Irritants
Electricity is thrumming inside your veins. Fire is throbbing just under your skin. It itches at your fingertips.
Your mood is, in a word, frightful.
It takes you a moment to fully register it; you got your food and skirted off to yourself, under a tree, before the feeling fully registered to you. Part of the problem was that the feeling is vaguely indecipherable. It’s physical. It feels like your blood is on fire, like you’ve been lit up inside. This is a somewhat more poignant metaphor with you than it might be with other people, as you’re intimately familiar with the reality of what that feels like. Your skin is warm, which could be due to the ever-growing heat of the desert, you suppose. The tingling of your skin feels like electricity but it could also be anything. You feel like the sky directly before a storm.
Isn’t stretching meant to be relaxing? You feel like if you open your mouth, a peel of thunder will escape. It feels a lot like when your magic is growing out of control, which is worrying, but without any of the actual pressure of mana inside you. Your aura is perfectly fine, if restless. You also feel violent, which is more understandable, but you don’t tend to feel… tingly… about violence. You run your hands against your leggings again, as if you can chase off the static.
All in all: confusing. You don’t appreciate it.
You settle for taking deep breaths and running through every grounding activity anyone has ever taught you. The Iron Bull taught you violence, but the Inquisitor is nowhere to be seen, so you can’t even suggest to two of you take a few whacks at each other with swords before it’s time to leave. This leaves you with deep breaths, mostly. They’re largely useless, as they always are. Breakfast helps a little bit more, if only because it gives you something to think about other than the weird sensations in your body or, Maker forbid, Solas. Every few minutes the ghost of a sensation—your shin against his ankle, the smooth way he fell, how good it felt to have him underneath you—shivers through you, and it makes everything worse. You focus on your food.
If Solas doesn’t pop into your mind, Alas’len does, and he’s if anything, harder to ignore, simply because you can see him. Solas has vanished off wherever the hell it is he goes—you don’t care at all not even a little itty bit—but Alas’len is, as always, in the middle of literally everything. Right now he’s playing cute with Dorian, having apparently not had his fill of older men from Solas. As if that brat has ever had his fill of anything. You’d told him Dorian was off limits. You suspect that Solas will respect your boundaries about Alas’len about as well as Alas’len appears to be respecting your boundaries about Dorian. With Alas’len at least you are content chalking up a lot of his indiscretions to the sheer stupidity that comes with being horny. Solas does not have that grace from you. You wonder if there’s a word in any language for “horny but like with curiosity.” A lust for knowledge. You remember abruptly that there is; it sours your appetite further.
You focus on your food. You meditate on your food.
This is probably why you don’t notice the Inquisitor approaching you until he plops down next to you.
This is startling for a number of reasons. One, it’s mortifying to be caught off guard by a man in chain mail armor. He is not quiet. Two, he never comes to you for anything good. Three, he does not have breakfast with you, period. He normally has it with Cassandra or in the general large group. He’s not particularly on the list of people who bother you when you’re in a bad mood, although you chalk that up to him not caring much for or about you and not any ability on his part to tell when you’re in a foul mood. Although if you’re being honest, you don’t know if your mood right now is bad or just fucking weird.
“He seems to be fitting in well,” Eugene says, gesturing with a biscuit towards Alas’len. You add this conversation to the list of things about today you hate.
“He’s charming. It’s very annoying,” you agree.
“You say it’s annoying, but the two of you seem to have gotten… close.”
You run a tongue over your teeth, considering your options, since flipping the Inquisitor into the sand and blatantly threatening him into leaving well enough alone is obviously not on the table. You should have treated Alas’len in a less friendly manner; you know that. But it’s not like you’ve presented yourself as a hard-to-befriend person with the Inquisition. Kind of the opposite, in fact, although a lot of that is due to the fact that the Inquisition is full of friendly little bastards.
“He seems to like you,” the Inquisitor is continuing, as your brain flips rapidly through options without settling on one. “Cassandra even said he fell asleep with you last night.” He pauses, meaningfully. The meaning could be a lot of things. You blink, slowly, as if waiting for him to come to a point. Not worth giving him any ammunition when he’s so blatantly trying to lead the conversation somewhere. “It seems he trusts you, or at least favors you.”
You point towards the man in question, who has currently found some Maker-forsaken reason to be sitting on one of Dorian’s legs, halfway into his lap. “You sure about that?”
“Okay, well, yes, fair, but I can’t trust Dorian for this.”
That throws you. You turn towards the Inquisitor for the first time since he’s sat down next to you, head tilted, expression bewildered. What in the world would he trust you with that he wouldn’t trust a member of his inner circle with? You are quite literally just some guy.
“He’s a powerful mage,” the Inquisitor explains. “Alas’len. We don’t know if he can be trusted yet, or if he can, exactly how far. Dorian is… well, he’s a lot of things, but he’s also a mage. A Tevinter, on top of that. He might be more inclined to overlook certain things that the Inquisition would take… more of an issue with.”
The Inquisitor is not as good at delicate phrasing as he thinks he is.
“Cassandra performed a ritual last night—” Your whole body tenses, the fire and electricity from earlier becoming all at once more literal. Your fingers almost spark. “And he’s not an abomination.” You relax only slightly. You’re not terribly surprised to know that Templars—or Seekers—have some way of telling. You’ve long known they had a way to detect mages; this is just one step further. It makes you uncomfortable, however. You don’t like the idea of them casting rituals when you’re trying to fucking sleep. “But he could still be a blood mage. We don’t have any real way of telling, other than the obvious signs. Scars, for instance, but he’s very well-covered. That could mean he’s hiding something. It could also just mean he doesn’t like getting sandy.”
“Which would, admittedly, be reasonable,” you agree, since you’ve discovered you hate fucking sand and how it gets everywhere and also in your eyes. “I’m not seeing where I come in, though. I don’t know the first thing about blood mages.”
“That’s why I’m telling you,” the Inquisitor said, clearly trying to sound patient, or gentle, or kind, or all three. It’s not really working on you, but you suppose it might on someone who disliked him less in general. You could see how someone might be flattered, or might be excited to help the Herald of Andraste. He’s affable enough that he didn’t lose your good will until you’d seen how hostile he was with Solas and took that—fairly—as an indictment of his character. All this introspection about the way he operates isn’t necessarily going to help you with the situation at hand, however. “He already seems friendly towards you,” the Inquisitor is continuing. “You can pay attention to stories of his past. Keep an eye out for telltale scars if you should… happen to see him in fewer layers.”
You blink, slowly.
“After all, I noticed the two of you were wet when you came back from the oasis—”
“It’s to my surprise and chagrin that I have to inform you that Leliana explicitly promised I was not going to be prostituted out when I was sent on this delightful little assignment.”
“Wh—NO! Oh, Maker, no, that is not what I meant!” The Inquisitor is turning extremely red in the face, extremely quickly. Under other circumstances, it would be hilarious. Under this one, it’s still kinda funny. “I’m no, the—the Inquisition is not telling you to seduce a man! I just meant… you seem interested in him, and if you are, it would be helpful to the Inquisition’s cause if you would be on the lookout. Forewarned is also forearmed, and it would be to your best interest if you, as well as us, were completely certain your new… whatever… isn’t of a mind to sacrifice you to demons or the like. Especially since you seem inclined to follow him out into the desert alone.”
It’s tempting to press the prostitution thing, in part to get more of a rise out of the Inquisitor, but it already served its purpose in sussing out his intentions and a bit more of his character. You elect to have mercy, which is somewhat unlike you. Your mood must be weird.
“I can keep an eye on him. In truth, I’ll admit I had a similar idea in mind, myself. I don’t entirely trust him myself. As I said, he’s a little too charming for my personal liking.” You give the Inquisitor a sidelong eye. “It’s a bit easier to trust people who are a bit more awkward.”
The Inquisitor rubs under his nose, clearly taking your meaning. “I wish other Orlesians agreed with you on that.”
“Orlesians are weird; don’t read too much into it.”
He snorts. “True enough. Well, I’m glad we’re on the same page here, Emma. For the record, I hope that he is trustworthy. The Inquisition always needs new allies, and since we’ve allied with the Templars, magical allies have been few and far between outside of Vivienne’s loyal mages. If he can be trusted, no one will be happier about it than me.”
“Dorian, maybe,” you suggest. The two men have separated physically, but not enough for your liking.
“Alright, yeah,” he agrees. “Maybe Dorian.”
You were so busy being guarded and feeling weird that it didn’t fully register to you how funny the situation was until you were already mounted and on the road. (Metaphorical road. There are no roads out here. Just sand.) The Inquisitor doesn’t trust Dorian enough to spy on Alas’len. So he went to you. It’s delicious. It’s maybe the funniest thing that’s happened to you since you joined the Inquisition. The irony is thick enough to eat and it tastes amazing. You can compare notes with Alas’len later and make sure your stories are completely straight, and from there he can use you to feed information into the Inquisition. Limited information, just information about him and his newest persona, but still. There’s a lot a talented bard can do with that, and the two of you are some of the best in the business. You’re confident you could give their Nightingale a run for her money with the both of you working together. Which you might have to, since Banal’ras doesn’t seem content to let the Inquisition be, and at that point you’re probably safer involved.
Which he would have known. Which is probably part of why he did it. His cute little way of forcing you back into the game. Bastard.
You keep your thoughts on plans and schemes, however, because every time you let your mind drift, it goes to places you don’t want—people you don’t want—and you start feeling peculiar again. Perhaps all this nonsense with Sera is rattling your brain, crossing your wires. Pulling your sexuality, better left buried, up to the surface, where it can mess things up just by reminding you it’s an option. You’d normally just blame your own general libido, which causes problems regularly, but something feels very different about this, something about the tangled mess of feelings you can’t decipher. If you’d just gotten horny tackling someone you’re begrudgingly attracted to to the ground, that would be one thing and pretty fair. You’d certainly experienced that with Fenris, and wouldn’t mind experiencing it with him a few more times, if you’re being honest. This doesn’t feel like that. That didn’t make you feel like you were going to burst out of your skin, like there was something bigger than yourself, something hungry, clawing at the inside of your teeth, demanding to be let out.
It makes you nervous, if you’re being honest.
The idea that it might be Sera’s fault, or rather, your fault by way of Sera, has solidified in your mind by the time you stop for lunch. You consider once again telling her that the two of you need to stop doing this, but it hasn’t worked the last half-dozen times you tried, is the thing. And she hasn’t tried to be fully intimate with you in the two days since Alas’len arrived. She’s been jealously possessive, yes, but if you keep going the way you have been, it’s entirely possible she’ll dump you and you won’t have to bother with the same song and dance of telling her you don’t want to do this only to find yourself talked around and kissing her by the end of the fight.
She seeks you out, of course, so you don’t even get the chance to consider avoiding her. She laces her fingers with yours and grips. It feels possessive, and makes your hackles rise. You want to tell her that you’re not hers to grab, to be protective over, but you know it’s not fair. This is how people are with each other, and you’re the one who’s been making her jealous… on purpose, this time. You remember her reaction when she caught you alone with Solas, that time you were studying Elven together, and pull your hand away, unable to take it any longer.
She glances your way and pouts. You just shake your head, wishing that not wanting to be touched could be a normal thing and not a sign of trouble on the horizon. But you know better; you’ve been touched in enough ways by enough people to be aware that there is a line that, when crossed, carries the implication that your body is now shared territory. It’s not even Sera’s fault; you’re not so oblivious to social norms that you never learned how it works. There is a shared understanding amongst people; a relationship is like trading stocks in your own body, giving controlling shares to a third party that has their own opinions about what you can do with it and who is allowed to touch it and when. You had thought, briefly, that Sera was different. You don’t know, anymore, why you thought that, if it was the prostitutes in Val Firmin or if you were just seeing what you wanted to see, evidence be damned.
You’re making excuses. You knew this was a bad idea, and did it anyway. This is your fault.
“Yer face is sayin’ a whole lot of nothin’ right now,” Sera says, breaking through the rolling turmoil of your thoughts. “You feelin’ alright?”
“I’m fine,” you lie, shortly. “Just wishing things were different.”
Sera looks hurt. She’s adding interpretation to your words, and you can only guess at what that is. You used to think you were good at this, but lately you’ve been feeling your shortcomings more sharply.
“Things can be however we want ’em to be,” she suggests. “They don’t gotta be any one way.”
“Oh,” you say with a soft, reluctant little sigh.
“Yeah?”
“I really wish that were true,” you clarify, and her face falls again.
“We’re the only ones who say how things gotta be with us. Just us,” she insists.
“What ‘we’?” you ask, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice. If you got to define what things were, you don’t think you would have had to have the same conversation ten times with her.
“We’ve had too many conversations about what we are fer two people who aren’t a ‘we’,” she points out.
You open your mouth, a thousand rebuttals on your tongue, and then close it. “I’m exhausted,” you say, instead of ‘you are exhausting.’ “And I don’t want to have one more.”
“We ain’t gotta talk about it.”
You do. You really do. But when you can never seem to find the right words, when it doesn’t seem to do any good, you don’t even know why you should bother.
You just can’t be given a moment of peace. Not even a moment.
That is your takeaway from this whole horrid trip. Gone are your quiet mornings in the rotunda, peaceful only in retrospect now that you’ve experienced pure fucking chaos for such an extended period. No chance of stealing off to your tiny little would-be farm and communing with some goats or catching a few words with the beautiful, boring, unimportant masses of Skyhold while you dodge the powers that be and their incessant interest in you. There’s no one boring here. Everyone you’re traveling with is super important, and you have taken on the singular role of unimportant masses, forced into a role of mattering due to sheer proximity.
And it. Fucking. Sucks.
You can catch neither a break nor a routine. Not even your miserable trek through a desert could be unexceptional. And this afternoon? Your unpleasant interruption comes in the form, as it so often seems to, of Solas.
One would think that after this morning’s incident, he would be wary. Steer clear. Re-evaluate his opinion of you, how he acts around you, how he treats you. That would be what you would do after a sudden, aggressive surprise; you’d circle around the incident like a once-bitten dog, wary of another unexpected snap. But Solas never can be counted on to behave like a person ought, and so, given Sera’s presence in the ahead team and Alas’len’s distraction via the Seeker, who is unsubtly babysitting him, Solas seeks you out intentionally. The mad bastard.
“It seems I’m not the only one who’s noticed the growing closeness between you and our new apostate friend,” he remarks, in that Solas way of not actually directing a comment at you but instead near you, towards the world in general.
You grimace. Seems like the Inquisitor’s visit with you this morning didn’t escape his notice despite the fact you’d just finished attempting to give him a fright. If he’d still been sniffing around that intently, that quickly, you obviously hadn’t done a very good job at putting the fear of the Maker into him. Although you suppose if his curiosity were easily thwarted, you wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.
“It would seem,” you respond, not bothering to keep the ominous undertones out of your voice. You are in the role of a woman who is getting tired of being prodded, and for once that role overlaps with how you actually feel fairly readily.
Solas, for his part, turns his head to actually observe you. You feel the quick up and down of his eyes, although you’re not sure what he’s looking for or what he’s picking up on. You hope it’s that you’re thinking about performing acts of moderate violence on his person again.
“I shall spare you waiting through any beating around the proverbial bush,” Solas decides. Whatever he saw, it must have been accurate. “The Seeker bade me to ensure you were fully up-to-date on the myriad dangers of fraternizing with mages and spirits, even as a person with no gift for magic, free from the worst dangerous of fade-based corruption.”
Your mind still on your conversation with the Inquisitor and caught off guard, you let out an audible bark of laughter.
“Are you serious?”
“Oh yes. She seems to think that you would not take kindly to such a reminder coming directly from her. I suspect she had intended for me to not mention the source of my impetus for such an impromptu lecture on things you already well know.”
“That might be the first thing she’s ever been right about.”
“Her concern is coming from a place of genuine kindness,” Solas says, gently reproachful. You try not to roll your eyes and don’t quite succeed.
“Her concern is unwanted, unwarranted, moderately condescending, and more than a little rude,” you say bluntly.
“I’m aware.”
“Did you tell her as much?”
“It seemed very much as though you already had.”
“And yet here we still are. I am a grown woman, not a sheep, and she is neither shepherd nor sheepdog. I am not exactly sure where the misunderstanding is happening, Solas, but the key thing I need everyone involved here to understand is that Cole and Alas’len have befriended me. The Seeker has done no such thing. I am unlikely to take condescending nagging from a stranger over my own senses or the brief but enjoyable bond I’ve formed with aforementioned friends. Are you following thus far, Solas?”
“Are you attempting to match condescension with condescension?”
“Very much so. Is it working?”
“Inasmuch as you’re managing the match.”
“Excellent. And so, if you’re intent on carrying on your friends’ stupid, annoying, rude messages, you can tell the Seeker that if I have to listen to one more person tell me ‘apostates are dangerous’ as if I am a fucking five-year-old child who has not yet begun to comprehend the danger posed by strange men, I am going to straddle him in front of her and reenact all the parts of the Canticle of Andraste that the Chantry likes to ignore.”
“Emma.“
You can’t entirely tell if he’s embarrassed, reproachful, or both. You hope it’s both.
“Oh, you know the parts?”
“Emma.“
“Well, you can’t blame me for not assuming you would, being a dangerous apostate yourself.”
“I believe I might take being tackled into the sand again over five minutes with your barbed tongue,” Solas shoots back. The reference to this morning catches you off guard and reddens your cheeks, although you’re already so flushed from riding through the heat that it’s probably imperceptible.
“That can be arranged,” you manage, after slightly too long a pause. “Bring Ashi’lana closer and we can try it with a drop.”
“If you make a single aggressive motion towards me on that hart,” Solas says, nodding down at Revas, “he will take it as signal to begin trampling at last.”
You glance down at your mount, who, as always, seems perfectly content. You consider.
“I think it would be fine. C’mere.” You squeeze your legs around Revas, urging him to pick up just a little bit of speed towards Solas and Ashi’lana. In response, of course, Solas speeds Ashi’lana up, and at that point Revas does indeed pick up on exactly what you’re trying to do and takes off in pursuit.
You would pretend it’s not equal parts fun and deeply satisfying to chase Solas down, but you need all your ability to pretend just to pretend like your life isn’t dramatically falling apart with an audience. It’s also probably deeply unprofessional, what you’re doing, just judging by the looks you get, but for everything else you might say about the Inquisition, their tolerance for “fucking around in stressful situations just to stay sane” is incredibly high. This probably has something to do with the fact that your leader is just some guy with magic powers from an unknown source and your inner council appears to just be whoever was around at the time. Every now and then, you’re beginning to suspect, all of them have little moments of realization that everything that’s happening is completely fucking insane. In those moments, they probably would also like the freedom to chase Solas around on horseback, judgment free.
Or whatever they do to relieve stress. You’re not here to judge.
You do wonder what the Seeker makes of it, though, watching you attempt to get close enough to tackle Solas clean off his hart directly after she’d asked him to have a serious conversation with you about your willingness to get seduced by the mysterious powers of evil or whatever it is she thinks Alas’len and Cole are. You hope she can tell that means it went poorly. You think she can, by the look on her face when you finally stop exhausting your harts by chasing him around in wide circles. She looks disgruntled. She looks tired. She looks extremely put-upon. When you catch her watching you with that look, you elect to make it worse by catching her eye and, in an act of penultimate maturity, sticking your tongue out.
Childish? Yes. Unnecessary? Extremely. Satisfying, when her exhausted expression deepens into one of a person on the edge of a migraine? Yeah, absolutely.
Maybe one day she’ll elect to leave you the fuck alone for the sake of her own sanity.
But to be sure, you decide to spend the rest of the afternoon allowing Alas’len to hit on you mercilessly within earshot of the Seeker.
It never hurts to be thorough, after all.
Dinner passes rather peacefully, mostly due to the fact you recently alienated all of your friends, what with your violence towards Solas and your snappishness with Sera, not to mention your… well, the Seeker isn’t your friend, you need to be clear about that, but you’ve definitely been as much of a bitch as possible towards her, so she’s keeping her distance at well. And the Inquisitor seemingly hasn’t recovered from the mortification of accidentally prostituting you and is steadfastly refusing to make eye contact. That leaves you in the company of Alas’len and Dorian, which mostly consists of Alas’len subtly testing the grounds for a potential threesome. You could have saved him the time and told him that Dorian is only interested in men, and no matter how confused your current understanding of sex and sexuality is thanks to Krem, you’re mostly certain that you don’t count.
Of course, he probably knows, just like he knows his flirting with Dorian can’t go anywhere, thanks to your earlier say-so. Your apologies to Dorian, who seems interested—or at least seems like he’s enjoying the attention—but it really is for both of their own goods. And yours. It’s also for your own good, the importance of which deserves not to be understated.
It’s at this point, weeks into your journey, that you realize you’ve gotten into the rhythm of travel somewhat. It couldn’t be called a routine, but the care for the mounts, which used to be a time-consuming and difficult ordeal has begun to feel like second nature. You can dodge the stomps and see the nips and tail whips coming. Belassan would certainly be proud of you. Maybe when this shit is all said and done, you’ll retire from scribe work and become a stablehand. At least the horses telegraph when they’re about to bite you or shit on your foot. Humans rarely offer such courtesy. It’s a nice thought, even if it’s as much of a lie as every other time you tell yourself you’re going to quit. You were never going to quit the Inquisition; you were never going to stop your stubborn investigation; and you were never, ever, going to be out of the Game. It’s just lies you tell yourself to pretend you can be anything besides what you are.
After dinner, you find a choice spot some distance from camp, tucked behind one of the desert’s rare trees, to watch the moons rise over the horizon, the sliver of Satina on the horizon promising the change of seasons. Back home, it’s probably getting very cold. Here, in the desert, it’s only cold at night, and you definitely won’t be seeing any snow.
Although, seeing as how you currently live in the mountains, maybe being stuck in a Maker-forsaken, Blight-cursed desert isn’t the worst possible thing that could happen.
What are you even talking about. Of course it is.
You stay out there long enough that Alas’len finds you, as you knew he would.
“Did anyone see you leave?” you wonder as he plops down next to you, sheltered from view of the camp by the tree.
“No, although that Seeker will probably notice I’m gone before terribly long. It’s like having a very judgmental shadow.”
“You’re telling me,” you say, rubbing your hands through your hair before electing to pull it loose from its bun. Your hair seems like it’s getting more and more frazzled every single day. If you ever get out of the desert, you’ll probably be washing sand out of it for months. Alas’len reaches over to run a hand through it as well; you let out a quiet grumble, but allow it. He probably has more experience with your hair than with his; you’ve been doing his for him for years.
You wonder if that gave him grief after you left. You chase that thought away as quickly as you can.
“What’s going on with you and your apostate today?” Alas’len wonders. You stiffen, and then bat his hand out of your hair.
“Nothing.”
“You were chasing him around in circles.”
“He deserved it.”
“I don’t doubt it; I’m just wondering what he did. I was starting to think he could do no wrong in your eyes,” Alas’len says dryly.
“He doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone,” you grumble.
“And so you had to chase him on horseback?”
“Hartback.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“So let me!”
Alas’len laughs, and you scowl. You lean against him, and think again of simpler times.
In retrospect, they weren’t that much simpler, actually.
“By the way,” you say, after a moment’s silence. “The Inquisitor asked me to spy on you.”
This time, it’s Alas’len who snorts inappropriately loudly. “No! What? Really?“
You have to laugh too. “On my life. Thank the Maker I have so much practice keeping a straight face. I thought for a second he was trying to prostitute me out.” You consider it momentarily. “I’m still not completely sure he wasn’t, to be honest.”
“He wants you to sleep with me?”
“He wants me to figure out if you’re a blood mage, if I’m going to be seeing you naked anyway, was the general gist I got from the conversation.” You laugh again. “So much for beating my reputation as the Inquisition’s most agreeable mare. This is your fault, you know.”
“Sorry that I’m so eminently fuckable.”
You bop him on the backside of the head, which predictably does nothing to discourage him.
“The Inquisitor took one look at me and said, I’ve got someone who won’t be able to resist riding that pony—”
“Lethallin I swear to the Maker—”
“If you’re going to, do it loud, then tell the Inquisitor all about my perfect, blood-magic-scar-less body. In great detail.”
You go to smack him again. This time he ducks.
“What are you going to do?” he wonders.
You sigh. “I haven’t decided. If everyone’s determined that I’m either already sleeping with you or about to, it might be at the point where it would be easier just to go with it.”
“You really know how to make a boy feel desired.”
“Oh, shut up,” you grumble. “This is mortifying enough without your help. I’m never going to live it down.”
“You could do worse,” he says indignantly.
“You’re a random sand apostate who I met a week ago. The fact that you are pretty does not detract from that.”
“You think I’m pretty?” he asks, fluttering his eyelashes. You throw a handful of sand at him.
“I’m never escaping my bad reputation after this,” you mourn. “Never.”
“I know why you’re so upset,” Alas’len announces, resting his chin on his hand and smiling in a way that makes you know you’re about to want to punch him. You kind of already do. “It’s because of how much you hate when people know anything real about you.”
“Are you calling me a slut, lethalin?” you gasp, convincingly affronted.
“Hooking up with an attractive face with an expiration date built in is potentially the most in-character thing I’ve seen you do around these people. It’s almost comforting.”
“Oh, do you have an expiration date? I’m glad you’ve realized. I thought you were about to join up with the Inquisition just to fuck Dorian.”
“Is that an option?”
“No. And you know that.”
He sighs. “I wouldn’t want to, anyway. I don’t know how you can stand it. I’ve been taking orders from that oaf for a week and I’m already ready to stab him in the neck.”
“Please don’t. I’m told we need him.”
“As am I,” Alas’len grumbles. “But no. Don’t take my enjoyment of your company as an enjoyment of the company you keep. You still have terrible taste.”
“I didn’t join them because they were nice,” you say with a scowl. “I joined them because they were safe.”
“What’s it like being wrong all the time?”
“Oh, shut up. You’re just mad because you’d rather have me to yourself. You’re worse than a jealous lover.”
“As if you wouldn’t prefer it was just the two of us,” he counters. “You’re getting transparent, lethalin.”
“I am not.“
“You’ve taken every excuse you can get to spend time with me,” he says, unforgivably smug. “Despite the risks to your reputation and your cover. You missed me.”
“I’m going to stab you.”
“Oh don’t, the Inquisitor will see and think I’m a blood mage.”
You snort.
“And then what?” he continues, pouting exaggeratedly. “Will you finish stabbing the Seeker to death when she threatens me, like you were about to the first day?”
“Might be worth it for an excuse to stab the Seeker to death…”
“She’s really getting to you,” Alas’len says, sounding irritatingly amused by it.
“It was funny at first, the way she was fretting over me. Then she kept almost stabbing my friends, and it stopped being funny. She’s so insanely dangerous, and it’s like she doesn’t even realize that any sane person would see her as a threat.”
“I think that’s exactly how she feels about me,” muses Alas’len, and you groan.
“Why can’t it just be the two of us on this awful trip? Or a better one? Why don’t we travel?”
“Because ~Val Royeaux needs a Banal’ras~,” he says, sing-song as he mockingly echoes too-familiar words back to you. You roll your eyes, mostly to avoid flinching. The words carry a bit more of a barb since you left.
“Yet here you are,” you point out.
“As it turns out,” he says, “Banal’ras has a few needs as well.”