Alas’len
You know, objectively, that it hasn’t been that long since you last saw him, but it isn’t often that the two of you had an all out melee to participate in. Had he always been so bloodily efficient? Is that how you look on the battlefield to others, a scythe of efficient magic and daggers through eyes and spines with pinpoint accuracy?
You already know that’s not the case; Banal’ras uses his magic in wildly different ways from you. You’re all or nothing; he uses it in little subtle ways to accent his natural stumbling fighting style. Any practitioner of a drunken fighting style might “trip,” but Banal’ras will do it while summoning a sheet of ice under his feet and slide clean around in an arc to stab his opponent in the back. It melts and evaporates into sand so quickly in the desert heat that it would look like he was gliding if you weren’t familiar with the way he fights.
You wonder what he looks like to the others as he stumbles backwards on one leg. You wonder if even the Darkspawn understand what’s happening as they slip on briefly summoned ice under their feet in what should be a desert. You wonder if anyone else can see the place at his back where you’re not, can understand that his masterful distractions are lacking without you there to take advantage.
No matter how gracefully he slides across the desert, little slicks of ice carrying him away from danger or appearing under his enemy’s foot just in time to make them stumble, no matter how many daggers appear long enough to lodge in an eye socket before melting away, you’re keenly aware that he is alone, and you were once the reason he wasn’t.
But you’re absolutely unnecessary, despite what all the adrenaline rushing through you is saying. With the addition of Banal’ras to the battlefield, the Darkspawn don’t stand a chance. You don’t need to be there to vanish across the battlefield. They have Cole for that. Who needs your savagery with magic when Dorian is so much more practiced? Your bloody nature would only get in the way in a fight where blood is poison. You’re superfluous.
He’s had a long time without you, and was trained to fight on his own well before. He’s also out there with a squadron of experts, people whose battle prowess puts yours to absolute shame.
People who are more of a threat to him than the Darkspawn, you realize, hands tightening on your dagger. More likely than it finding its home in a Darkspawn, this blade is incredibly likely to taste Templar blood before the hour is out.
You need to get closer to him, but Solas is keeping part of his focus on you even as he controls the battlefield, separating out Darkspawn with walls of ice and blows of force, keeping them from swarming or surrounding. You grit your teeth and wait.
As the last of the Darkspawn fall, the party turns to the newcomer—their savior, you hope they realize, and you move subtly closer, a throwing dagger in each hand. Ready. More ready still when it’s the Inquisitor and the Seeker who approach him. You shift away from Solas, knowing he’s the only one with any chance of seeing what’s about to happen coming. Your eyes slip briefly to him, but he’s watching the newcomer as well, not you.
“Timely intervention,” the Inquisitor calls out, voice tenser than you think is fair given how Banal’ras just assisted them, risking his own idiot life in the process. The Seeker still has her sword out, and you can practically hear what she’s thinking. Apostate. You can’t believe that after everything you’ve been through, this absolute idiot would just—
“Not quite luck,” Banal’ras replies, voice cheerful and even and as affable as ever. It sounds like the thud of a knife thrust into your chest, all the way to the hilt. “I was following that group of Darkspawn when your group traipsed through. I thought it would be a bit unkind to just watch.”
“Why were you following a group of Darkspawn?” the Seeker demands, voice accusatory. You’d worry that your hawklike focus might give you away, your eyes on your companions and their hands, but your face is still covered and no one is even looking at you.
“Seeking where they were crawling up from the abyss, of course. The only way to stop Darkspawn is to plug up their leaks.” He’s unarmed, and leaving his hands plainly visible, but they have to know he can be armed in the time it would take them to inhale.
A Templar can nullify magic in the blink of an eye if you get too close—one of the reasons for Banal’ras’s long-standing fondness for throwing daggers. But a Seeker is more dangerous still; she could probably nullify the magic of this entire area. But they can’t nullify a dagger through the back of the skull, and wouldn’t be expecting an attack from you, of all people, to begin with.
“You’re not a Grey Warden,” the Inquisitor points out. You wonder briefly how he knows, and then remember the whole reason you’re traipsing across the desert. There appear to only be two Wardens who haven’t lost their minds: Blackwall and this Warden Stroud you’re on the way to meet.
“And neither are you. Funny, how the area has so many Darkspawn and so few Wardens,” Banal’ras says dryly. “Clearly someone had to step in and do something about it.”
“From around here, then?” the Seeker asks, eyes narrow. “Nomad tribe, perhaps?”
“Something like that,” Banal’ras says.
Of course they would think that, dressed as he is in desert appropriate garb. He’d thrown off his cloak in the early stages of the fight; it still lays in the sand, blending in almost perfectly. But his face is still mostly covered by a litham that must work a lot better than your own improvised covering. His armor looks only slightly less thrown-together than yours had, a mix of cloth wraps around his arms and legs, a leather cinch around his waist, gloves that probably have a layer of metal along the back to catch blades—a trick you’re fond of—and thick guards for his shins and knees. The rest of him is covered with a pair of skintight leggings and a loose, billowing shirt only held in check by the arm wraps and leather waist guard. Not to mention his skin—closer to Dorian’s tone than that of anyone else here.
You’re the only one who could guess he’s as Orlesian as a fucking soufflé.
“I’m judging by the armor that you’re Inquisition,” he says, nodding his head towards the Inquisitor’s emblazoned armor. “I don’t suppose you’re here to take care of our little Darkspawn problem?”
“We’re just passing through,” the Seeker begins, but the Inquisitor interjects.
“The Darkspawn issue in the Approach was on our list, though. Did you find where they’re coming from?”
“I did, in fact,” Banal’ras says, and you can almost guarantee he’s smiling under that mask at how well the Inquisitor went for his obvious bait. Now you’re starting to wonder if you shouldn’t have been more worried for your new friends than your old one. “There’s a cave not ten minute’s ride from here from whence they emerge, but there were too many there for me to get through to see if it can be sealed easily.”
The Inquisitor is clearly considering. Good for him, you suppose, that he wants to fix the Darkspawn problem badly enough that he’s willing to stop when you’re in a rush. If you ever see one again, however, it will be far too soon. You also have no way to know if Banal’ras is telling the truth or up to something, and you’re the one who actually knows the man.
“This could be a trick, Inquisitor,” the Seeker says quietly, pointing out the obvious.
“Inquisitor?” Banal’ras says, and you have to roll your eyes at how obvious it is that the Seeker really doesn’t understand how keen elf ears are. She’d not meant for him to hear that, you’re sure. “Such an honor I have this day.”
“Given that you’re clearly an apostate and I recently began rebuilding the Templars—”
“Templars or no, the Circles are currently disbanded. Unless you and your friends intend to cart me off to your own prisons for the crime of not belonging to a club that no longer exists…” Banal’ras shrugs. “In any case, I would have thought you’d start with your friends.” He gestures towards Dorian. “And yet, he looks like he hasn’t seen a cage a day in his life.”
“Maybe recreationally,” you mutter under your breath, much more confident than the Seeker that no one can hear you.
“My point,” the Inquisitor says. “Is that you’ve no reason to see this as an honor. In fact, Cassandra has a point; you have a clear motivation for wishing the Inquisition ill.”
“Surely you could say the same of all your apostate friends,” Banal’ras points out, casting eyes over your group and lingering on you for too long before sliding over the slightest bit to gaze at Solas instead. Asshole.
“We know them. We have no idea who you are.”
“Ah, of course. How rude of me.” Banal’ras reaches up, pulling the part of his litham covering his face down, and you wince. Just let them all see your face, sure, okay, great idea. You swear to the Maker, you’re going to kick his ass all the way back to the Lake. “My name is Alas’len. I suppose you must be Inquisitor Trevelyan, and Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, but the rest of you have me at a loss, I’m afraid.”
You barely manage to keep a straight face. You haven’t heard that name in a while. Just the sound of it releases a churn of uncontrolled emotion in your chest. It hurts, more than you realized it would.
You want to run, and you’re not sure if you want to run towards him or away.
That whole thought is a moot point, however, because either would probably be deadly for the both of you, and you’re still trying to keep this scenario from ending in a slaughter.
Cautious introductions circle around your traveling companions. Only Dorian and Solas sound particularly chipper about the situation—Cole is nowhere to be seen. You remain silent; that’s what you’d do if this was a real stranger you’d just run into. You’re just a linguist, after all. Of everyone here, you matter the least. Banal’ras—pardon, Alas’len‘s eyes linger on you, but he doesn’t protest your silence.
“Well then… Alas’len,” the Inquisitor says, tongue awkward on the Elven syllables. “You say the Darkspawn are holed up nearby?”
Alas’len nods. “There’s a cave system with an entrance not far from here. I had enough time to scout a potential pinch point to cut off their access to the surface, but the cave is crawling with their filth. I had no chance of plugging the hole and protecting my own hide.”
The Inquisitor hums, clearly considering. You know objectively that it does speak well of him, but if he thinks you’re accompanying him into some dark horrible cave filled with monsters, he’s got another thing coming. You’ve discovered exactly how far you can be pushed and it’s to this point right here, this point before you go into a Darkpawn infested cave. You don’t even want Alas’len to go. You wish you could catch his eye, figure out what his angle is. You wish you could have him alone.
“It could be a trap,” the Seeker points out again. “An ambush in the cave, or an easy way to rob us of our horses and supplies.”
“We can leave someone here with the horses,” the Inquisitor points out. “Emma, for instance, who has no business being in those caves.”
“Appreciated,” you say dryly.
“Leave one non-combatant here with all our mounts and supplies?” the Seeker protests. “She would be easy pickings to anyone, and there may still be Darkspawn in the area.”
If these fools weren’t with you, you’d have significantly less to fear from Darkspawn. Provided it wasn’t a horde, you suspect you could keep them from even coming close. But you can’t say that, and you wouldn’t be able to explain the piles of burnt corpses.
“I doubt that all of you would be required to slay the Darkspawn. I’m not even sure you could all fit comfortably in the caves,” Alas’len pipes in. “If it would settle your nerves, why not split the party? Some can come assist me with our Darkspawn problem, and the rest can remain here with your delicate companion.”
There’s a bit of discussion after this, but you already know where it’s going to fall. Some will go with Alas’len, some will remain here—and you’ll be one of the ones remaining here, meaning you’ll be unable to pull his ass out of the fire if things turn dire. You have no desire for him to go into a cave with a Seeker and a would-be Templar. They could do anything to him down there and claim it was the Darkspawn. Your jaw is clenched so tightly that it aches, but you can think of nothing to say to salvage the situation.
“Blackwall should stay behind,” the Inquisitor muses, and Blackwall lets out a noise of protest.
“You’re going to fight Darkspawn!”
“But if any attack while we’re gone, you’re the most suited to deal with them,” the Inquisitor insists. “With you here, we don’t have to leave behind half our forces. Sera, you stay too.”
“Fine by me,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Those things smell bad enough out here, let alone in a fuckin’ cave.”
“Having learned my lesson about telling Cassandra to stay behind—” the Inquisitor says, earning him a glare. “Dorian, you stay here. The rest of us will go into the cave with Alas’len.”
You manage to make brief eye contact with Alas’len while this planning is going on, and give him a thin-lipped, terrified glare. The broad smirk he shoots you in return is no comfort at all. You can do nothing but mouth “come back alive” in Elven and pray to no god at all for the best.
You quietly fume and fret the whole time he’s gone, pacing back and forth around the horses. You half expect someone to ask you why you’re so worried, but it seems that in this situation, your nerves seem justified. No one would guess that your fears are more for Alas’len than Solas or any of your other new companions… or even for yourself, waiting in Darkspawn-infested lands with a ton of horses and only three trained fighters.
It’s the better part of an hour, possibly longer, before you see a group on the horizon. It doesn’t take long for you to count the mounts and flood with relief. Alas’len’s camel is clear and obvious, but it seems as though everyone else made it out as well. You can’t see Cole, but that’s hardly cause for concern. He’ll turn up. And you’ll have to have a long talk with him about Alas’len’s secrets.
It’s everything you can do not to march right up to your friend, drag him off his stupid camel, and fill his ears with the kind of lecture that would make even Solas tremble. You settle—grudgingly—for a lot of glaring, increased in potency enough to burn through iron when no one’s looking.
“We managed to seal off the caves,” the Inquisitor announces, mostly to Blackwall, as soon as he’s close enough.
“It was fair crawling with Darkspawn,” Alas’len says, shaking his head. His litham is back up around his face, but no one seems as put off by it now. “I would never have been able to seal it up alone without being detected.”
“One less thing we have to worry about later,” the Inquisitor says. “We can continue on into the Approach now. And…”
“Our new friend has decided to accompany us,” the Seeker interjects, making no attempt to hide her suspicion on the matter.
“He’s what.” You’re surprised to realize that was your voice.
“The Inquisitor generously offered me aid for helping in dealing with the Darkspawn in this area,” Alas’len says cheerfully, eyes on you but expression unreadable behind his mask. “And I’ll admit I’m quite curious to learn more about a group that includes two Templars, two mages, and what appears to be a ghost.”
“Oh, that’s Cole,” Dorian pipes in. “You get used to him, somehow.”
You open your mouth to object, and then close it. At least this will give you a chance to get him alone. To yell at him. And then warn him. And maybe shake him, both because he deserves it and also because part of you can’t believe he’s really here.
It had taken long enough to deal with the Darkspawn, and your group is tired enough, that you travel only perhaps another hour before the Inquisitor has you stop near what was no doubt the closest oasis available. You set up camp some small distance away from the actual water, which Blackwall explains to you is because of the blood still staining their armor. There’s not a great deal of flowing water in the desert, and no one wants to risk tainting an oasis with the Blight.
Of course, you can’t help but notice that you, Alas’len, and Dorian appear to be the only ones who made it through the battle without getting some degree of tainted blood on your clothing.
“Perhaps the three of us could fill the water barrels and haul them to camp?” you suggest.
“Emma,” Dorian protests, sounding as if you’d just stabbed him in the back.
“A good idea,” Blackwall agrees, grinning. “We wouldn’t want to risk any contamination.”
“I must protest,” Dorian begins, but the Inquisitor cuts him off.
“Oh, just use magic, the lot of you,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Make the barrels float or something.”
“Inquisitor, if I could make barrels float, I would never carry anything again,” you say dryly.
“If you’ve got two big, strapping lads to do it, I don’t see why you’d have to do any heavy lifting at all,” the Inquisitor says. “It’s not as if upper body strength is your forte.” You can see the Seeker rub her face, clearly tired, behind him.
“My feminine noodle arms and I will make do,” you say, letting your voice get just a little icy, to see if either of them will notice. Both do. The Inquisitor looks confused; the Seeker meets your eyes with the long-suffering gaze shared between women since time immemorial. The Inquisitor follows your gaze and glances back at the Seeker, and then towards you.
“…What did I say now?” he wonders aloud.
“I must protest to either of us being called ‘big’ or ‘strapping,'” Alas’len chimes in. “I realize it’s difficult to see me under these robes, but our friend here appears to be quite trim.” He gives Dorian an appraising up and down look that’s clear even with his litham on.
“Also, if it weren’t for Sera, our new friend would be the shortest one here,” you point out, which catches you the sharp look from Alas’len you’d expected.
“I believe I might have perhaps a scant inch on you,” he says, voice teasing despite the look he’s giving you. He does; you know he does. You remember the summer he shot up like elfroot, and the subject of your comparative heights never ceased to be a popular topic since. “If you’d care to stand very close, we could have someone measure.”
“No need for that,” you say, picking up an empty water barrel. “I’m fairly sure Dorian here has a spell for that.”
“A spell for measuring heights?” Dorian asks, dryly. “What must you think of the laziness of my countrymen, to assume such a thing.”
“Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll tell you all the practical uses of a measuring spell,” you point out, handing him the barrel. He takes it, although he doesn’t look particularly happy about it.
You turn to grab another one, but Alas’len has already picked one up and hands it to you, getting a little too close to press it into your arms. He has a troublesome glint in his eyes that you recognize even without being able to see the rest of his face. You shoot him back a glare so potent that you suspect anyone nearby can see the sparks fly. You swear, the second you get him alone…
“Are you quite certain you want me along for this?” Dorian asks, sounding amused.
“In some places, it is necessary for a lady to have a chaperone when she must share the company of an unfamiliar man,” Alas’len chirps in.
“I’m not from any of those places, and wouldn’t qualify as a lady regardless,” you say sourly. “But if you think you’re getting out of helping me carry these damn barrels that easily, Dorian, you have another thing coming.”
With a long sigh, Dorian starts across the sand towards the oasis, and you and Alas’len follow at just enough of a distance that you can hiss under your breath at him, inaudible to Dorian’s human ears.
“What the fuck are you doing, lethallin?” you demand quietly. “You’re going to get us both killed!”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” he murmurs back.
“Don’t you start that shit with me! What are you thinking?! They know you’re a mage now! They’ve seen your face!”
“Do breathe, lethallin. They’ve seen a desert apostate and nothing else. So long as you don’t blow my cover by being overly familiar.”
“Blow your cover?! I’ve been here for months, you absolute prat! You have no idea who I am to them! If they get even a hint—”
“I will be overjoyed to get to know you, Emma,” he says, and for the first time, his voice betrays bitterness. “Just as well as I intend to get to know your friends,” he adds, with a glance towards Dorian.
“Do not,” you hiss. “I mean it. Don’t you dare.”
“Don’t dare? Dare not what, exactly? Join the Inquisition with an old name no one knows anymore, then immediately learn the ins and outs of a man old enough to be my father?”
“…Dorian’s not old enough to be your father,” you settle on finally, after too long silent. You glance up at him, trying to do math in your head. “…Probably.” There are too many unknown variables and your confusion with regards to Solas’s age is still too fresh on your mind for you to trust your guesses.
Dorian’s at the oasis now, and you’re catching up too fast. “Find a way to be alone with me later.” Even you don’t know if it’s a demand or a plea. “We need to…” Talk? Catch up? Plot?
“Ah, you know me too well already,” Alas’len says with a smile. “I love nothing more than getting people alone.”
That chance to be alone doesn’t come until well after dinner, which you spend glued to Solas’s side and sullenly silent. For once, Solas seems more than willing to pick up any conversation that you don’t want to have, and is serving the same general function that you have for him in the past. You’re left alone to stew as much as is possible in these circumstances.
Alas’len is doing a good job spreading his affections around. You’ve seen him work before, but this is the first time you’ve felt the need to sulk about it. Of course, Pentaghast and Sera are more than ready to loathe him, both for his personality and the fact he’s a mage, which you can’t help think speaks somewhat poorly of them. You understand how people could hate him, you suppose, but as he breaks off a piece of his bread to offer to you, commenting with a pout how you’re barely eating, you can’t help but think that anyone who does is probably somewhat soulless.
Of course, him offering you bread with that pouty, wide-eyed, cute-little-brother expression—and you actually taking it and eating it—is probably the source of a fair chunk of extra dislike from Sera, given her general attitude towards you. You know for a damned fact that Alas’len actually is flirting, too, so if she’s pissy about Solas… This is actually justified by comparison.
In the course of a single meal, you watch as Alas’len figures out the correct attitude to have with each of your companions, about as fast as you had, although with a great deal more direct interaction. Despite—or probably because of—your protest, he spends more than his fair share of flirtation on Dorian. Part of that, however, is probably just because the only other one here open to it is you. Dorian is just plain better at being seduced than you.
It’s almost worth the danger of the situation to watch the Inquisitor utterly fail to realize when he’s being flirted with, though. Especially because the Seeker definitely notices.
“Goodness,” Alas’len almost purrs, feigning shock well. “All of the men here are quite rugged. Do you feel left out?” he directs this last comment at Solas, as he rubs a hand woefully over his own bare face. “I believe I do.”
You can see the Inquisitor turning slightly pink, self-consciously running a hand over his own growing stubble, which is by now a short beard in its own right. He hasn’t particularly had time to shave on the road. You’re pretty sure Dorian does so by magic.
“Ah… It’s just, you know…”
You lean onto one hand, watching with detached bemusement as a man who was actively hostile two hours ago fumbles over himself trying to deal with a compliment. Absolutely wretched. Why can’t you do that? Who compliments a man on his facial hair, anyway? Save Dorian, they just look unkempt to you. Ugh. You suppose that’s why you can’t do that. “Charming” only works for you in short bursts. Alas’len, by contrast, just fucking oozes it. Jackass.
You made such a good team, once. How did you ever luck into finding someone who filled in your shortcomings? Alas’len kept your temper in check—barely—and you… well, you made sure he actually brushed his hair, and didn’t run dick-long into every bad decision possible. You’d wondered how he was faring in your absence, but his presence here answers the question somewhat succinctly. Bad decisions were back on the menu, and he always did have quite the appetite.
It’s well into the night by the time you manage to sneak off, despite how distracted everyone is by Alas’len’s presence. You skulk out of sight behind a large, scrubby, thick tree some distance from camp. You’d had to skirt by Pentaghast, who was on guard duty at the time. Fortunately, the other guard was Cole, so she was probably distracted paying more attention to him than, you know, actual threats.
Since you sleep alone—well, with Cole, but that’s essentially the same thing—you’re able to lurk out there for a while, which is good because Alas’len takes his damn time finding you. He’d set up his own tent—far more suited to the desert than any of the Inquisition’s, furthering his disguise as a nomad—but you’re sure people are watching him much more closely than they are you. You’re not bitter that it took him a long time, so long as he was careful.
He slips down next to you, back against the bark of the tree, but you round on him before he has enough time to so much as inhale. You twist over in front of him, locking your knees around his and letting your weight sit on his legs, eyes a furious blaze as you glare right in his face.
“What. In the cursed void. Are you doing here,” you hiss.
“Well, someone implied she would appreciate an illicit midnight meeting, and—”
“Don’t you dare play cute with me right now! You’re going to get me killed! You’re going to get yourself killed! You are going to get us both absolutely murdered! What were you thinking?!”
“I was thinking that the last time you came to Orlais, you walked into my back yard and then refused to meet with me outside of asking for a favor. I was thinking that you would take this moment, crossing Orlais, to leave the Inquisition rather than be dragged into a Darkspawn infested desert. And then I was thinking that if I wanted anything resembling an answer for why you hadn’t, I was clearly going to have to go to you.”
That brings you up short. Unfortunately. You should have been more prepared for him to have reasons, let alone good ones, but your mind hadn’t gotten much further than “what the fuck you idiot aaaaaaaah” in actuality.
“…I can’t just leave,” you say finally, rubbing your forehead. “I’m in very, very deep here. I’d have to toss Alix if I just up and left.”
“I’ve seen you toss names for a lot less than being dragged into a Blighted desert full of demons, Darkspawn, and who knows what else,” Alas’len points out. “You’d already all but trashed her when you left Val Royeaux the first time.”
When you say nothing, sulking, he sighs and presses a finger against your nose. You snort and bat his hand away. “You have gotten far too used to lying to people who know nothing about you, lethallin.”
“Me, chief amongst them,” you grumble under your breath. “I have a lot of resources here, lethallin, and I’m growing them every day. I’m this close to having a whole damn team of mercenaries.” You reach your hand out, as if trying to grasp something just out of reach. “A fortress full of elves who trust me, two remarkably powerful mages who dote on me, even that idiot Seeker is intent on babying me. I hate this. But I’d be an idiot to toss that to avoid a traipse through the desert.”
“You had more in Val Royeaux,” he says, and you once again hear the barely-concealed bitterness in his voice.
“If anything, that was the problem,” you say with a sigh, then endeavor to change the subject. You’ll get nowhere being angry with him when he has just as much reason to be angry with you. “Surely things haven’t fallen apart without me? I left them in such capable hands, after all.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Alas’len scolds, and you snort.
“Liar.”
Alas’len lets out the sigh of the eternally tested, who coincidentally also have nothing to say in their own defense, because you’re right. “Things are in pure chaos right now. Not with ours—we’re fine. But we’re perhaps the only ones left in Val Royeaux doing so well.”
“I trust you’re taking appropriate advantage?”
“Am I ever,” Alas’len says, rubbing the side of his face. “We’ve more than tripled in size, although I suspect we have significant overlap with Briala’s people at this point.”
“It’s to be expected,” you say with a nod. “We’re drawing from the same well, after all.”
“I’ve had to create tiers,” he complains. “Since we can’t possibly risk information falling into the wrong hands. It’s all very complicated. I hate it.”
“You love it,” you counter.
“I love the reality of it being done. I hate having to actually do it,” he grumbles.
“Awww,” you tease. “The desk work of running an underground elvhen legion getting you down?”
“Yes.” He thumps down into the sand with a very put-out sigh. “You neglected to tell me how much of it was involved. I was led on.”
“That’s not how I remember it happening,” you muse, as if thinking it over. “In fact, I remember no small amount of begging…“
“I have never begged a day in my life.”
“How do you say such tremendous lies with such a straight face?”
“It comes with the territory,” he says dryly. “I could ask you the same. You stayed retired for, what, five minutes?”
“That wasn’t my fault,” you grumble, crossing your arms. “Trouble found me.”
“And then you ran directly at more of it, instead of coming home.”
“I thought the Inquisition would be a safe place to wait out the war,” you say, running a hand through your hair. Your bun is coming loose; you just go ahead and yank it out and let your hair fall down. You try to brush some sand and knots out of it with your fingers. “I didn’t think they’d drag me across Orlais twice in as many months.”
“And this Solas idiot is worth that trouble?”
You freeze, hand still in your hair, then glare at him out of the corner of your eyes. “He’s not the reason.”
“You went on a job with him.”
“I used him as a cover for a job,” you counter. “He’s too perceptive for me to have snuck out on my own, and what if he caught me at it? How would I explain taking down magical wards? He’d already found out I was a bard; it just worked out.”
“He just found that out did he? What else does he know about you?”
“Not much. …I think,” you admit, squinting into the middle distance. “Hard to know for sure. Nothing important about you, despite your best attempts to ruin that. I’m pretty sure he thinks Banal’ras is my ex-boyfriend.”
Alas’len snorts. “Not entirely inaccurate. I definitely remember getting dumped.”
“If I dumped you, it’s even more inappropriate for you to chase me into a desert,” you say dryly.
“Wouldn’t it be a grand romantic gesture?”
“Stalking.”
“Damn. I’ve never been clear on that score.”
“Lethallin,” you say finally, still running fingers through your hair in a failed attempt to comb it. “Why in the Maker’s name did you do magic in front of the Inquisition?”
“Because there were a load of Darkspawn, ma moitié, and I didn’t want to die.”
“Bullshit.”
Alas’len sighs. “Because I’m not good at this.” He gestures vaguely at you. “And there is a Seeker here. If she finds me half-hidden, what happens to you? How many times have you lectured me on that very thing?”
You’re silent. That’s a very good argument, and precisely why you hadn’t wanted to show him your trick in the first part, and had refused to teach him when he couldn’t do it instantly.
“They would have figured it out sooner or later,” he says with a shrug. “Less suspicion if I show them straight-out. Show them what they think should be a secret, and they stop looking. Who taught me that?”
“…Me,” you grumble under your breath. “…I’m not used to you making decisions that have any degree of thought behind them.”
Alas’len reaches up to shove half-heartedly at your shoulder. “You weren’t paying attention, then.”
“I can promise you, I absolutely was.”
“Well, it couldn’t possibly be that something happened recently that required me to suddenly and abruptly take on a huge amount of responsibility,” Alas’len says dryly. “That would be ridiculous.”
“Alright, alright,” you say, putting your hands up in surrender. You’re definitely not going to win anything with him now; he has too much on you. “Speaking of a sudden onset of responsibility…”
“Oh, this is going to be good.”
“The girl I sent your way, Dirth’len. Where did you wind up sending her? If you’re having trouble, I sent a bunch of refugees out to—”
“She’s in your old apartment.”
“Oh, she—what?“
“The old apartment,” he repeats blandly.
“It was… empty?” you ask, feeling hurt, unreasonably.
Alas’len glances up at you, wordlessly, considering. “That upsets you?”
You say nothing, kicking at the sand with your bare foot.
“Did you expect me to stay? See your ghost around every corner?” he continues. “Wake up every evening to an empty bed?”
“…I guess that would be stupid,” you mutter, tucking your knees up against your chest and wrapping your arms around them. “Why would you let her keep living alone, though? She’s a child. She needs a family, or an orphanage.”
“She’s not that young,” he says with a shrug. “And besides, it’s what she wanted.”
You twist your head to look at him sharply. “…Is it now? She wanted to stay in an empty apartment in a shitty corner of the Alienage? Why would she want that, I wonder.”
Now it’s Alas’len’s turn to sulk quietly.
“Why, pray tell, would a little girl want to stay in the same hell hole she grew up in, when she ought to have the whole world to choose from?”
“…She wanted to stay with me,” he said finally, airily as if he’s not confessing to anything at all.
You turn and begin kicking furiously at his legs.
“Ow! Ow! Stop it, you—”
“You fuck! I told you to move her along! She’s a baby!” you hiss at him, only not yelling because you don’t want to draw attention.
“What do you think I’m doing to her?!” he hisses right back, scooting away from your furiously kicking legs. “I’m not a monster, you absolute—”
“Don’t let some lonely little street rat get attached! Are you an idiot?!”
“Are you?!”
“YES! How do you think I know?”
This time, he kicks, and it catches you right in the side. You let out a little pained wheeze and fall over.
“It’s too late for your fucking regrets,” he snarls, and you hold up your hands again.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Oh didn’t you.”
“You were supposed to move her along! I gave instructions,” you whine.
“She wanted to stay.”
“You shouldn’t have given her that as an option! You’re as shitty of an influence as I am! Possibly worse. Neither of us have any business being around children. We’ll groom them without even meaning to.”
“You sent her to me, already a third of the way there,” he says rolling his eyes. “And she didn’t want to leave.”
“She didn’t want to leave because you’re hot and she’s hitting puberty!” you snap. “What girl in her situation would want to? Hand a starving orphan a hot, mysterious older man, what would you expect?”
“Ooh, describe me more.”
“Can you please take this seriously?”
“No. Also, you’re the one who handed her to the sexy rogue,” he points out. “If you want to bitch about turning her life into the plot of a youth’s romance novel, bitch at yourself first.”
“I presumed you would see a whiny little girl and hurl her out of the city limits so fast she’d snap through the Veil twice. Also, who else was I supposed to ask?”
“Jean?”
“Jean doesn’t have the resources to move an elf orphan anywhere. You do! That’s the whole point of Banal’ras!”
“Not the whole point.”
“We move elves!” you exclaim, exasperated. “For fuck’s sake, ‘Len!”
“I’m not making her miserable to soothe your shitty conscious,” he snaps finally. “Look, I’m not telling her anything, but she’s three fifths of the way there on her own.” He reaches into his robes, pulls something out. “This is a letter she wrote you, in about thirty minutes, right after hearing where I was going.”
He thrusts the paper at you, and you open it wordlessly.
It’s a letter alright. It’s a letter in code. It’s a very basic cipher; looks like a simple 1-1 alphabetic cipher based on… some mathematical formula, maybe. You glance up.
“Did you…?”
“No. You’re looking at baby’s first secret message,” he says dryly. “Someone will swoop her up in a heartbeat if she’s not dead by fifteen.”
You glare back down at the message, which almost certainly doesn’t include anything that would require coding to begin with. “…This is still your fault. I’m still mad at you.”
“When are you not?”
“—set the whole thing on fire, but try doing that when your resident firestarter has fucked off to raise llamas—”
“It’s not even hard, you one-trick pony; what kind of mage can’t cast a fireball?”
“My fire acts like fire. Your fire acts like it’s—hold on.” Alas’len pauses, and you do too, stiffening. You’re fairly far away from camp, but if someone overhears… Or even sees, the way the two of you have wound up halfway on top of each other—ostensibly for warmth, actually because you both have a lot of hair that’s better suited to having someone else comb it.
Alas’len twists, straddling your hips so he can crane his neck around the tree. “…False alarm,” he says after a moment, sitting back on his legs. “I thought I heard someone.”
“Thank the Maker,” you grumble. “I have no idea how I’d explain being alone with someone I just met behind a tree at midnight. They already think I’m enough of a slut as it is.”
“They do?” Alas’len asks, looking equal parts shocked and delighted. “You? How? Why?”
“I don’t know! It just happened!” You let out an exasperated sigh. “I think Bull used it as a cover with the Inquisitor once, and one of the first assets I met there was a real rumormonger… It just ballooned, and now I’m the fort mount, somehow.”
“Well, that’s easy then,” he says with a shrug. “I’m a charming rogue, you’re a loose woman. Lean into it, and we have every excuse in the world to sneak off together without suspicion.”
“It’s not nearly that easy,” you say, thinking of Sera.
“Oh? Someone here whose opinion of your reputation matters?” Alas’len asks archly.
“Kind of, yes. I just convinced the Warden I wasn’t sleeping my way through the ranks!”
“You’re concerned about what a Warden thinks of you? With what they’re up to? Lethallin, are we projecting again?”
“Shut up,” you hiss, because you absolutely are projecting again. “Wait, what do you know about what the Wardens are up to? And also, how?”
“No one can move that many men around without accumulating rumors. People talk. Details are few and far between, but whatever they’re up to, it’s dire enough that they’ve neglected their duties utterly. Every Warden in Thedas gathering in the Approach, and they’re somehow lacking the manpower to take care of the Darkspawn on their doorstep.” He shakes his head. “And the Inquisitor is heading out with a full advance party—and you. Something insane is starting. I can smell it.”
“That’s probably me. It’s hard to bathe on the road.”
Alas’len rolls his eyes. “Well, if you’re not going to let me bed you, we’ll need to think of something else. There’s more we have to share than can be accomplished in a few midnight romps through the desert, and someone will see us eventually if we keep trying to sneak off.”
“It’s too suspicious for us to know each other from anything,” you muse out loud. “I can’t risk it after all the conclusions the Nightingale is already drawing about me.” But of course, no matter what you do, Sera is bound to be furious with you. She’ll assume the worst again, just like she does with Solas. But maybe that’s for the best. For her and Solas, if the see you seduced by some tramp, maybe they’ll finally drag you off of that pedestal. You’re not getting out of this without hurting Sera, and you’ve tried breaking things off with her so many times. The two of you just keep bouncing back together like idiots. But if she calls it off…
No, that’s cruel. And also, she’d hate you. But you’ve broken up with her what, seven times? It doesn’t stick!
But maybe, if you break up with her and rebound, she’ll get the hint?
“…Let’s revisit that seduction idea.”
“Oh, you always know just what to say.”
“Quiet. Be your normal charming, idiot self. Only this time, I’ll let it work. We’ll start spending a bit more time together. It’ll buy time, and if we ever are seen sneaking out together, well…”
“Charming, I can do. Although if you have that Tevinter third-wheeling every single time, I can’t promise you’ll keep my undivided focus.”
You reach up to push him, shoving him—gently—off of you. “I told you, no. Don’t get any ideas with him.”
“You can’t possibly expect me not to have ideas. He’s a noble human—it absolutely wafts off of him—and a Tevinter to boot. Also, you have seen him, yes?”
“He’s not a score for you to settle! He’s kinder than you think, Alas’len, and he doesn’t deserve what you do to men.”
“You make it sound like it’s not enjoyed thoroughly by all parties,” he says, pouting.
“It’s not. They might enjoy you sinking your claws in, but no one enjoys when you rip them out.”
“You want me to be gentle?”
“Lethanalin,” you spit out, and Alas’len stills.
“Tel’halel? Mi’tam shem?“
“Tel’halel! Shem na mir falon.“
Alas’len pouts again, crossing his arms. “I can’t believe you. Over some Vint! You can’t do that on all of them, you know! I thought you’d save it for your bald mage.”
You snort. “Lethallin, if you can seduce Solas, you deserve to. At this point, I might consider if a favor. Now, we have our plan. Let’s get back to camp—separately—before someone realizes both our tents are empty.”
“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “But I want you to understand that you’re an absolute bore and no fun at all.”
“Good. Between the two of us, maybe we’ll average out to one normal person.”