Suspicions

The panic thrumming through you doesn’t leave much room for thought. You manage to keep the churning chaos inside of you; that’s about the most intelligent thing you can manage. It wants to come out, to burst out of you and burn the mist away. Instead, you force it down, down, into the depths of your gut, and move swiftly along the side of building. Your mind is screaming at you to get to cover, but buildings aren’t viable; there are people inside of buildings.

The fog is so thick it feels like it’s choking you. Tight cells, burning flesh. You have a plan, don’t you? You always have a plan. You need to think, you just need ten minutes to fucking think!

“Screams from the fog, can’t see, can barely hear, thick and wet and muffles everything.”

Wait…

“That fog wasn’t real. This is. I can help.”

The voice isn’t coming from your own head. You panic when you first see a figure in the fog, the right size and shape to spell your death. You recoil backwards, hand flashing towards your dagger in a desperate attempt to defend yourself.

“I’m not them, and you’re not there.”

The man comes closer, and you pause. He’s certainly no Qunari, and he looks nothing like a Fog Warrior, pale skin and pale hair.

“I can help you,” he says again, and the panic gripping your heart seems to finally paralyze you, your legs giving out entirely. His hand outstretches as you sink to the ground, vision blurring.

“Eyes of the bluest skies, warm smile, she makes me feel alive, oh Maker.” Words like gentle waves wash over you, and you can feel Seheron slipping further away, banished back to bad memories. There’s no way this is just words. What’s he doing? “Four walls and a door with a lock, no one has any idea who I am.”

You don’t know how long you spend just listening to the soothing voice, but when you finally open your eyes, the fog doesn’t look nearly so thick. You glance over at the man, who you now realize is possibly more a boy. He’s tall, but his face betrays youth.

“Your mind got lost,” he says, as if explaining it to you. “I heard the hurt, came to help.”

“You… w-what?” You feel like you need to clean out your ears.

“You don’t glow like Solas, but you think like him,” the boy says, tilting his head, large-brimmed hat flopping to the side.

“Emma! Em’, you alright?” Sera. You don’t want to see her, don’t want to see anyone. You just want to curl up on that little bed of yours and shut the world away. But you suppose you need to do something resembling damage control.

“She likes you, not because she was told to, but because you’re you.” You stare at the boy incredulously for a few more moments before turning towards the growing sound of Sera’s voice. When you glance back, the boy is gone. Of course he is. Perhaps he was never there at all, and you’ve finally lost it.

“There you are! Wha’ happened?” Varric is behind her, looking equally worried.

“I… n-needed some air?”

---

After a few minutes of awkward explanation, the three of you adjourn to the second floor of the tavern. You hear someone ask one of the Chargers where Bull is, and shudder to think how much worse this could have been if Bull’d been around. You owe him for giving you space… And for other things you don’t want think about right now.

“So, I get the fog thing, but why’d you freak out about me knowin’ Varric?” Sera wants to know. You rub a hand against the back of your neck, not making eye contact.

“I’m sort of… I’m not used to attention from important people.” Sera makes a noise of protest, but you cut her off and keep going. “I’ve got Leliana asking me questions, and multiple ‘friends’ of the Inquisitor following me around and talking to me.”

“But it was all fine when you just thought we were some random people?” asks Varric, a little bit of incredulity creeping into his voice.

“Well… you were never just a random person, Varric, but, yes, more or less. There’s a difference, right, between when you talk to a noble and when you talk to a normal person. It’s like that, but scarier, like if you found you’d been talking to the Empress of Orlais in disguise.”

“We’re not like that, though!” Sera interjects. “Alright, sure, the Herald is all important and glowy, but we’re just people! People people!”

You smile weakly. “I know what you mean, what you think you mean, but… you’re not, not anymore. You’re all caught up in this… swirling chaos. Like… Like a whirlpool, with the Inquisitor at the center. The closer you are to him, the closer you are to the madness in the middle of it all.”

The two of them are staring at you. “…W-what?” you ask, unnerved.

“You mind if I use that?” requests Varric, finally.

“Wh…” And then the laughter comes. You’re not sure where it’s coming from… You’re a little bit surprised every time you laugh genuinely, but this is a shock. It starts as a chuckle and grows out of control, until you’re roaring with it, cackling and gasping for breath as tears burn in the corner of your eye. Varric grins lopsidedly, and, kindly, he and Sera let you laugh yourself stupid.

“Too bad someone’s already got the nickname ‘Chuckles,’” Sera quips when you finally stop, tears in your eyes and gasping for breath.

“I… I’m sorry,” you choke out, unable to keep mirth from dancing on your lips. “Yeah, Varric. You can use it. But I expect you to sign my copy of Tale of the Champion.”

“You got it, Stutter.” He holds up a sheaf of paper. “You still wanna write this letter? We can do it later, if you still want to.”

You stare at the paper for a moment, a few conflicted thoughts running through your mind. Then you turn to Sera. “Hey, Sera. Ask me about my childhood.”

---

You get through it that way, haltingly telling Sera about your life in Seheron. Bits and pieces. You were the youngest slave that you ever saw in Seheron, although there had been younger than you during your education. Some of the others treated you kind of like a little sister. When you weren’t working, sometimes, late at night, you’d burn a stolen candle down to a nub as older faces eagerly watched you scratch out letters in chalk. A slave who could read was dangerous, because knowledge wants to spread, wants to grow.

Sera walks you back to your room, through the fog, close enough to you that sometimes her arm brushes against yours. Before she leaves, she turns to you and says, “We should see more of each other, Em’. Maybe we’ll make our own whirlpool.” At your speechlessness she adds, “You know… all… wet and… spinny… and… I’m jus’ gonna go now.”

You spend a lot of time that night thinking.

---

Sleep is starting to escape you. Not just because of late nights spent on roofs or in taverns, but the first sign of an inevitable decline. You recognize it when you wake before dawn after a few measly hours of rest. It barely feels like you’d slept at all, and you don’t remember dreaming. Soon, you’ll have to get out, get some proper exercise, or true insomnia will set in. You shouldn’t have spent so much time in hiding before coming to Skyhold; now that you’re here, there’s no real way to leave and get out from under the prying eyes of the Inquisition without raising suspicion. You’ll just have to grin and bear it. You’ve had worse for longer.

You stumble up out of bed… Thea probably isn’t even up yet. You get dressed as slowly as you can, putting off the inevitable step outside into the cold. When you finally do have to go outside, you rush across the courtyard as quickly as you can, and go into the rotunda from the side entrance. Despite the walls, the wind is viciously cold and sharp this far up in the mountains.

You’re not surprised that Solas is still asleep, but you are surprised that he appears to have fallen asleep at his desk. You’re also surprised to notice that he’s placed wards… You don’t even notice until you nearly trip over them. In the condition that you’re in, you’d have to trigger them to have any chance of figuring out what they were. Even if you let yourself loose enough to examine them, that might set something off in and of itself, and then you’d be up a shit creek with no boat. You choke down your curiosity and stay close to the wall of the rotunda, skirting the far edge until you get to where your supplies are.

You wince as you lower yourself onto the floor to begin working again. Your back doesn’t appreciate spending all day every day in an awkward position on a stone floor, that much is certain.

You can’t help pausing before you actually start your work, eyes drifting over to Solas’ sleeping form. It’s kind of cute that he fell asleep at his desk, really. You wonder what on earth he was doing before he fell asleep that required him setting wards. You then realize you’ve been staring at a sleeping man for about five minutes, and decide now is really the time to start working on the manuscript.

Eventually, you’re going to have to take some of these pages back to your room to duplicate them. There’s no way you’re not keeping a copy of this tome for yourself (plus, won’t they want one for the library?) You’ll figure out that messy situation later, however. Might as well finish the first one before worrying about more.

Work is a little bit slower without the enchantment on your wrist. You have to move more slowly, more carefully. You let your eyes drift over to Solas—who is, amazingly, still sleeping—only for a moment before you redouble your concentration on your work. Stiff shoulders and sleepy eyes make for slow going, however.

Time passes tediously as you meticulously sweat over each letter. Your back cramps and you have to change position. You’re almost tempted to move back up to the desk in the library, but stubbornness and the knowledge that silence is more important to your ability to work than a desk keeps you firmly on the stone floor, your back curled over your work as you attempt to stabilize yourself against the wall, bare toes curling against the ground.

You keep your focus on your work and off the steadily growing pain in your back and rear. When you notice Thea waving wildly from the doorway—around lunchtime if your growling stomach is any indicator—you pretend not to notice her, hoping she might come in and set off the damn wards herself. Instead, she just gives up after a bit and wanders off. Maybe you should get up and follow her to lunch? You wound up skipping breakfast just by getting up so early and getting straight to work. Your stomach is complaining almost as loudly as your back, at this point.

But you don’t, mostly because you haven’t gotten enough work done to satisfy yourself. This is what you get for spending your nights goofing off! You should be further along with the tome than you are. You silently berate yourself as you work until a woman comes in, startling you so badly that you damn near spill your ink. It’s just someone bringing Solas’ food, however. You do note that it’s been a different person every time. Do they draw lots or something? How can anyone be unnerved by someone who sleeps at his desk until lunch? You choose to ignore the fact that you were intimidated by him as well, when you first arrived.

You watch with interest as she enters, wondering what will happen when the wards are finally triggered… but the woman hesitates when she sees him asleep. She looks around, seeming mildly panicked, and then finally sets the tray of food down on a table by the couch before darting off. Oh for… Well, you suppose you could have said something, yourself, to help her out. Or to trick her into triggering the wards. There was no way they were set to explode or anything like that; this was inside a building for pity’s sake. You just haven’t survived this long by fucking around with unknown magic.

When Solas shows no sign of getting up (seriously, how long was he going to sleep?), you decide that if he gets hungry later, he can send for food himself. You stand, stretching and wincing at the complaining your body does. How spoiled have you become, that just lying on a floor 12 hours a day for a few days is enough to have your body whining like a spoiled princeling? Ridiculous.

You skirt the line of the ward again, then throw yourself down onto the couch. Maker, it’s a really nice couch. You sink down into it with a moan, delighting in how it sinks around you and offers you support at the same time. This couch is better than most lovers! You glance over at the food… some light brown broth that smells delightful, bread that’s still warm, and… Maker, is that dried fruit? Your mouth is salivating heavily. You make a promise to yourself, then and there, to try and steal from Solas’ plates regularly.

The soup is onion based, and sinfully delicious. You dip the bread in it and eat it slowly, savoring the taste. You hold no grudge towards porridge, but there’s no comparison. You eat the fruits similarly slowly, letting each sweet bite burst into your mouth. How long has it been since you had dried fruit? Ooooh, Maker. You should drop hints at Iron Bull and Varric that you can be easily bribed with food. If you’re going to be pestered, you should at least be able to enjoy it.

“I fear you’re picking up bad habits.”

Solas’s voice makes you jump, and you nearly choke on a dried grape. It’s too far for you to feel him lowering the wards, but you assume he either already has, or will shortly. Almost a shame you won’t figure out what they were for.

“In my defense, you were asleep,” you manage, after swallowing with some difficulty.

“Indeed I was, and yet here you are, making yourself quite at home.” It’s hard to tell if he’s amused or annoyed. He doesn’t exactly broadcast his emotions. You glance guiltily at the couch, and stand quickly. He’s an elf, and a mage, so it’s quite easy to forget he’s of significantly higher station than you.

“My apologies, ser,” you say, not wanting to get yourself removed from your new station in the rotunda.

“Come here,” is all he says, and your nervousness grows. He’d been rather amused at your food stealing antics yesterday, but perhaps he is the type to wake up grumpy? You walk forward anxiously, bare feet silent on the stone. You feel the wards before you cross them. Is that what this is about? He wants you to trigger them? You have to force yourself not to pause, to step down directly on the magic without wincing. You can feel it surge underneath you, but keep walking. Nothing explodes and it doesn’t seem to be searching you in any way, but you’re still nervous.

You reach the desk, then search Solas’ face for some hint at what he’s thinking. “Go to the kitchens,” he instructs you. “Bring the dishes back to them, and let them know to bring two dinners. Don’t make the serving girl make two trips. Do I need to tell you where the kitchens are?”

You really wish the answer was ‘no,’ but in truth, you have literally no idea where they’re located. Near the mess, you imagine. You nod, glad you don’t blush easily. This is not precisely a scolding, but you still feel embarrassed.

“Go out into the hall, and through the second door on your left,” he instructs, picking up a stack of papers (your translation, you realize) as he speaks. “Down the stairs, through the servant’s quarters, to the last door on the right.” He looks up at you, and you catch a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Do try not to get lost.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak just then, so you don’t risk it, instead simply turning and walking stiffly out of the room. A few minutes on a nice couch wasn’t enough to cure your soreness.

You don’t like being in the Great Hall. You avoid it during the day, whenever possible. There’s a great deal of coming and going involved, and visiting nobles often loiter there. You’re kind of surprised nobles visit all the way out here, but that’s just how important the Inquisition is becoming. You pass Varric at his writing desk, and he flags you down before you can find the correct door.

“Hey, Stutter. I hope you know, Sera, Iron Bull and I all went to the mess for lunch. I’ll bet I wasn’t the only one who like a right idiot when Thea showed up alone.”

You smirk. “I feel absolutely horrible for you, Varric. Honestly, my heart bleeds for your plight.”

“Yeah, yeah, have a good laugh at my expense,” he grumbles, but without any kind of earnest displeasure. “If you keep it up, people are going to start interrupting your alone time with Chuckles.”

You snort. “Start? Iron Bull already has. I think Thea’s the only one silly enough not to just walk right in.” You smile, a bit to yourself. “Don’t expect me to leave more often. He’s started feeding me. You know what happens when you start feeding strays.”

“Oh, this is really a thing, isn’t it? I should have seen it coming.”

“It’s not a thing. At least not whatever definition of ‘thing’ you’re using. Frankly, I think he’s more taking pity on me than anything.” You hum lightly to yourself, considering. “I want to pick his brain, but so far he’s mostly been picking mine.” You share your head to clear your thoughts. “Anyway, I need to get going.”

“Oh? Where you heading?”

You take a long glance down at the platter of dishes you’re holding. “Kitchens?” you say, lifting them up slightly to indicate them. Varric raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t press. “That door, down the stairs,” he points out.

“Yeah, yeah…” you mutter as you head to the door. The flight of stairs in question is quite long… going down them with a platter of plates isn’t going to be fun. For your sore back, mostly, but it does bring up some serving-girl memories. Well, it can’t be helped. You bounce down them, then wander through the servant’s quarters. You actually take the wrong door at first, and find yourself in a really amazing looking library that you promise you’ll check out later. But you do, eventually, find the kitchen, full of bustling staff and a red faced human man yelling at a lot of elves. Grand.

You approach someone at random who doesn’t seem too terribly busy. “I, uh, need to drop these off… and I need a plate of food?” you say awkwardly, not sure what the protocol is. “For, uh, for Solas?” A rather flustered looking woman overhears, and frowns.

“Celia! You said you’d taken his food up, girl!” she snaps at a woman you recognize from earlier.

“She did,” you say quickly. “It’s this, these… the plates. He, uh… has someone else who’s come in, some work thing. He wants another plate brought up, and sent me to get it. He said he’ll need two dinners brought up later, too.”

One wouldn’t think so, but pointed ears let you walk into any place with a large staff without much trouble. Everyone will just assume you’re the new so-and-so, so long as you cringe when you’re supposed to. The woman scowls at you, but snaps at a few other people. Soon, another plate is put together, much the same as the first, although with what appears to be a bit of roast duck as well. You’re hungry all over again, just smelling it. She hands you a board to carry it up with, and you’re off. It’s been awhile since you served food; the board is awkward in your hands. You manage to remember the feel of it by the time you navigate your way back through the servant’s quarters. You pause at the bottom of the stairs, glaring up at them. Ugh. You take them slowly, careful not to spill the sloshing soup, and your shoulders and back scream in protest. You’ve gotten out of shape, you decide. You really need to rectify that.

You manage to get back across the main hall without smashing into anyone, by some miracle, and the worst that happens is the sly look Varric gives you as you head back into the rotunda. You don’t even notice the wards before stepping on them this time. New ones? These do feel invasive, the magic curling up along your legs and prodding at you. Rude. And you can’t even call him on it without giving yourself away.

You’re relieved to finally be able to unload the tray. Automatically, you find yourself removing the dishes and setting them on a clear corner of the desk. You’ve set the silverware down (in proper Orlesian order, at that) before you even realize what you’re doing. Solas is watching you with a thoughtful look in his eyes, and you feel a flush coming on again. Well, it isn’t as though an elf knowing how to serve is particularly unusual.

“I don’t remember asking you to bring more food,” he comments.

“I ate your lunch,” you point out. You’d kind of thought it was implied, but you suppose he hadn’t actually asked. Maybe he’s the type not to be hungry when he first wakes up. Well, he’s got it now. You squint uncertainly at the you’d carried the food up on, not quite sure if you’re supposed to run it back down to the kitchen.

“Set it down,” Solas instructs, following your gaze. “You can return it later.”

My, he is used to giving commands, isn’t he? Simple apostate mage your ass; this is a man who knows what it is to be obeyed. Or maybe that’s what happens when an elf grows up on the outskirts without having to bend and scrape. The Dalish sure have attitudes, too. You try not to grumble as you wander stiffly over to the couch and set the tray down against the side table.

“Now, this section on the effects of elfroot on dragonlings…” he begins, then pauses to watch you limp back over to the desk. “You walk like an elderly woman,” he observes, and you glower at him.

“It’s nothing,” you say with a scowl. “I’ve just gotten lazy over the years.”

“Mmhmm. And I suppose it has nothing to do with laying yourself out on stone all day?” He gestures towards a stool, or possibly a stepstool, that’s sitting by the wall. “Bring that here, and sit.”

Goodness, he just cannot get enough of telling you what to do today, can he? Silently simmering, you pick up the stool up and drop it next to the desk. Stubbornly, you don’t sit until he raises an eyebrow, as if to say, well? You sit, pouting. He pulls his chair closer, then actually has the audacity to grasp your shoulders and spin you around!

You’re all but spluttering with indignation, until you feel warm magic tracing through you. You quickly shift the hiding place inside of you, tighter, down, out of the way, where he hopefully won’t find it. This is getting dicey. “Um, Solas, this really isn’t-“ you begin, but the warm, soothing tingle that spreads through your back has your sentence trailing off into a sigh. Maker, that feels good.

“Your posture is terrible,” he scolds. “How does a scribe not know to sit up properly?”

“Do you suggest I pull in a desk? Peace and quiet is more important to my work than comfortable positioning. I could be sitting on a throne upstairs, and the constant fuss and pester would still keep me from working.”

He sighs. “Move to the couch, then. I hardly ever give it any use.”

“Ooh, you’re accommodating. You’ll never get rid of me now,” you say with a grin that turns into a gasp as a rather painful knot in your shoulder dramatically comes undone. “Maker, you could sell this talent, Solas.”

“I’ve long since given up on being rid of you,” he says, and without seeing his face, you can’t quite decide what he means by that. “Now, about this elfroot…”

Your conversation trails from there, Solas eating after he’s finished magically unkinking every muscle and soothing every swollen joint. Somehow, you get through it without him bumping into anything interesting inside you. Luck, or talent? Talent, obviously. No one would have gotten this far on luck. The conversation progresses from the effect of elfroot on dragonlings, and onto its various uses.

“Honestly, Solas, I translated a fantastic Orlesian tome on herbalism, and it was quite firm that bitter elfroot was the better solution,” you say, not looking up from the page you’re transcribing on a small corner of his desk.

“You would trust Orlesians with your alchemy?” Solas asks, and the incredulity in his voice makes you laugh.

“I’m lacking in any ancient elven scrolls on the matter, unless you care to share some with me.”

“I’m sure we have something upstairs that could correct the gap in your education.”

Oh, it is ON. “Let’s have a look then,” you say, narrowing your eyes and setting down your quill. “It is a resource to better the Inquisition, after all.”

The two of you bicker all the way up the stairs. You’re too aware of your surroundings to not notice the looks the two of you get. My, are they varied. Now if only you could pinpoint who was reacting to what. To Solas? To you and Solas, talking? To the fact that you’re clearly bickering?

“If I remember correctly… ah, yes, here it is.” Solas pulls a small book out from one of the shelves—damn, he found that fast—and hands it to you.

“An Elven Guide to the Plants of Fereldan?” you exclaim. “Where did the Inquisition get this?”

“This library is a hodgepodge of donations. I believe that particular book was part of a collection donated as a slight aimed at Solas,” comes Dorian’s elegant voice. He looks quite amused. “Or more precisely, the Inquisition, for sheltering him.”

“I suppose now I know why I haven’t seen you in the library, Emma.” Dorian tuts gently to himself. “To think, I can’t even compete for your affections with a man who dresses like… that!”

You snort, half-distracted by the contents of the book. “Can I borrow this?” you ask Mahvir, raising your voice to be heard.

“Well, this is a library!” He gets bonus points from you for being sarcastic about it.

“Excellent I… Oh.”

Solas smile grows as yours sinks into a frown. “When available, use gossamer elfroot. Damn Orlesians.”

“What were you two fighting over, anyway?” asks Dorian curiously, moving to read over your shoulder.

“We were debating,” you say, forcing your voice to come out haughty and snobby, rather like his. “And it was about regeneration potions. My tendency to learn primarily from books I’m in the process of translating backfires yet again.”

“Did you mistranslate it?” Dorian asks curiously.

“It was Orlesian! I didn’t mistranslate it!” you say with a deep scowl. “More likely all of Orlais has been making subpar regeneration potions for a century.”

“My! Someone has confidence in their skills!” Dorian looks amused. So does Solas. Thea is watching from a few bookshelves down, eyes slightly wide.

“I would very swiftly be out of a job were I not,” you say flatly. “Not everyone is so eager to hire on an elf. Besides, Orlesian is my best language.”

“Oh? Better than the common tongue?”

“À partir d’un moment d’une extrême simpilicité il ne faut plus espérer,” you reply. You enjoy the stunned reaction to your flawless accent—from Dorian and half of the library, though not Solas—as much as you enjoy speaking the language itself. Orlais. Whatever else you want to say about it, they have the prettiest everything, including language.

“From ‘Hölderlin à la tour‘,” comes a familiarly accented voice from the stairs, and you freeze. “I was about to send someone to find you. It seems there is no need.”

You turn around, gazing slightly guiltily at Leliana. She could be inviting you to tea and you’d still feel as though you’d done something wrong. Likely, because you had. It was just trying to figure out which one she’d caught you at. You wordlessly bow your apology to Dorian and Solas, and follow Leliana back up the stairs. She’s silent until she sits back down at her desk.

“I’m not particularly surprised at your fluency in Orlesian, given your activities there,” she says, steepling her fingers together.

Alright. There is a lot she could mean by that. You remain quiet.

“Alix Gagnon. You have quite the list of names.”

You remain still, even though inside, you’re screaming in relief. Alix. Alix’s actions are easy to account for. Alix was a proper young lady who never once got up to mischief. Well, at least not anything the Orlesians considered dramatic enough to call ‘mischief,’ in any case.

“I could hardly be a Nikolas for the rest of my life,” you say with a thin smile. “I was a growing young woman, after all.”

“And you worked for Comte Pierre of Halamshiral, at that!”

“I eventually worked for the Comte,” you correct softly. “I didn’t particularly trip into the position.” You sigh to yourself. “He was a good man. Willing to look beyond my ears.” You stand up a little straighter and clear your throat. “I did good work for him. I have nothing to be ashamed of from my time in Orlais.”

“Indeed, you seemed to do well for yourself in Orlais, Alix,” Leliana agrees. “You even did a custom translated tome of Tragedia Divina for Duke Bastien de Ghislain. What I wonder is why you left, and why you no longer go by the name Alix Gagnon.”

You sigh. “Alix was a very respectable woman, but more of a pen name than anything. It was an Orlesian name for an Orlesian worker; half of the people who ordered from me didn’t even know I was an elf. It’s been a relief to just be Emma again. As for why I left, one can only stay in Orlais and work for nobles for so long before getting tangled up in the Game. That is a poor state of affairs for an elven ex-slave. I was sorry to leave my position, but I made enough on commissions, at that point, to live in moderate comfort in the countryside. Even in Orlais, the countryside is much less dramatic.”

“Have you little interest in politics?”

“I have no interest in politics. I may have lived in Orlais for some time, and I understand how Orlesians are about these things, but I have significant interest in staying alive, serah, and Orlesian politics run directly counter to that desire.”

Leliana is quiet for a time, and then rests a hand on a small stack of papers. “I believe this concludes my investigation into your background, Emma. Everything seems to be accounted for. I hope you continue to do good work for the Inquisition. Focus on your current project, but in the future, I may ask you to lay it aside shortly to translate more urgent documents.”

You swallow, hard. This is news, good and bad. She won’t trust you with anything particularly sensitive, you’re sure, but it seems she really is in dire need of… whatever it is she wants you to be. Qunlat came up several times when you first arrived. Perhaps she has delicate documents, ones that cannot be trusted to the hands of Iron Bull, a Ben-Hassrath still loyal to the Qun? If that’s so, perhaps she had him investigate you in such a rude manner on purpose. She’d want to make sure you disliked him as much as possible if she had you working on things she didn’t want him to see. That thought irritates you quite a bit; you don’t enjoy being manipulated, and you loathe being manipulated by Orlesians.

You bow and take your leave, mind still racing as you head down the stairs. No one intercepts messages in Ancient Tevene, and no other language you speak could give a Spymaster difficulty. Solas’ Elven is superior to yours, Orlesians and Antivans are a bit apiece. It must be Qunlat. Qunlat that Iron Bull can’t see… And it’s urgent enough to have her in a rush. You haven’t known her long, but you suspect she isn’t often this heavy-handed. Her overt investigation of you would have sent more than a few Orlesian elves straight out the door… and frankly, if you’d been in less dire straights, you probably would have left a few days ago, yourself. No, whatever it is, she needs it bad. That’s why she’s poaching an unknown elf that just tripped in the gates, and not just doing it the slow, subtle, Orlesian way.

Interesting.

Thea intercepts you as you come down the stairs. You don’t mind; you don’t want to head down to the smugness that’s no doubt waiting for you downstairs in the form of a recently-proven-correct elven apostate.

“You and that Solas really are getting on, huh?” she asks, genuine curiosity in her eyes. “I thought he’d chase you out of there in a day.”

“Honestly, so did I,” you say with an easy laugh. “Something in that dragon manuscript caught his eye. I think he’s keeping me around just so I can get it done all the more quickly.”

“Is it so hard to work up here?” Thea crosses her arms, looking sour.

“It’s nothing personal, Thea,” you promise. “It’s just quieter downstairs. The library always has people coming and going. And downstairs, no one throws tomes at me.”

“I don’t throw them at you,” comes Dorian’s voice from behind a bookshelf. “It’s not my fault if you get into the book trajectory.”

“What was all that fussin’, anyway?”

You sigh, not having to pretend to be flustered or embarrassed about that. “I was under the mistaken impression that Orlesians were an appropriate source to learn alchemy from. I said that bitter elfroot was the best herb for regeneration potions. Solas disagreed. And… he was right.”

“You look like you just sucked on a lemon.”

“I may have been very insistent about that bitter elfroot.”

Thea snorts. “This how elves flirt?”

“We’re not- I’m n… He’s… No!” You’re flushing slightly. The smug ass downstairs is starting to look like a better option. “I’m getting back to work,” you say firmly. “Don’t expect me at dinner, I’m using Solas as a meal ticket.”

“Lucky,” she sulks. “Bet he eats better than us common folk.”

“He does,” you confirm. “And I’m not even a little sorry for taking advantage.” You wave as you head down the stairs. “Promise to see you for breakfast tomorrow, though!”

Solas is looking at one of your finished pages when you return to the rotunda. You do wish he’d stop moving your things. “This looks very professional,” he comments as you gather up the paper you were working on.

“That’s good, seeing as how I am a professional,” you say sourly. “I have to actually get some proper work done now, although I enjoyed our… debate.”

“For a debate, you would have had to have a chance of winning.”

You scowl. “Alright, alright, don’t get prideful on me, Solas.” You gather up the last of your supplies, meaning to bring them over to the couch you’ve been given permission to work on, but Solas interrupts you.

“Do you want me to strengthen your wrist again?”

“Oh… if you don’t mind, yes,” you say, a little flustered. You hadn’t been planning on asking, after he’d gone to the trouble of fixing your entire back. You hand your wrist over, so to speak, and secretly revel in the warm feeling of his magic. You wanted to just latch onto it, to pull, but of course, you know better. It’s only going to get worse from here.

You thank him when he’s done, rubbing your newly enchanted wrist. Maker, it still feels marvelous. You suspect he’s doing it more for something to do than anything; mages get like that. If they don’t have an excuse to use their magic, they’ll find one. Well, you’re happy to be an excuse. The benefits are fantastic.

Seated on the gloriously comfortable couch, wrist strong and steady, you set yourself to perfectly duplicate a diagram of a dragon eye. The table by the couch is a little small, so you keep the original tome sprawled open on your lap as you work. The enchantment makes it easier, but it’s still meticulous work, as art doesn’t come to you as easily as language.

You work like that for a while, carefully inking the eye and labeling it, then beginning in on the text that will also be going on that page. You’re becoming quite proud of your work here. Three square meals, a warm bed, thick walls, intelligent company, and all the supplies you need to do some of your best work… Yes, it’s worth the risks.

You don’t allow yourself to become distracted until you hear the door open. It’s an elven woman, a single woman, attempting to balance a tray with two portions of food on it. She’s clearly struggling. You stand up quickly, scowling, and rush to aid her. Did these people want to avoid the apostate so badly that they’d let one lone, unlucky elf do all the work? Of course, she could have taken two trips… Ugh.

You help her to the table, help her unload the food off the tray as she murmurs thanks. You believe you’ll have a word with the kitchen staff, and you need to return the tray from lunch, anyway. You give your pardons to Solas and follow the woman as she leaves.

“Thank you for your assistance,” she says as the two of you cross the Great Hall. “Gaston says I need to work on my upper body strength.”

You roll your eyes. “’Gaston’ shouldn’t send one woman to do the job of two.” You deftly remove the second tray from her trembling arms, stacking it on top of the one you’re already carrying. “Give your arms a rest, or you’ll lose all dexterity in them.”

“Thank you, miss. Are you Ser Solas’s serving girl?”

It’s only years of practice that keep your face perfectly neutral. You’re used to unkind assumptions, and this one is honestly perfectly understandable, but it irritates you nonetheless. “I suppose I’m taking on a function similar to that,” you say politely as the two of you descend the stairs.

“Is he a…” she glances around furtively, then lowers her voice and whispers. “Is he a blood mage?”

You snort. “In a castle full of Templars?” In truth, you have no idea if he is or not, and don’t particularly care, but this can be treated like the idle gossip it is. “Don’t be silly.”

“Well, it’s just, he’s a maleficar, isn’t he?”

“He’s an apostate,” you correct. “Not all apostates are maleficar, especially now with the Circles fallen.”

The two of you enter the kitchen together, and you make your ways towards the red-faced man who had been shouting the first time you arrived in the kitchens. You can only guess he’s “Gaston.”

“Excuse me, ser,” you say politely. “My name is Emma. I will be fetching Ser Solas’ food for the foreseeable future.”

The man looks irritated the second you start talking, but then seems relieved when you finish. “Thank the Maker!” he booms. “Now you skittish women can stop flitting about trying to avoid being the one who takes it up!” His eyes fall back to you, then eyes you up and down. “I don’t care who you are,” he decides. “But you’re doing me a favor. Here, take some of these up to your master.” He tosses a cloth into your arms and drops half a dozen tarts into it. The warm smell of peaches they exude is almost enough to sooth your irritation. You thank him, bow your head slightly to the elven girl you were speaking with, and then exit the kitchen.

You did it out of irritation, but it will also serve you well. Kitchens are a hotbed of gossip and rumor, and you’ll also be assuring yourself as a consistent “second” tied onto Solas’s daily meals. Plus, long trips up and down the stairs with heavy trays will start beating your body back into proper condition.

“What was all that?” Solas asks curiously as you re-enter the room. He’s already started eating, and you pull up your stool to join him, dropping the bundle of tarts unceremoniously on his desk.

“I lost my temper,” you say blandly. “They send one tiny elf up when it’s clear she can’t carry that much, just because they don’t like serving an apostate.”

“You lose your temper, and they send you back with dessert?” he comments mildly, unwrapping the cloth bundle.

You sigh. “I… informed them I’d be retrieving your meals,” you say with a delicate cough. “They gave me tarts, so overjoyed were they,” you add sourly.

“You what?”

“I know, I know,” you say, wincing. “It’s not exactly my place to decide. But I was tired of seeing terrified, unlucky women trip over their feet trying to get in and out of here without being cursed or something similarly insipid.”

You risk a look at Solas’ expression, and are relieved to see he looks quite amused. “I suppose the fact that this means you’ll be able to bring back two meals each time is just a side benefit?”

“A delightful side benefit,” you agree, allowing yourself to smile now that you’re sure he’s not displeased with your rash decision.

“Did you tell them you’d be bringing all of my meals?” he says, still looking entertained.

“Well… yes,” you answer, not sure what he’s getting at.

“Tell me, have you ever seen me eat breakfast here? I normally take the meal in my quarters.”

…Oh.

You actually do blush this time, the heat in your cheeks enough that you suspect he can see. “I… Um. Well.” You clear your throat. “I’ll have to, uh… clarify. …Ugh, Maker, I put my foot in it, didn’t I?”

“Perhaps a bit,” Solas agrees, his obvious amusement embarrassing you further now that you know its cause. There is a pause in the conversation as you both eat. “Leliana is quite interested in you,” he comments after a moment’s silence.

“Yes,” you agree. “I doubt she calls every newcomer up there to comb over their life history. I wish I knew what she was after.”

“You don’t?” he says curiously.

“I assume she wants me to translate more delicate documents, but I can’t figure out why she needs me, specifically, to do it. My skill set is prominent, yes, but hardly unique.”

“Where did you work previously?” Solas asks. “There must be something else that’s caught her interest.”

Maker, you hope there’s nothing else. “Antiva, Orlais,” you say, waving your hand vaguely. “Ferelden. …A lot of places, honestly. I’ve never liked staying in one place. Even after I was fairly certain no slavers were chasing me.”

“Was that a worry?”

“I was hardly irreplaceable, but I was a valuable investment, and I was never sure if my master survived the attack in Seheron that allowed my escape. Apparently I disappeared well, however. Perhaps I never needed to worry. In any case, I’m more interested in your travels than mine. How did you avoid the Templars?”

“I mostly stayed away from civilization,” is all he says on the matter, to your displeasure. You can’t blame him for being secretive, but that doesn’t help your curiosity on the matter. “Did you always work as a linguist?”

“No, although it’s the only marketable skill I really have,” you say with a sigh. “Once I started linguistic work, I settled down more, out of fear of having to wind up a maid again. Did you not have trouble with wild animals and the like, when you traveled? I always stuck with merchant caravans for that very reason.”

“I suspect a mage might have slightly less issue than the average individual.”

“Ah… yes, I suppose so,” you agree, although inside you’re screaming bullshit. The average mage gets eaten by a bear just as easily. Of course, it’s quite likely Solas is no average mage. His enchantments stay longer than that of any mage you’ve met, at least… although that list is admittedly somewhat limited.

The conversation continues like that, with both of you subtly and not-so-subtly attempting to pry into each other’s histories. He’s even more evasive than you are; when pressed, you’re willing to simply lie about something. He won’t even give you that. Still, the dinner is good (delicious), and even unsuccessfully fencing with someone as clever as Solas is entertainment.

The tarts are, unsurprisingly, absolutely delicious. You’re pleased to discover Solas appears to have something of a sweet tooth, but say absolutely nothing about the fact that he eats three of the tarts rather swiftly. You do grab the last one, however, and momentarily excuse yourself. You head up the stairs, and quickly spot Thea’s bright red hair in the library.

“Thea!” you say cheerfully, heading over to her. She looks shocked to see you.

“Trouble in paradise?” she asks. You snort.

“Keep teasing me and I won’t give you this.” You wave the tart at her. “Thought I’d share some of my benefits.”

“Maker, where did you get that?” she demands, snatching it out of your hands. She bites into it. “Mmm! Are those peaches?”

“Yep,” you say with a grin. “Won’t see that in the mess. They probably made them for some of the nobles here.”

“This what he’s feeding you? No wonder you like him.” You make a grab for the tart, and she skips back. “Alright, alright! Still, I’d fall for a man who gave me tarts.”

“I gave them to him actually, if you want to be technical. It’s a long story. Anyway, I just thought I’d apologize for never being around. I appreciate you helping me get settled around here.”

“Well, at least you apologize well,” she says through a mouth full of tart. “We still on for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Definitely,” you say with a nod. Breakfast… Why does that make you feel anxious? You brush it off, say your goodbyes, and head back downstairs to get some more work done. You gather up the dishes first, however, and make a quick run back downstairs with them. Running back and forth from the kitchen will get old, no doubt, but the gratitude in the eyes of the lady you hand the dishes to provides you some comfort. Their fear may be stupid, but you’re glad you can ameliorate it. The fact that someone sneaks you an apple helps, as well.

You jog back up the stairs, back into the rotunda, and settle back down onto the couch. Maker, this couch. It’s softer than your bed! You get back to work on the tome. The translation is still only three-fourths of the way done, thanks to Solas stealing your work, but you’ll have time for that after he’s finished pouring over it.

The enchantment on your wrist is still holding, and you feel quite comfortable, so you work well into the night. You have a poor internal clock, but you’re starting to get rather exhausted. Your lack of sleep last night isn’t helping you now. You’re a little tempted to just curl up on the couch and take a nap, but that’s unacceptable for a multitude of reasons. You push on, determined to finish one last page before you turn in for the night. You only stop to rest your eyes for a moment…

When you wake up, your tome and page have been moved onto the side table, likely to prevent you from drooling on them in your sleep. Maker’s balls, when did you nod off? How long have you been out? You’re surprised you were able to fall asleep at all; it’s not like you to be able to sleep with people around. You must be seriously exhausted from the journey, and from the beginning effects of your stilted and unhelpful sleeps since you arrived.

You rub your eyes and look around. The room is empty; Solas is gone. Probably off to bed, like all normal people. The tower is utterly silent, to the point where it almost sounds like its own kind of noise. You’re tempted to just roll over and sleep on the couch, but you’re embarrassed enough about falling asleep in the first place. You sit up, cap your inks, and head off towards your bedroom.

Of course, by the time you get there, all sleepiness is gone. You toss and turn for a while, but there’s no helping it. You’re in for another sleepless night.

7