Getting to Know You

“You have a friend!”

From the way Cole’s unbridled enthusiasm explodes out of him the second you crawl into your tent, he must have been waiting to get you alone with even more enthusiasm than you’d had about getting Alas’len alone. He’s practically vibrating.

“I have several friends, Cole. Like you, for instance.”

“In, out, flowing freely from one into another. A body doesn’t choose to breathe but takes in air—”

“I get it,” you interrupt with a sigh. He doesn’t seem to take any offense to your interjection. “We have to talk about him anyway, I suppose. Remember when I first arrived, Cole, and we had to chat about secrets?”

“A similar role, two faces or more, offering protection. A new kind of armor. I had to get used to it. But the armor is best described by the one who wears it…”

“You want to go talk to him?” you ask, amused. “Well, I suppose that’s for the best. You shouldn’t tell me his secrets either… or him mine.”

“But—”

“We’re friends because we tell each other things when we want to. When we need to. I don’t know what secrets he’s got, and it should stay that way.” You run a hand through your still-loose hair. No point in putting it back up before bed. “So yeah. Go talk to him about it; that’s a good idea, honestly. I still can’t believe you’re this excited, though.” He might actually vibrate through one of the walls of your tent. That’s a thing he could probably do; you’re pretty sure corporeality is just a goal he aspires towards.

“He’s your friend,” Cole repeats with maximum insistent enthusiasm, as if this alone should be all the explanation needed. You just laugh. “He shines like you and Solas!”

“Does he?” you muse, curious. You know what you’d thought Cole had meant the first time he’d said that about you and Solas. Now you’re not so sure.

Before you can get an answer out of him—and it’s probably your own fault, since you’d just been talking about keeping Alas’len’s secrets—Cole has vanished. You shake your head, bemused despite yourself. Alas’len is in for an interesting night, it seems. As for you, you doubt you’ll be able to sleep. Even regardless of your usual problems, your head is just too full of thought and ghosts of the past to have any real hope at rest.

Instead, you light up a lantern—you cannot wait until you and Alas’len are ‘close’ again so you can demand he cast you all number of petty spells you can no longer cast for yourself—and attempt to focus on your tome. Ostensibly the reason you’ve been dragged out this far, you can’t help but blame it for the tangled predicaments you’ve found yourself in. Sera and Solas and the Seeker and now even Alas’len on top of it all. Without even talking about the fucking Darkspawn! You can’t forget that particular nightmarish horror just because you’re distracted by interpersonal drama. You can’t blame Alas’len for being bewildered by your decision to stay and crawl through the desert. Thinking back to the petty excuses for staying with the Inquisition that you offered up to Alas’len, you can’t help but sigh again. If only you were so sure of your own motivations.

The night fairly crawls by, but the sun does rise eventually. You immediately wish it hadn’t. The sun has no more than begun peeking over the horizon than the desert begins to heat up. The only good thing you can say for it is that at least it’s not the sticky heat of Seheron. But when you’re merely frying instead of steaming, it hardly feels that distinct.

Almost as exhausting as the promise of another miserably hot day is Alas’len the very second he wakes up. You know damn well that he’s not a morning person, and also that Cole probably kept him up nearly as late as you stayed awake. And yet here he is, chipper as a fucking songbird at dawn. You make a small cup of tea over the campfire and try to stay out of the way.

“Oh yes, I’ve lived in the desert all my life,” Alas’len lies easily as the Seeker questions him with what she probably thinks is diplomacy. He’s left his litham off this morning, and his shaggy black hair lays messily to one side, giving him an earnest sort of appearance. It has the unfortunate side effect of making your hands itch for a comb. “But to answer your unspoken question, no, not with any particular tribe. You’ll find little luck smacking at the sand to see what magic turns up, my brave Seeker.”

“You turned up, didn’t ya…” grumbles Sera, who, next to the Seeker, is probably the most unhappy about having a third mage in the party. You’d say ‘if only she knew,’ but you’re extensively glad she does not.

“True,” Alas’len agrees smoothly. “A bit of luck, that. Normally it’s much more difficult to find out what needs to be smacked to get me to appear.”

“I’ve got a few ideas for things I’d like to smack,” you quip, glaring his way over an unfinished cup of tea. “Are you always so energetic in the mornings?”

“I am full of energy at all times, my lady!” he replies cheerfully.

“I’m no more a Lady than our Warden,” you say, rolling your eyes. “You did catch my name, did you not?”

“I wouldn’t want to be presumptuous, Miss Emma,” he says, placing a hand to his chest. “But if you wish—”

“All I wish for is a nap in some shade.”

“Ah, shall I stand in the sun’s way?”

You give him the long, withering stare of a woman well aware she’s being hit on, who is still considering whether or not a heavy stick will be necessary. “You know what, yes. If you’re so eager to be of use, let’s see if you have similar functions to a well-placed tree.”

“Oh, I have many functions indeed, Miss Emma,” he says, eyes twinkling as he strolls gamely over to stand in between you and the burning sun. “And unlike a tree, I can be taken with you.”

“If I’d known he was willing to be an umbrella, I would have snatched him up first,” says Dorian with a sigh.

“Oh, just use your magic,” you reply, rolling your eyes, so that you can be seen attempting to ignore getting flustered by how close Alas’len is standing.

“Even if I did have magic for such a thing—”

“You absolutely do.”

“—I wouldn’t use it. No sun could be as potent as the force of Sera’s glare.”

“Displeased with the presence of magic, my lady?” Alas’len asks, directing the question towards Sera.

“Oh, don’t you start with that ‘my lady’ shite. I’m exactly as much of a lady as she is,” Sera says, pointing at you.

“Which puts her on par with Blackwall,” you add as an unnecessary reminder.

“Of course, Miss Sera.”

“None o’ that either!” she snaps. “An’ of course I’m not ‘appy about it! I’m a normal person, yeah?”

“Not sure I’d go that far…” the Inquisitor mutters from where he’s hoisting full water barrels back up onto horseback.

“Is no one else excited about the possibility of the term ‘Miss Blackwall’?” Dorian muses, ostensibly to himself.

“Being a normal person must include things I hadn’t previously assumed,” Alas’len considers.

“I’ve been saying that since I came down here,” adds Dorian.

“Sera didn’t have the dubious benefit of living in Tevinter for any period of time like either of us,” you tell Dorian. “Magic is comparably less common in Fereldan.”

“Are you just telling people that about you now?” Dorian asks incredulously. “I seem to recall you nearly biting my head off for guessing that.”

“I have absolutely given up on keeping any secrets around you people,” you reply evenly. “It’s impossible.”

“You’re from Tevinter?” Alas’len asks, blinking in surprise. “I thought elves there—”

“You thought right. I was Dorian’s loyal servant, you see, and when he fled his homeland—”

“Please don’t use me to prank the newcomer, Emma.”

“You’re not fun,” you say, pouting, then sigh. “If you’re very curious, Young Master Alas’len, you can simply ask Varric after we arrive in the Approach. He’s likely writing a book on the subject.”

“Young Master…” Alas’len begins, looking equal parts amused and baffled.

You shrug, standing up to go help Eugene prep the horses. “If you’re going to be calling me Miss, it only seems appropriate.”

—-

The Inquisitor’s distrust of Alas’len is obvious if for only one reason: he’s here with the main group, with your elven newcomer, while Seeker Pentaghast leads the ahead party. This is the first time you’ve seen him not go to the ahead group with her. Normally, he sticks to her like glue, and now here he is, obviously trying not to be obvious while keeping an eye on the new mage.

They’re so unsubtle sometimes; you have no idea how the Inquisition gets anything accomplished. Leliana’s influence, probably.

For all his obvious spying, it’s you that Alas’len winds up next to during the morning ride—although that’s probably aided by the fact that Dorian’s in the ahead group. Revas clearly doesn’t know what to make of Alas’len’s camel. Which is fair, honestly, because you don’t either. You’ve paused briefly at an oasis to rest the mounts, and you’re taking the moment to explore the realities of a camel, assisted by Alas’len. When he got experience with camels, you genuinely have no idea, but you play along anyway. You don’t even have to force the giggle that sneaks out of you when the camel lips curiously at your palm.

“He’s adorable,” you announce—and hear Revas snort in displeasure from a few feet away where you tied him to a tree, having foreseen his jealousy. “Look how much his lips can stretch!” Delighted, you feed him another piece of oat cake.

“His feet are much more suited to this sand,” Alas’len is explaining, “and he needs far fewer water breaks than your horses.”

“On one hand, it’s kind of a shame the Inquisition didn’t have access to such mounts… I know that after so long on the road, the horses are getting exhausted no matter how much resting we do,” you say with a sigh. “On the other hand, I’m damn delighted that I don’t have to learn to ride one of these.”

“Don’t you want to? You seem to favor her.”

“I can favor something without wanting to ride it. …Despite what everyone seems to think,” you add under your breath, mostly for yourself. Technically, you’re capitalizing on your reputation as an absolute slut right now, so it’s a bit petty to still be complaining about it. Still, if you’d known it was going to be like this, you wouldn’t have put so much damn effort into being undateable.

You and Alas’len continue chatting as you begin to travel again, and when Alas’len begins extolling you with hopefully fictional stories of him daring ancient ruins in the Approach, even Solas joins in the conversation.

“There are actually apparently several ruins nearby to where we’re headed,” you inform him. “I’m hoping to have an opportunity to examine them after we’ve settled.”

“By yourself?” Alas’len asks, concern fake and implications obvious.

“It’s a military outpost,” you say with a shrug. “I’m fairly sure I can find a few brave young adventurers to keep me relatively safe.”

“We could make a trio of it,” Solas suggests. “Given that we all have some degree of ruin-delving experience.”

You squint briefly at Solas, trying to remember if you’d told him about any of your ill-advised lone ventures into ancient tombs. Probably. You probably have. It seems like something you’d do.

“Two mages and a linguist walk into an ancient Tevinter ruin…” Alas’len jokes.

“They get eaten by giant spiders because they’re idiots who didn’t bring any soldiers or mercenaries with them,” you interject dryly. “Seriously, it’s a military outpost filled with mercenaries. Why in the Maker’s name would we go alone?”

“For the sake of privacy?” Alas’len suggests.

“I feel the need to emphasize these are actual ruins that I actually want to study, on the off chance that ‘explore the ruins’ is desert-nomad slang for something.”

“It absolutely is, but I don’t see any reason why we can’t do both.”

“I do,” Solas protests.

“Why should you have a say?” Alas’len asks.

“Because I was invited.“

“I’m uninviting both of you and taking Dorian instead.”

“I don’t think he’d be much use exploring your ruins,” Alas’len points out.

“I’ve changed my mind; I’m going alone.”

“Wot, am I not even an option then?” comes Sera’s irritated voice. You glance over at her in surprise.

“…Do you want to spend a few days in ancient Tevinter ruins with me while I gas on and on about elven history?” you ask, blinking.

“…Well, I might,” she grumbles, after a long pause. “Y’could at least ask.”

“Well… if you want to tag along, I’d be glad to have you,” you muse, rubbing the back of your head uncertainly. “But I’m pretty sure you’d hate it. Seriously, twenty minutes of listening to me gas on about Elvhenan this and Arlathan that and I’m pretty sure you’d be ready to feed me to a spider yourself.”

“Why would y’be goin’ on about them anyway? S’a Tevinter ruin, right?”

“Ancient Tevinter was built on the bones of Arlathan,” Solas interjects. “Such is the basis of Emma’s research into Elvhenan: she researches the Tevene and the Elvhen side by side to discover similarities. I confess some surprise that you did not already know this, Sera.”

“Why in the Maker’s name would I know any o’ that?”

“Your disinterest in the elven is well known, but I thought perhaps your interest in Emma would have outweighed it.”

“Alas’len,” you say, voice cracking a bit in your desperation to change the subject as fast as possible before Sera takes Solas’s entire head off his shoulders, metaphorically or literally, “I don’t suppose you’ve been to any of the ruins near where we’re heading?”

You look back over to Alas’len and catch, belatedly, the narrowed glint in his eyes: the way they slip back from Sera to you, and then over to Solas.

He is putting something together, you’re quite sure of it. And you don’t like it one bit.

“Unfortunately, no. They were always far too dangerous, and the increase in Darkspawn in the area hasn’t particularly changed that for the better. But if it’s Tevinter ruins you’re after, you’ve certainly come to the right place. We’re lousy with ruins, and no one seems in a hurry to excavate them. The deeper you go into the desert, the more untouched they are… well, by people, anyway.”

“Implying they’ve been touched by all manner of inhuman things. And you wanted to go with just me and Solas,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I’m amazed you’ve survived this long, young master.”

“Am I going to be able to get you to stop calling me that?”

“No.”

—-

You didn’t know that it was possible, but Sera is in an even worse mood for all your talking about ruins and research with Alas’len and Solas, both of whom were extremely interested in the topic. Which is miserable, because if it weren’t for that, it would have been one of the best damned conversations you’d had involving more than one other person since you joined the Inquisition.

Although considering that one of those people already knows all this shit and is just faking interest for a variety of reasons, maybe that’s not really any kind of triumph at all. When thinking about it from that angle, actually, it’s somewhat depressing.

And even more aggravating, you’d predicted that all of it—Alas’len’s appearance, the topic being elves and history, even Solas’s not-so-thinly veiled barbs—would have her furious and ready to ignore you or even tell you to fuck off altogether. Instead, she’s sitting close to you all through lunch. She seems almost desperate to change the subject to the things you have in common, and you can’t really blame her. Even if she didn’t hate the topic, she’d have nothing to add to a conversation about archaeological digs.

“S’a shame we didn’t run into each other in Val Royeaux,” she says with a sigh.

You had, but she didn’t know that. And never needed to know, especially given that she’d also run into the smirky little bastard currently hitting on Dorian and pretending not to be paying attention to you.

“It’s not really a surprise. It’s a big city, and I gather we were running in extremely different circles,” you say, sounding amused. “It’s not like we were going to trip into each other at the local bookstore.”

“Y’coulda gone to a pub now’n’then,” she says, elbowing you good-naturedly. “Yer deep enough in them these days.”

“That’s a more recent affectation,” you lie with a snort. You’ve been drinking since Antiva. “Besides, any pub in Val Royeaux that would let me in would probably have been too rough for me.”

“Oh bullshite!” she exclaims. “Yer the roughest thing in most pubs once you’ve ‘ad enough ale!”

“Iron Bull’s influence, I’m sure,” you say firmly, sipping your tea and pretending you hadn’t gotten absolutely smashed at the Inquisition pub within your first week and beaned a Templar with a mug.

“Perhaps she’s just trying to put on a good face now that there’s new company?” Alas’len suggests, earning him a potent glare from Sera, as well as earning you more literal, physical clinging for most of the rest of lunch.

Uncharitable of you, perhaps, but you can’t help thinking that she gives off the same vibes as a dog with a bone. Under other circumstances, it would be a little cute. Alright, it’s still a little cute. You’re not normally the kind to like possessiveness in any measure, but somehow, when Sera—or Revas—does it, it’s kind of adorable. Like a child that doesn’t want to share their favorite doll.

Of course, being that you’re the doll in this situation…

In addition, you know exactly where this level of possessiveness goes, particularly with Sera. How do the two of you keep rehashing the same problems? You’d thought you had gotten this worked out the last time you talked. But come to think of it, her issue had been exclusivity, hadn’t it? You certainly never agreed to that, or to anything, but you had rather explicitly stated that there was no one else you’d fucked or were even particularly interested in fucking. It had calmed her down, but then Alas’len shows up and starts flirting…

Maker. Why can’t this be simple? Why can’t she just throw a fit and finally realize she deserves better?

To make things worse—which shouldn’t even be possible—you’re keenly aware that Alas’len is watching and probably taking mental notes. Sera’s not exactly giving him a good showing. Possessiveness, jealousy, hostility towards magic… She must just look amazing to a stranger right now, not to mention her rather spectacular distaste for elven history. You don’t even understand it, and you’re the one willing to give her some benefit of the doubt for these things… you know that Alas’len would never in one thousand years extend that same benefit.

Once you’ve reached half again as much social strain as you can bear, you announce to the camp at large that you’re going to take care of the horses. You never thought you’d be grateful towards the Inquisitor for any damn thing on this trip, but in the end, being able to escape any situation by running off to brush a horse has proven to be incredibly useful.

You’re honestly somewhat surprised that Sera doesn’t follow you over to the horses. Maybe even she can take a hint? If so, it’s a credit to her; you don’t think anyone else in the entire fortress has ever respected your wishes when you wanted to be alone. And speaking of people not respecting your wishes, here comes Alas’len.

“Let me give you a hand, Miss Emma,” he says cheerfully.

“They’re hardly camels, young master,” you reply dryly.

“Ah, worry not for your steeds. I am a deft hand at many things.”

“Ugh,” you reply, unable and unwilling to stop the disgusted noise. “Okay, no one’s even close enough to hear us; lay off the bit before I throw up onto Stormcloak.”

“I believe he’s also handily blocking us from view,” Alas’len comments, running a brush—where did he even pick that up—over the horse’s shoulder. “I do love these giant mounts. You could have a whole tryst behind one and no one would even notice.”

“The horse might.”

Alas’len snorts, then finally gets down to business. “So. The blonde, eh?”

You let out a long sigh. “She thinks it’s more than it is.”

“And what is it, precisely? A romance?” He’s watching your reaction, which you keep stony. “A kiss? Oh dear. Sex? Oh my. And she doesn’t know…?”

“She doesn’t know anything.”

“And here I was watching the bald apostate this whole time,” Alas’len sighs. “I forgot about your tastes. Of course it isn’t the mage; I suppose romancing one of those would make far too much sense for you to consider it, as always.”

You bristle, but try not to rise to the obvious bait.

“In a way, it fits a twisted sort of logic,” he muses. “Going with someone guaranteed to betray you this time, I see. Skipping the middleman, taking all the uncertainty out of the equation.”

“Shut up, ‘Len,” you hiss. “Someone will hear you.”

“They won’t,” he informs you. “But if you insist…” He moves closer, reaching around your shoulder to brush at Stormcloak’s haunch, boxing you in, “I can always speak in lower tones.”

“Lethallin.”

“I’m just trying to understand the situation,” he says innocently. “Didn’t you leave Orlais to get away from traitorous blondes? This whole time, I’ve been laboring under the assumption that you ran off because of what she did, but maybe I was wrong. Because here you are, fucking her damned clone.”

“Sera isn’t Aimée,” you say, wishing there was any confidence in your words. You’d whispered them to yourself enough times that there really ought to be. “She’s not… manipulative. You’ve met her. She doesn’t have the wherewithal to be.”

“No, of course not. She’s just a blonde woman involved in the underbelly of Orlesian politics. She’s just possessive; she’s just bigoted; she’s just you making the exact same bad decisions all over again. And to think, you accuse me of not thinking these things through! Tell me you’re not catching feelings.”

“It just happened!” you snap, turning to face him, hoping that Stormcloak is blocking the view as well as he thinks it is. “It wasn’t planned!”

“That’s worse!”

“Why do you even care? Why are you doing this?”

“Because Aimee destroyed you,” he hisses. You hate that he leans down to be closer to your face; you hate that you have to look up at him. When did that happen? “She destroyed you as surely as if she had succeeded in her plans, and I will kill that woman myself before I watch it happen to you again.”

“Don’t you touch her!” your grip closes around his arms, threatening if thoughtless.

“Perhaps you should have said that to yourself, first,” Alas’len says coldly, leaning back away from you and the horse, shaking himself free of your grip.

You glare as he stalks away, taking in how his gait loosens from furious stalking to a casual swagger as he slides back into his cover. You should do the same, but you can’t force yourself to relax. It’s not unlike him—or yourself—to make casual threats. You’re not sure how many of his exes you’ve threatened to kill, yourself, or how many times you’ve threatened dangling him off a roof for his own behavior.

However, you also can count how many of his exes you’ve actually needed to stab. It’s not zero, so there’s precedent here.

You wouldn’t necessarily put it past him. You’d say he inherited your temper, but honestly, you think his might put you to shame. He’s younger, brasher, and you suspect this might be something of a sore spot. You know what he’s capable of when he’s truly infuriated, and while he’s not there yet…

You glance over at Sera around Stormcloak, biting your lip in worry. She also has a temper, and she also has killed people over it, as you well know. You’re not used to working with all these soldier and adventurer types. They’re all killers, and only they know the limits of when and where. You’d thought “the battlefield” was the line drawn, but Sera did kill that noble in cold blood, and that was a story told from her perspective.

And to think, you’d been complaining about the elves in your life hating each other before. At least Sera and Solas were never at risk of killing each other… Although come to think of it, Fenris and Solas… Ugh! You’re exhausted.

The worst part of it is, he has a perfectly valid point tucked in amongst all those barbed words. You’ve been telling yourself that same thing for a long time now, since before Sera kissed you on the roof. Since she almost did in her bedroom. Since she took you running through Skyhold. Since you sat in the underbelly of the castle and you lied about who you were in the orphanage; since you let her think you were dead without even really understanding why you’d done it.

You are a liar who makes bad choices, and she is the most recent of a long chain of them. The last thing you needed in your life was another beautiful woman to make mistakes around, and it’s gotten out of hand. You need to figure out a way to get it—all of it—back in hand before someone or something else does it for you.