solas’ end… From the Inquisitor, it’s more like a shining beacon of “you-are-beneath-me.” It’s rather unpleasant to look at directly.

After a few moments of somewhat irritating back-and-forth between the two, the Inquisitor’s gaze happens upon you. You were pretending to work while you observed the two posture like angry cats, but despite not looking directly at him, you recognize the expression. He does not recognize you. It’s the look you received from Vivienne, the one a person gives to a piece of furniture. His eyes just glaze right over you. But then his gaze comes back, fixes on you. Perhaps he’s recognized you; you spoke only a week prior, and you are, technically, his linguist.

“Solas, have you finally found a companion?” The Inquisitor says, sounding far too amused. “I’m amazed you found an elf good enough for you. And I see she’s made herself comfortable… on your couch.”

You stiffen, but say nothing, force your eyes to remain on your tome. Does he not see the ink? The quills? Yes, you are laying on a couch, shoes off, but you are also very clearly writing something, not simply reading a book for enjoyment.

“Do you not recognize her, Inquisitor? She is your new linguist. You hired her on not a week ago,” Solas says, his voice filled with ice and venom. At this, you’ve no choice but to look up and introduce yourself. You stand, making something of a show of placing aside your quill and capping your ink, and give a bow to the Inquisitor.

“Emma, your holiness. We met once prior.”

He has the good grace, at least, to look slightly embarrassed. “Ah, yes. I remember. I’m… pleased you’ve found a workplace that suits you better than the one provided.”

It’s all well and good for Solas to go pissing off the Inquisitor, but your tongue is going to get you in serious trouble at this rate.

“In any case, Solas, be on a horse and ready to go when the sun rises. I can’t leave this to my soldiers.” The Inquisitor turns and leaves the rotunda, and you close the door behind him with much more kindness than he had showed it upon entering.

You turn to Solas, eyes wide, and gesture wordlessly at the door behind you. Solas still looks angry, and he’s concealing it even more poorly now that the man has left. His knuckles are white from his clenched fists, his jaw is tight. The sight, combined with your new mental images of him shirtless, is doing uncomfortable things to you. Perhaps you should merely let the topic rest, and get back to work. It’s nearing dinner time; perhaps you can snatch something particularly sweet from the kitchen to help calm him.

But Solas sees your expression, and deigns to explain, albeit poorly. “The Inquisitor and I do not see things the same way,” he says, tight jaw making his voice hard.

You clear your throat, your growing embarrassment the only thing that keeps you from laughing at the obvious colossal understatement. “And you are to accompany him on a journey of some kind?”

“Yes. It seems I ride for Fallow Mire in the morning. I will likely be gone for some time.”

A rock sinks to the pit of your stomach at the realization. “…Oh. How long, do you think…?”

“Weeks, likely. Perhaps longer, based on how the situation unfolds.”

Your own fists clench. You had just gotten comfortable, and now you’ll have to move again, up to the library with its constant distractions, or hunt for somewhere new. No Solas means no invisible shield to keep Thea and others away. It also means no fine meals, no excuses to go down to the kitchen to gather gossip. No enchantments on your wrist to steady sore and shaking hands. Your work will suffer for it. And so, you find, will you.

“…I see,” is all you manage to say. Fortunately, his own anger distracts from your distress. “I… I should go get dinner—“

“Miss Emma?”

You start, not expecting another voice, and certainly not expecting anyone to call you by name. You turn to see a man you don’t recognize.

“Message to you, from Mistress Lelianna. She says to get it back to her as soon as you can.”

A letter is pushed into your hands, and the man is gone. You frown down at it, then open it. It’s a missive, in Qunlat. You glance over it quickly, heart beginning to pound. Nothing jumps out at you right away, although it does seem to be a field report of some kind.

“Why me?” you murmur quietly to yourself, squinting at the message. You glance up to find Solas watching you carefully. You fold the message back up and tuck it away into your tunic. “I’ll get your dinner before seeing to this, ser.”

“Retrieving my meals is hardly as important as your duties,” Solas says pointedly. “You should see to that first.”

“Quite the contrary, hahren,” you say sourly. You shouldn’t try to provoke him when he’s already irritated, but—and people may have begun to notice this—you don’t really care for people telling you how to do your job. “Neither of us can be expected to be productive on empty stomachs.” Sweets to charm your newly soured stomach would be welcomed, something to wash down the bad taste the Inquisitor has left in your mouth.

You head out through the Great Hall, down towards the kitchens. This isn’t the first time you’ve worked for an unpleasant man, and it won’t be the last. The Inquisitor is likely far from the worst, but you find yourself irritated nonetheless. You expect humans to be rude to you; it’s become like background noise. But seeing him disrespect Solas put a dangerous and unpleasant fury in you. You rarely look at a person and admit to yourself that they are more intelligent than you, but you feel comfortable admitting that about Solas. At the very least, he is older, more educated. Deserving of respect. The image of the sneer on the Inquisitor’s face as he attempted to get under the apostate’s skin, use you as a means of goading him…

You feel a tingle in your hand; the handrail you’re grasping heats up slightly. You pull your hand back, quickly, swearing under your breath, taking deep breaths until you regain control, pushing all the chaotic energy and turbulent emotions back inside of you. You can hardly afford to lose your temper now, let alone at the Inquisitor. Whether you like him or not, he’s the best hope for overcoming the chaos that envelops Thedas. Everyone says so, and while you haven’t seen a rift first hand—despite what you said to Solas—you’ve read reports. Not to mention, the Inquisitor is reportedly a powerful warrior in his own right, and rumor has him training to become a Templar, as well. You need to watch yourself around him, since there is no longer hope of remaining beneath his notice. There is apparently no longer hope of remaining beneath anyone’s notice here. Your original plan for your life here was dead not a week into your tenure.

In the kitchens, you help with the preparation of the plates for your and Solas’s dinners, milking the women there for information about his preferred foods. None of them have ever spoken to him, and yet they have bits of knowledge they don’t understand the value of. He often requests soup. Any time he is given Antivan cabbage, the tiny cabbages remain, untouched, while the rest of the food is eaten. And you know he has a fondness for sweet things. You make a few assumptions on his sense of taste from there, and make two separate meals, one for him, one for you. If the ladies suspect you, they say nothing, although there are a few winks when you ask quietly where the sweets are hidden.

You’re in luck. A visiting noble is known for having a sweet tooth, and the Inquisition’s chief diplomat had requested more cakes than could possibly be eaten by one woman. You certainly hope so, for you snatch no small amount of them when Gaston, the head chef, isn’t looking. Your suspicions about rumors are confirmed when Celia gives you a pat on the shoulder as you leave, and wishes you “good luck.” Maker. They really do think you’re seducing the man.

As if you could manage that with pilfered sweets.

The tray is distractingly heavy, which is good, as you need the distraction from your still-present irritation at the Inquisitor and your worry about Solas’s sudden trip. You’re not so distracted that you fail to notice the Inquisitor is in the Great Hall as you go through it, speaking with some Orlesian nobles, nor do you fail to notice him notice you, excuse himself, and head towards you. Uh-oh.

“Inquisitor.” You manage a curtsy despite the fact your arms shudder at the weight of the tray as you do. Thank goodness you had the foresight to put a cover over the stolen cakes. The Inquisitor directs you off to the side, behind a pillar, and, you note, out of sight of the nobles.

“What is this?” he says with a frown, gesturing towards the heavy tray. “Does Solas have you running errands for him? We have servants for this.”

Years of experience with this sort of thing keep your face perfectly placid. The Inquisitor is no grand player of the Game. “Not at all, your holiness. Ser Solas allows me to share his work space.” The way the Inquisitor stiffens at the title pleases you, and you continue. “He even allows me to take my meals there, so that I may focus on translating the draconic tome more swiftly. It was my idea that I fetch it myself, to avoid taxing the kitchen staff unnecessarily with my presence.”

“I… see.”

“I am, after all, making myself comfortable on his couch,” you add, unnecessarily. “It seems the least I can do. If I may, your holiness? This tray is rather heavier than it looks.” You smile pleasantly, and he shrugs you away, turning his attention back towards the nobles, likely glad they had missed the exchange. You turn yourself, and see Varric staring at you, wide-eyed. You shake your head gently and mouth “I’ll explain later” towards him, and then head through the rotunda doors.

“That’s quite the tray,” Solas comments, although he doesn’t rise to help you, Maker forbid. He seems to have taken your absence as a chance to calm himself down. You’re certain the tingles of magic still floating through the air, brushing against you, have something to do with it. If only you had the freedom to express your anger so vividly.

“I needed something to cleanse my palate of the bad taste,” you say with forced joviality. You carefully balance the tray with one trembling arm, sore after too long spend carrying too much weight. You need to start doing push-ups or something. You manage to unload Solas’s meal in front of him, and the surprised and mildly pleased expression on his face does wonders for your mood. Clearly, your guesses at his tastes were close to the mark. You set down your meal on the corner of the desk, taking up as little space as possible, and then lay out the tray of sweets.

“More pilfered goods for your friend?” he asks, already beginning to eat as you pull up your stool.

“Pilfered goods for a friend, at least,” you manage to say, although your voice catches. Are you being too forward? Yes. You are. You clear your throat awkwardly. “I, um… They made a lot of them, for some visiting noble, and I thought you might… That is…Well, I mean, since you’re leaving tomorrow, you should have a good meal, right?” You take the lid off the poncy Orlesian cakes, wondering how horrifyingly awkward this will be if it turns out he hates chocolate.

Solas stares at the cakes for a moment, and doesn’t say anything. Your nerves skyrocket, and you shift uncomfortably on the stool. Then he smiles. “And you just happened to think I would enjoy these?”

“Well… I may have noticed you have a slight sweet tooth,” you mutter.

He laughs. It’s short, but it seems to fill the room, echoing around the circular walls and bouncing around you.

Maker, what a sound.

You’re so distracted by him that you almost forget the missive you’re supposed to be translating. You pull it out of your shirt, opening it back up again and reading over it. It’s a simple translation, really. And a simple document… You can’t quite determine why Iron Bull couldn’t see this. Perhaps it’s just a test run, to see if you’re trustworthy, or if your Qunlat is good enough. You nab some of Solas’ parchment, ink, and a quill, too lazy to stand and retrieve your own. You pop some meat into your mouth and eat as you get to work, scribbling down a translation quickly but neatly.

You’re almost finished with it when something hits you… If this Ben-Hassrath report had come from Iron Bull, would it not be translated already? Surely he isn’t just handing them literal pieces of paper, still in Qunlat. Did this come from elsewhere? It’s just a report on movements of a Tevinter cult, but… You chew lightly on the edge of the quill.

“Something interesting?” Solas inquires lightly. Clearly, your deliberating has distracted him from his normal dinner reading.

“Hmm… Perhaps,” you say, returning to scribbling down the translation. “Perhaps not. Something to think about, at least.”

You’re glad that Solas doesn’t question you further, because ‘I think our spies might be spying on our spy’ is not, when phrased that way, particularly titillating. Still, there may indeed be something there. It’s worth considering.

You finish the translation before you finish dinner. You cram the last of the food into your mouth–ignoring Solas’ judging look–before standing, intending fully to enjoy some of those ridiculously frilly cakes when you return. You chew quickly as you jog up the stairs, clutching both the original missive and the translation. You head up to the top floor… The man had said to give it to Leliana as soon as you had finished. Surely this was not so important as to need to be placed directly into her hands? Nonetheless, you spot her, talking to a few other people, and approach cautiously.

“And do it quickly, we can’t afford- Ah, Emma. I appreciate your swiftness on this matter.” Leliana holds her hand out, and you place both sheets of paper, folded, into her hand.

“It’s no issue, serah,” you say, allowing your confusion to show through a little. “I’m glad I could be of assistance.”

And that’s all there is to it. She waves you off, and you head back down in the rotunda, still uncertain as to what it was all about. But interesting possibilities are there. You suspect that Leliana may be getting her hands on Ben-Hassrath reports that aren’t coming directly from Iron Bull. It does seem as though she may have set him on you in such a brazen manner to alienate the two of you. Bards are tricky, and she certainly hadn’t gotten to be Spymaster of the Inquisition by playing a poor Game. It’s the sort of thing an Orlesian would do.

You’d love to disappoint her, but she’d played her cards well; you really don’t want to be around the Iron Bull any more than you absolutely have to be… Shame he can’t leave well enough alone. Must be annoying to her, too, if she’d done it on purpose.

Did he also suspect she’d done it on purpose?

Ugh, the Game. How you loathe its endless twists and turns. You left Orlais for a reason.

You come back to the rotunda to a beautiful sight: Solas is eating one of the little cakes… with a fork. They’re so tiny, one could simply eat each one whole, but there he is, working his way through one, cheerfully. With a fork. Oh, this is just delightful.

You know you’re doing a poor job of hiding your mirth as you head back to his desk, but you at least manage not to laugh out loud. If the serving girls could see this, surely they would understand they have nothing to fear from Solas. You, personally, at least, cannot be afraid of a man who eats tiny Orlesian cakes with a fork.

You sit back down on your stool, pull a tiny cake over, and grab a fork, utterly failing to keep a straight face. Solas notices your quivering lips and looks at you, questioningly.

“I’m… g-glad you’re enjoying your cake, ser,” you manage, eyes beginning to water slightly from the effort of not laughing. It’s just so absurd. The cake is so tiny and… You stick your fork in your own cake dramatically, and bring the whole thing up, stuffing it into your mouth. His slightly disgruntled look as you chew and swallow nearly pushes you over the edge, but you manage to choke the cake down.

“Din’samahlen,” Solas says, with the tone of someone scolding. You work through the word quickly, then pout.

“…Did you just call me a brat? In Elven?”

“One should not protest being called childish while pouting,” Solas says mildly, which only makes you pout more, of course.

“Alright, just see if you get your breakf… oh.” You cut yourself off, expression falling. Right. Tomorrow, he’ll be gone, and quite possibly several others with him. An icy hand grips your heart as you imagine Sera, Varric, and Solas out in some godforsaken swamp, fighting barbarians and Maker knows what else.

Solas is not speaking, but he is watching you. His eyes on you cause your heart to tense, its beating becoming painful in your chest. You force a smile. “I don’t know what I’ll do without your wrist enchantment, Solas. My work will suffer.” If he notices the shallowness of your defense, he doesn’t comment upon it. You clear your throat. “Speaking of work, I should get back to it.” You stand, and begin gathering the used and empty dishes back onto the tray, leaving only the cakes and Solas’ fork, so that he can work his way through them at his leisure.

You make a point, upon leaving, to stop by Varric’s desk.

“There you are!” he whispers, pulling you close. “What was that? You know that was the Inquisitor, don’t you?”

“He was being an ass,” you whisper back, furiously. “You could have warned me the Inquisitor and Solas hate each other!”

“The Inquisitor was being an ass, so you decide to get catty with him? Are you insane?”

“Clearly!” you snap. “Now listen to me! I heard about the Inquisitor’s little outing to Fallow Mire. Who’s going with him? You said his ‘friends’ often go with him. All of you?”

“No, not all of us, not normally. Chuckles is going, I’m going, and I think the kid and the Seeker…”

“I have no idea who those people are, Varric,” you say through gritted teeth. “Is Sera going? What about Iron Bull? Dorian?”

“No, pretty sure they’re staying behind, this time. Iron Bull’s expecting… something, he wouldn’t say what, and even the Inquisitor knows better than to drag Dorian or Vivienne through a swamp.”

You let out a little sigh of relief. Sera, at least, will be staying… Although you could use the break from Iron Bull, frankly.

“What’s got you so worked up, Stutter?” Varric asks, curiously. “I can understand you being upset your boyfriend is leaving, but-“

“Don’t you start too!” you snap, and Varric even looks slightly taken aback. You sigh. “I’m sorry, Varric, it’s just… It’s easy to forget the people I’m meeting here are soldiers. Fighters. You… you go out, you kill people, you might get killed.”

Varric seems to understand the panic burning behind your eyes, then. He gives you an awkward pat on the arm. “Hey, Stutter, don’t worry. I’ll make sure Chuckles gets back in one piece!”

“I’m not… I just…” You sigh. “I need to return these dishes. And don’t worry, Varric; I’ll try to avoid the Inquisitor. I’ve no desire to be strung up or thrown out.”

Your mind is dark on the trip to the kitchen and back. The women there misread your mood; Celia gives you a comforting pat and says something insipid about men being fickle. You know she’s just trying to help, though, so you force a smile. Back in the rotunda, you have trouble concentrating on your transcript, mind racing like a prized horse through thoughts of Solas’ and Varric’s imminent departure. Where will you work? Will their absence give you an opportunity to slip out of Skyhold? If Iron Bull was only going as well, you could truly take advantage, but he’ll no doubt be keeping an even closer eye on you.

For the first time since you began working in the rotunda, you consider leaving before Solas, putting the page you’re working on down with a frustrated sigh. But you need to squeeze out a little bit more work while you still have peace and quiet. You glare at frustration at the complicated depiction of a high dragon’s bottom jaw. There are half a dozen of these, comparing multiple skulls and their differences. It’s fantastic, beautiful, informative, and a huge pain in your ass. You should pester Leliana for a magnifying glass stand. How she expects you to get all of these details down while lounging on a couch… Although, you suppose, technically the couch part is your doing.

You glance over at Solas, and notice with a sinking heart that he’s packing things into a satchel… preparing to leave early the next morning. Perhaps you can go towards the exit, with the pretense of seeing them off, and slip out behind them? No, Iron Bull will certainly be there as well. You set the book down again, giving up on getting any more work done.

“Going to bed?” Solas asks as you stand. “I was beginning to wonder if you slept at all.”

“I just lay in bed for four hours and stare at the ceiling,” you say dryly. “No sleep required. I… I am normally up before dawn. Perhaps I will… will see you leave.” You clear your throat. “If not… Well… Be safe.”

Embarrassed, you leave quickly, heading out the Great Hall and across the courtyard. You pause there, for a moment, attempting to calm yourself. You’re not looking forward to tomorrow. Back to meals in the mess, back to constant interruptions from curious humans, back to sore wrists and tight muscles. You had enjoyed the last few days more than you realized.

“He will come back,” comes a reassuring voice from behind you. You startle, but relax when you recognize it.

“Cole!” you say, surprised, as you turn. “After you disappeared, I wasn’t sure…”

“Terror gripping tight, fear, flashes of fighting. Battlefields are dangerous. You know. But we’ll be okay.”

“…We?” Horror grips you. “Cole… Cole, are you going too? Are they taking you?”

“I’m good at not being seen.”

Shit. They drag a spirit into the middle of a battle? A spirit of compassion? Of course they do; what care do they have for him? …SHIT! He’ll be out there, with Solas, for weeks! Gently, you place a hand on each of his shoulders, gripping firmly, but not enough to hurt.

“Cole. This is important. I need you to promise not to talk about me to Solas. Don’t tell him anything. Do you understand me?”

“It wasn’t your fault. Solas would understand, if you—“

“Cole, please,” you beg, voice breaking slightly. “Maybe… Maybe he would. But I can’t… I’d have to be sure. It would have to be on my own time. Please. Promise me. Swear it.”

“A-alright…”

Your shoulders sag in relief. “Thank you, Cole. I’m sorry, I truly am. But I have to be safe.”

“Solas is similar, somehow. He sounds the same. Tell him. Trust him,” Cole urges, but you shake your head.

“I can’t.”

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