Assistance
Your good mood carries you for a few hours, but you’re still moving pretty fast on a mount a bit larger than you’re accustomed to. By mid-afternoon, you’re sore and miserable all over again. Only this time you’re feeling less shy and more comfortable voicing your complaints, loudly, since neither the Inquisitor nor Seeker Pentaghast are within earshot.
“I’m not built for this,” you grumble. “I’m built for remarkably few things, actually, but this is definitely not one of them.”
“I don’t disagree,” Blackwall comments. “But that also doesn’t mean I want to hear about it for the next fifty leagues.”
“Tell that to the Inquisitor,” you complain sourly. “He’s the one who decided he needed a portable linguist without checking to make sure he got the non-bitchy model.”
“Stalwart and solitary. Even lions form packs,” Cole chirps in, utterly unnecessarily. You make a face at him.
“He’s not wrong. I think. Can you understand what he means when he talks?” Blackwall asks.
Yes, because I’m not a simpleton, you think, but do not say. Instead, you nod, before realizing that no one can really see you nodding since you’re all on moving mounts. “Yes. Mostly. But that doesn’t mean I have to concede he’s right.”
“Normally, I’d agree, but this time, I’m on his side. Which is uncomfortable,” Blackwall says. “You’re still thinking like you’re some servant we’re dragging along, but no one here thinks that. Not even Dorian. Probably.”
You roll your eyes, but say nothing. You don’t want to rise to his Dorian-bait. It’s too hard to stay on his good side as it is.
“We might not all understand why the Inquisitor is bringing you, exactly…”
“Do any of us understand that?” Solas asks mildly.
“But you’re here now, and you’re a member of the Inquisition like any of us. You can talk to us, as friends, and ask for help when you need it.”
You stew on your words a bit, not sure what to say. It’s easier to just avoid them, in some ways, but it hasn’t even been a week and you’re already kind of failing at it. You don’t particularly want to talk to them as friends. You don’t want to be their friend, because that implies a level of attachment you try to avoid. But you suppose you could talk to them like friends, like you do to Thea and Bull and other people you don’t necessarily like or trust enough to actually be “friends” with. You’ve done that much before, plenty.
But the Seeker…
Will they notice if you avoid her and the Inquisitor, but not the others? What sort of excuse could you make if they do? Nobility? But Dorian… Well, you’ve always been a bit closer to Dorian, just due to both of your tendency to hover around the library. That could be an excuse for why you avoid the rest of the nobility and not him.
Ugh. The fact of the matter is, you’re probably not going to be able to get all the way to the Western Approach without some degree of socialization. Even with the Seeker and the Inquisitor, but hopefully that can be minimized. And in any case, if a Grey Warden is offering you anything resembling… even a pretense at friendship… you would be an idiot and an asshole to refuse.
“I… guess you’re right,” you say, forcing your voice into something resembling embarrassment or bashfulness. “If no one’s going to get upset about it, I guess I could just ask for assistance rather than complain about it afterwards. Maker knows we’re all going to be sore enough without me wearing down your ears, as well.”
Blackwall chuckles, and you smile just in case anyone happens to be looking at you.
“Most of us won’t be nearly so sore as you from this much riding,” Solas points out.
“That’s true,” Blackwall agrees. “We have experience that you lack. You should be careful; a back injury—or an ass injury—can make for a long and painful problem on a ride like this.”
“An ass injury?” you ask mildly.
“It can happen!” Blackwall protests.
“I appreciate everyone’s concern about the safety and condition of my ass,” you say. “But I’m sure I’ll manage.”
“Will you?” Solas inquires. “You’ve been complaining about your secondary mount since you started riding him.”
“He’s gentle! He’s just fat.” Vhas snorts and prances in a way that jostles you painfully in the saddle. “I’m not going to lie just to serve your pride,” you tell him irritably. “You’re half again as broad as Revas.”
“Not quite so drastic,” Solas says with a chuckle. “But a little tends to feel like a lot when you’re having to stretch around it.”
You bite down on your tongue, hard enough to hurt, but the confused look Cole shoots you is enough to let you know that he, at least, heard what you just thought.
“If you ever fear you might have been injured, do let me look you over,” Solas continues, oblivious to your perverted chain of thought. “Don’t just ignore it the way you always do.”
“If I always ignore it, how will I know to recognize the thing I shouldn’t ignore?”
Solas turns around to glare at you. You respond by sticking your tongue out. Just because he’s right doesn’t mean you have to be mature about it.
You manage to survive the afternoon ride, although you’re predictably exhausted by the time the group comes to a stop for the evening. You roll off of Vhas and onto the ground, only getting up when enough other people dismount that it’s possible a horse might tread on you for fun. You do have to actually take care of these mounts, too, no matter what Blackwall says about you ‘not being a servant.’
You manage to get most of them unsaddled, at least, before you start yawning, but you do wind up sort of… resting… by leaning your whole body up against Daine, arms and half your chest thrown over her back. She’s remarkably solid and unmoving. She’s huge, though, so you’re sure riding her would be even more painful than riding Vhas. But if you climbed up on top of her, you suspect you could just about use her as a bed. The idea is very tempting; there’s still a definite nip in the air and you wouldn’t mind such a warm mattress.
You’re still slumping over the blessedly sedate horse when the sound of footsteps on grass makes you look up. You’re surprised to see Blackwall and Sera both approaching, and force yourself to stand upright instead of passing out against Daine.
“Can I help you?” you ask, wondering why both of them are approaching you together while you’re working… or ostensibly working, anyway, you were more just being lazy…
“You already are,” Sera points out. “So throw a brush this way and let us help, huh?”
You blink in surprise, but toss Sera the horse brush you’d been using, almost without thinking about it. “You don’t have to help…”
Blackwall shrugs, picking up a hoof pick. “Normally this sort of thing would be rotated duty or just sort of done by whoever liked it best.”
“Yeah,” Sera agrees. “S’more unusual it’s just yer job this time, really.”
“Huh…” you glance briefly over towards the Inquisitor, who’s currently helping Seeker Pentaghast set up tents.
“He probably just did it so you wouldn’t feel like dead weight,” Blackwall suggests, a bit generously in your opinion. “So if you’re having trouble keeping up with it, don’t hesitate to ask for help.”
You really doubt that was the Inquisitor’s motivation, but you don’t really have many educated guesses as to what was. And you wouldn’t say anything even if you did. The Inquisitor has been mostly cordial to you on this trip, minus his clumsy investigation into your rumored love life. You’d like to keep it that way.
You finish quickly with the help of Blackwall and Sera, and you skip dinner to collapse straight into your tent, declaring yourself exhausted. That’s not really a lie, but you’re mostly doing it to beat Solas to bed. It feels nightmareishly dangerous to be sleeping with most of the camp awake, but Cole is there. And if you don’t get some kind of rest on this trip, you’ll just wind up coming apart at a very inopportune time.
The whole situation is wretched, but you don’t even want to think about how bad it would be without Cole helping you get some much-needed sleep. You tuck your aura close to your skin, wishing you could just keep it inside, and let Cole whisk you away to the Fade, praying that he’s as capable of protecting you as he seems to think he is.
“Et enfin… Mesdames et Messieurs, merci d’être venu!”
A smoke bomb would be unnecessarily extra. A blast of steam caused by summoning ice and then superheating it all at once is so unnecessarily over-the-top that it could probably only have been done by your stupid friend.
When the steam clears, the two of you are on a rooftop together, far enough away to be safe, close enough to feel bold. You’re still in your work clothes, matching blacks, loose and flowing around your cores and bound tight at your forearms and shins. Matching masks perch on top of your heads, twelve red eyes watching as your laughs echo up into the sky.
“Did you see their faces?”
“How many dresses do you think you ruined with all that steam? It was like a sauna in there when I slipped out.”
“All of them, I hope. If your fashion can’t survive a steam bath, it’s not good fashion. How much did you get out of the vault?”
“Everything, lethallin,” you say with obvious relish. “Do you think they’ve noticed the fire in the record room by now?”
“Oh, definitely. If they hadn’t, we would probably be able to see the smoke even from here!”
The two of you burst into laughter again, mutual glee and the burning rush of adrenaline coming to a head. Overcome with your own joy, you tackle him and both of you go rolling across the roof, clattering across shingles until you spiral off the roof and have to separate to catch yourselves and slow your fall. When your hand catches a statue, the jolt snaps you into another memory.
“If you’re not going to take care of it, don’t grow it out,” you’re saying, rolling your eyes as your friend winces as you pull a brush through his thick black hair.
“It’s boring short. And I can use it for more disguises if it’s long, like yours.”
“Yeah, but mine is thin. And I actually bother to brush it every day.”
“If you’re brushing it every day, why do you make me do it too?” he asks with a roll of his eyes.
“Because I like telling you what to do,” you lie as you yank a knot in his hair a bit more roughly than you need to.
“OW.”
“Shhhh!”
You’re in the theatre , trying to teach a boy who treats chaos like his favorite lover how to sit still and pretend to be a shem long enough to enjoy a musical. He keeps distracting you, whispering sarcastic commentary into your hidden ear, making you choke on laughter in the middle of a tragedy. Perhaps musical theatre isn’t quite his thing… But you can’t really bring yourself to regret bringing him.
The loud, gurgling grumble of a stomach snaps you out of your studying fugue. You look up from your book in confusion, glance over to the young man sitting in the corner, nose buried in The Unholy Grace. He pulls the book higher up to cover the reddening of his cheeks.
“…What time is it?” you wonder, standing up on your bed to peek out the tiny window at the very top of the wall. It’s dark out, but you can still see feet passing by. “Shit.” You’d forgotten to eat. All day. A normal sort of thing for you, when you get distracted, but now you feel guilty about it. “Hey!” you snap at your new would-be roommate, who’s trying to pretend like his stomach didn’t just screech like a terror demon. “You have to tell me when you get hungry!”
“It’s nothing…” he mutters into the spine of the book, and you scoff.
“It’s not nothing. Three square meals a day, isn’t that what they say?”
“Who alive really gets to eat three meals every day?” he replies, rolling his eyes.
“Us! We’ll live like kings!” you declare as you scramble barefooted onto the table to reach the cupboards.
“…What’s that?” he asks curiously as you pull a rough sack out of the cupboard and hop off the table.
“Rice. I got a huge bag from a trader out of Rivain. You have no idea how much I’ve missed this.”
“Rice…?”
“You’ve never had it?” you ask, glancing over at him. “I thought you were Rivaini. You’ve got the look.”
“My mom was Orlesian. But she didn’t look a thing like me…”
“Maybe your dad was Rivaini, then. Well, either way, this rice is basically your birthright. C’mere, I’ll show you how to make it. It’s super easy; you just need a pot and water. Make it any time you get hungry. If you’re feeling generous, you can shove some in my mouth too, cause my dumb ass always forgets to eat.” You pull your large pot over to the wood stove. It had been collecting rainwater out of a leak all day. “Just because I’m too stupid to live doesn’t mean you shouldn’t eat.”
You come home to the smell of cooked rice later that week, and for the first time, you feel like maybe you made a good decision.
You wake up confused, shoving vaguely at the person shaking you. “Laissez-moi dormir, you shit, make your own breakfast…” you mutter, before waking the rest of the way up and realizing it’s just Cole. You shake your head to clear it. You’re not used to sleeping and dreaming anymore. It’s more disorienting than it should be. But your aura is already tucked inside… good to know that’s an instinct you do instantly upon waking.
It’s been a while since you dreamt of Banal’ras. Maybe because you’re back on the Imperial Highway? You stare up at the roof of your tent, your escape plans dancing idly through your background. How easy would it be to slip back to Val Royeaux? Some hair dye and a name change and you’d be in the wind.
You’re not really considering it. The loss is more than the gain… for right now. It’d be a pain in your ass if you had to trash Alix Gagnon after all these years. You’re just feeling sentimental because of your dreams.
You can practically hear him in your ear, informing you matter-of-factly that you have absolutely no right to miss someone you left behind.
He wouldn’t be wrong, but somehow that’s never really stopped you.
The actual sleep has you feeling groggy, the way a short nap sometimes actually makes things feel worse, but you roll over to try and get some work done on the tome overnight. You have to light a candle and it’s kind of slow going, but you’re arguably supposed to be finishing this thing. The problem is, you refuse to sacrifice quality just because the Inquisitor is a dick, so you wind up spending way more time lettering a single page than you would in ideal conditions. Or even not absolute shit conditions. There’s no way you’re going to finish this on the road… It probably would have been done faster if he’d let you finish it in Skyhold and then send it after him.
“Solas is awake,” Cole informs you, sometime before dawn. You fix him with a bleary look. How long has he even been there? You haven’t been paying attention.
“You can’t possibly expect me to sleep now,” you say, scowling.
“You could!” Cole insists. “I’d stay right here.”
“No way. It’s too dangerous, with people waking up and wandering around. What if I can’t wake up fast enough?”
“But you’re not getting enough sleep…”
“More than zero is an improvement, you know…” you grumble. “You’re the kind of person who always wants more, aren’t you?”
Cole pouts. It’s a difficult thing to argue with, but you force yourself. “No.”
“You could sleep while hidden…”
“It gives me a headache and you know it,” you say with a scowl. “And I’m not convinced it does anything.”
“It does! …I think.”
You let out a frustrated noise between a growl and a scoff. “Fine, but if I have to skip out later, you don’t get to nag me about it.”
Cole doesn’t look very convinced by that, but you don’t give him the option to haggle, climbing grumpily back into your bedroll and pretending it doesn’t feel completely amazing to lay down and close your eyes again. Sleep takes you almost instantly, a peaceful dreamless abyss.
You wake to Cole shaking you, at least you’re pretty sure you do. By the time you’ve blinked the sleep out of your eyes, he’s gone, and instead, you’re seeing Solas opening the flap to your tent. You squint at him through sleep-crusted eyes, blinking owlishly as you try to register what’s happening. Your aura is safely hidden, as you’d wisely insisted, but why is he here, then?
“Oh!” he says, looking surprised. “You were asleep… I’m sorry for disturbing you.”
You can’t help but laugh, even though it’s probably a weird time for you to be laughing. You can’t help it; he’d just assumed you’d be awake at, what, barely dawn? And it had been a really safe assumption! You’d only been asleep at all thanks to Cole’s meddling.
“No, I was just sort of… drifting in and out of sleep,” you say, rubbing your eyes.
“That’s to be expected, honestly, given how tenuous your connection to the… Fade…” he trails off, expression turning guilty, possibly at the sight of yours. You have to be glaring, and it might be something even more alarming given that you’re too groggy to properly police your facial expressions.
“Dare I ask why you’re crawling into my tent in these quiet pre-dawn hours?” you ask archly, taking some unnecessary satisfaction in the way Solas’s expression turns even more abashed at the way you phrased it.
“I assumed you would be awake, and this is when I normally begin my morning stretches,” he explains, a little stiffly. That snaps you the rest of the way awake, and you squirm the rest of the way out of your bedroll.
“Sounds like a good way to wake up,” you say, maybe more eagerly than strictly necessary. You can’t help it. It really does, and a lot more fun than getting the shit kicked out of you by the Iron Bull. Less painful, too.
Well. That turns out to be about half true. It turns out that you’re not nearly as flexible as you thought you were, no matter how much Solas informs you that you’re doing very well for a beginner. It is fun, though, trying to contort your body into positions that seem like they should be a lot easier to hold than they actually are. Also, Solas’s hands on your body here and there when you need to be guided into a position are definitely not the worst way to start your day.
“It shouldn’t…” you strain through grit teeth, “Be this hard for me to maintain a handstand. I’m not even on just my hands!”
“It’s harder than you might think,” Solas says, from where he holds a more complicated version seemingly effortlessly. “Normally, beginners wouldn’t—”
“Don’t you ‘beginners’ me, it’s a freaking handstand, it shouldn’t hurt! I’m out of shape…”
“How many times a day do you find yourself needing to do armstands, exactly?” Solas points out.
“Still,” you grumble, straining to keep your back straight and not fall over. “No wonder I’m sore after riding every day. I’m squishier than pâte de guimauve.”
“Squishy isn’t the word I’d use,” Solas says mildly. “Bony, perhaps. Scrawny?”
You let yourself fall sideways out of the armstand, feet colliding with Solas side. He lets out a satisfyingly pained wheeze as you knock him over as well. The two of you wind up in an undignified heap, your legs sprawled over his waist. “Oops,” you say flatly. “Looks like my scrawny arms gave up.”
“I suppose I deserved that,” Solas says, his voice muffled by the ground, and you burst out laughing.
That spells an end to your morning stretching, more or less, so the two of you grab breakfast. Or, well, Solas grabs breakfast and you grab an oatcake which you proceed to eat without your hands while beginning to prep the mounts. It’s something of a skill, one which you mastered a long time ago so you could eat while writing. However, books didn’t try to dive forward and snatch the food directly out of your mouth, something that horses, it seems, are more than willing to do. You’re dodging out of the way of Lady Knickers, who is very willing to reach underneath the larger horses to get at you while you’re bent over to secure their saddles, when Dorian arrives to be your knight in shining armor.
He pulls the smaller horse away from you by your lead and then gets to saddling Azrael.
“Thanks, Dorian,” you say after nearly choking to quickly swallow the rest of your breakfast. “It’s just a lot of horses.”
“I’m surprised he even knows how to saddle a horse,” Blackwall comments, completely unnecessarily, as he arrives to help as well. Which would be more welcome if it didn’t mean you’d have to listen to them sniping at each other like damned children.
“It shouldn’t surprise you that someone raised as a noble knows how to handle horses,” Dorian says dryly. “But then, I suppose that would require some modicum of knowledge.”
“Both of you shut up or I’ll have the harts headbutt you and just saddle all the damn horses myself,” you say crossly, which earns you two surprised stares from the men and a snort of what you choose to interpret as approval from Revas.
“Is it too late to hire her on as their babysitter?” the Inquisitor asks mildly from where he sits nearby, sharpening his sword as the camp is broken down in the background.
“She already works for you,” Dorian points out.
“Yeah, but I’m starting to think she’s wasted in the library.”
“I promise you, your holiness, I’m much better with books than I am with horses,” you assure him as you struggle with Stormcloak’s saddle. He’s sucked in his breath to make himself bigger, you can just tell he has. If you just tighten it like this, the saddle might be loose later. Frustrated, you give up and knee him directly in the stomach. He lets out pained wheeze and you pull the strap as tight as you can. He whinnies in protest. “Shut up!” you snap. “If you weren’t such a little bitch about it every single morning, I wouldn’t have to get physical!”
“Are you sure? Because you’re pretty good with the horses.”
“I am very sure!” you snap before registering that you’re snapping at the Inquisitor and freeze, color draining from your face. He just looks amused, but any good humor you had from the morning with Solas is gone.