Dangerously Comfortable
You catch half-wisps of dreams again that night. You can’t remember any of them upon waking, but when you do wake, wrapped up in sweet-smelling warmth, you genuinely consider just rolling over and going back to sleep, something you almost never do. When you do roll over, however, a throbbing pain shoots up your hip. Ow. OW. OW!
You sit up, telling yourself your watering eyes are due to the fact you just woke up and not the pain you’re suddenly in. You twist your hip experimentally, and it aches, but you can move it. You doubt you injured yourself in your sleep… You’re just sore, probably from over-exerting yourself yesterday. You stood for hours, then fought a Qunari, twisting your hip this way and that… It’s your own stupidity and bull-headedness (har har) doing you harm again. You’ll be fine after a bit of stretching, surely.
You slowly make your way out into the courtyard. It’s pre-dawn, but you only have an hour, at best, before the sun comes up. A goodly amount of sleep for you, especially in the state you’ve been in as of late. Your hip isn’t the only thing that needs a good stretch, but the only time you’ve been outside of Skyhold has been with an entourage of the Inquisitor’s closest companions… including a mage. Perhaps now that you’ve been seen leaving on Revas, however, you can sneak out with him… Or even alone, on foot.
All of that will have to wait, however. Right now, you know Iron Bull will be waiting for you in that practice field. Despite the fact that you sparring with him was supposed to be the end point of training, you find that you want to continue. You’re learning new techniques and every day get more excuses for where your existing skills could have come from. Also, you’re just… You’re enjoying his company, lately. Maybe you’ll find another excuse to climb onto his horns. That was a blast.
Unfortunately, that kind of an opportunity doesn’t present itself. The day is alarmingly dreary—not foggy, but so overcast that you can’t see a single star—with a chill wind that whips around the walls of Skyhold. Iron Bull picks today, of all days, to decide that you need to learn defense as well, since you “clearly have a firm grasp on offense.” Your punishment for riding him like the bull he is, you suppose. Still worth it.
You have to remind yourself how “worth it” it was as you’re repeatedly knocked into the dirt. Iron Bull is faster than he has any right to be and has something like two hundred pounds on you. When you can’t dodge out of the way fast enough, you find yourself sprawled out on the grass pretty quickly. There’s no hope of “blocking” someone over twice your size.
“I don’t feel like I’m learning at my full potential, here,” you say from the dirt, staring up at the stormy sky.
“Maybe you’d like Krem to come out here and hold your tea for you?” the Qunari mocks. “Get up.”
You sit up with a groan. “No one holds my tea for me anymore… what has my life become?” You stand back up and stiffly move into the defensive stance Iron Bull showed you, only to wind up in the dirt not two minutes later.
That’s when it starts to rain.
You just sort of lay there as the drops start falling on you, until you get a nudge in your side from Iron Bull’s foot. You normally dislike the rain—it makes for miserable travel—but this time, you’re happy to see it. Anything you can use as an excuse to stop getting knocked into the dirt is a godsend. Unfortunately, Iron Bull doesn’t seem to feel the same way.
“You planning on getting up, or are you just going to lay there and wait for me to start kicking you?” Iron Bull asks pointedly. “We’re not done.”
You stare at him, dumbfounded. “I… What? In the rain?” you protest, gesturing vaguely upward.
“What, were you under the impression that all fights take place on nice, sunny days?” Iron Bull says with a scoff. “Be glad it’s happening now, while you’re still learning. Makes it easier on down the road.”
If you thought your hip was unhappy with you before, once the damp and the chill begins to set in, you know true misery. Your hip aches, and you can dodge around Iron Bull’s shoves and trips even less once the dirt starts turning into mud. The repeated falls onto the slippery, cold ground leaves you sore and frozen, and it’s so overcast that you can’t even tell when the sun is going to come up, or if it already has. You certainly feel as though you’ve been out there for hours.
By the time Iron Bull decides he’s beaten on you enough, your hair has fallen from its bun completely, and your entire backside is utterly caked in mud. The cheerful slap on the back he gives you does nothing to soothe your bad mood, or your pain. As many times as you had been knocked in the mud, you’d managed to trip him only once.
You detour only long enough to grab a change of clothes from your bedroom, and then head immediately to the limited comforts of the cold elven bathhouse. There are few people there—most are still at breakfast—which is just as well, because you’re disgustingly dirty. The cold water does nothing to soothe your chilled bones or your aching hip, but you can at least work the mud out of your hair.
When you leave the bath, it’s still rainy, still cold, and still miserable. You dart to the mess as quickly as you can, but you’re still wet by the time you get there. Ugh. You hate days like this. You’re going to eat breakfast and then lock yourself in the rotunda for the rest of the day.
Bull is still there, and when you get your meal you sink into the seat across from him despite the fact that you’re still a little sullen about getting knocked around so badly. You don’t see Thea, unfortunately… she’s probably already eaten. It’s difficult for you to tell time with the sun is covered like this.
“You look clean,” Iron Bull says with a grin. “Didn’t want to use my tub this time?”
You glare at him. “Please. I’m going to get enough sideways looks since I’m walking funny. I don’t need to make it any worse.”
“Ah, don’t worry too much about it. The Chargers like you, and they’re the only ones who really matter.”
You snort, but you are glad to have endeared yourself to a group of mercenaries. There are worse allies to have. Worth the sore hip, you remind yourself. If you keep telling yourself that, maybe it’ll hurt less. “Speaking of which, how are the boys recovering from last night’s adventures? When I left, Krem had just cracked open a keg of… of something, Maker. Smelled like shoe polish.”
“Most of them are sleeping it off,” Iron Bull says with a smirk. “For now. Krem’s got it the worst, though. He hit that Black Scythe hard. If I know him, he’ll be sick most of the day.”
“Poor bastard,” you say, although you’re grinning. “I’m telling you, if he had some escabeche he’d be right in no time at all. I wonder if the kitchens here can even make it?”
“Maybe you should make it for him,” Iron Bull urges. “Pretty girl bringing him horrible fish? That would definitely be confusing enough to get him out of bed.”
You laugh, but the idea does have some appeal. Krem is Bull’s second in command, and probably knows the most about the Qunari of anyone in Skyhold. Being second in command also makes him a good person to butter up if you want the Charger’s further in your pocket. Should you cash in the respect you’ve been growing in the kitchen to make Krem a meal?
“I might not be able to make him escabeche,” you muse out loud. “But I could get him something…”
“Wait, are you serious?” asks Iron Bull with a grin. “Oh man. You’ve gotta let me come with you. I need to see this.”
“I have no idea where he bunks, so I think you’ll have to,” you say with a shrug. “You can’t come with me to the kitchen, though. You’d either terrorize or seduce the staff. Not sure which would be worse, but either way…”
The two of you make your way to the kitchens. You leave Iron Bull outside, and head into the kitchen to wheedle and charm your way into a meal.
There’s not really a way you can get Krem proper escabeche… As you feared, there’s none already prepared, and it’s the sort of thing that takes time. But they do have pickled herring—there’s no other way to eat a herring, in your personal opinion—and from there it’s only a matter of convincing the chef to let you have the few ingredients you want.
You’ve never been to the Anderfels, personally, but you’ve had katerfrühstück before… on a dare. It’s no escabeche, but it will do. Pickled herring wrapped around pieces of gherkin and onion… enough to wake the dead, and certainly enough to cure a hangover. You wrap it up, pleased, and make sure to thoroughly thank the chef before you exit the kitchen.
Iron Bull is waiting for you outside, and eyes the covered plate expectantly. “Come on, you’ve got to tell me what’s under there.”
“My Ander is not nearly good enough for me to try and pronounce it,” you say with a roll of your eyes as you lift the lid. Bull wrinkles his nose.
“Ugh! It smells like someone died in a pickling vat!”
“Don’t be dramatic,” you say with a sigh. “This is a fantastic hangover remedy, and the closest thing to escabeche I could put together on such short notice. It’ll get Krem back up on his feet.”
Iron Bull leads you to where Krem and, in fact, most of the mercenaries and no small number of the soldiers are housed: the barracks. You find it hard to believe your own accommodations are superior to the Chargers’, but there it is. You, at least, have four walls and a door.
Krem is still in bed, and shifts to cover his head with his pillow when he hears you approaching. “’M not getting up, boss. Can’t make me,” he grumbles into his mattress.
You clear your throat and adopt your best bedside voice. “Krem?” you ask, squatting down next to his bunk. “It’s Emma. I heard you weren’t feeling well, so I brought you—”
Krem sits up as if struck by lightning, nearly striking his head on the bunk above his. “Boss!” he protests. “You… I…” He stops, then presses a hand to his temple, his headache seeming to catch up with him. “Cruel joke to play on a sick man.”
“You’re not sick, you’re hungover,” Bull says pointedly.
“It was my idea,” you confess. “We were talking about hangover cures the other day, and, well, I thought…”
“I appreciate the, um… Thanks. I… wait.” He eyes the plate with apprehension. “Is that… that… thing, you were talking about before? Eswhatever?”
“Oh, no,” you say, a little dejectedly. “It takes forever to make.”
The man seems to sag in relief. “Oh, okay. Well, thank you. I’m sure whatever you made is, um… is great… Stop looking at me like that, boss!”
You glance back at Iron Bull, who has one hand over his mouth in a poor attempt to hide his mirth.
“You should be kinder to your men, Iron Bull,” you say with a smirk. “Some things require a more gentle touch.”
Bull laughs, and Krem blushes, and you’re beginning to think this was a fantastic idea after all. It seems mercenaries are the same the world over. Easier to win over than a handmaid, and less discerning to boot. The idea of having an entire mercenary company in your pocket is a very appealing one, and it seems it might not be too far off after all. At the very least, they’re growing fond of you.
“I’m not going to embarrass myself by trying to pronounce it,” you say, turning back to Krem. “But I met a Grey Warden once who swore up and down this could cure any hangover. He was staying at an estate in Orlais where I used to work.” You uncover the plate, and Krem pales visibly as the scent hits him.
“W…what…”
“Pickled herring, wrapped around gherkin and onion,” you explain. “I know it sounds awful, but it does the trick.” Krem looks positively ill, and you scramble to salvage the situation. “Just try one,” you urge. “I brought some chilled wine to wash it down.”
“U… umm…” Krem seems a little green, although you know it’s just the acidic smell.
“Come on, Krem, you don’t want to hurt her feelings, do you?” Iron Bull eggs him on.
“Oh, shush, Bull,” you say with a scowl. “He doesn’t have to have one if he doesn’t-“ Before you can finish, however, Krem’s grabs one of the little wraps and crams half of it into his mouth. He chews and swallows quickly.
“Oh Maker,” he swears. “That tastes foul. Quick, quick, give me the wine.” You thrust the wineskin into his hands, and he pounds back a few swallows before stopping. The three of you wait, apprehensive, and then his stomach makes a loud, long gurgling sound.
“How are you feeling?” you ask cautiously.
“Well, he’s not vomiting everywhere; that’s a good sign,” interjects Iron Bull.
Krem finishes the wrap and washes it down with more wine, making faces the whole time. “Is this the sort of thing they eat in the Anderfels? I’m never visiting,” he says with a groan.
“I’ve never been,” you confess. “But they made pumpernickel, so they can’t be all bad.”
“I feel… a little better,” Krem says.
“You don’t have to humor me,” you say with a frown.
“No, really!” he insists. “Although I’m not sure I’m willing to have more.”
“They grow on you,” you comment as you take a bite out of one, since there’s no chance he’ll eat the whole plate. Krem and Iron Bull watch as you eat it, faces a mix of horror and awe. “What?” you say around a full mouth. “It’s really not as bad as it smells. If you think this is something, ask me to make a Dales oyster next time.”
Your antics with Krem leave you late to start work. You snack on the last of the katerfrühstück as you start outlining the next page of the manuscript. Despite shorter work hours than you might prefer and constant distractions, the book really is proceeding nicely. You can’t help but notice, as the hours roll by, that even though Solas has been gone for some time, people still rarely disturb you in the rotunda. Perhaps it’s simply habit for most folks to avoid the area? Whatever that says for Solas’s reputation, you enjoy the privacy.
As you shift papers around while working, a sheet out of place catches your eye. You grasp it, intending to sort it into its proper place—no book was ever made by a disorganized scribe—only to realize it’s the note Solas left you on the desk. Idly, you read over the note again, enjoying the crisp perfection in Solas’s Elven script. You hunt for tiny errors in his handwriting, when two letters flow together, decreasing legibility. You’re pleased to know that your handwriting is neater, but a little more sullen at the informal, familiar hand he uses when writing Elven. Another reminder how much more familiar the language is to him, when compared with you.
Your tome lays forgotten as you begin to read the note out loud. “Ir annal… Ir… Ir annala…” you mutter to yourself, then, without thinking, flip the paper to gaze at the pronunciation guide. “Ir annala ena. Ena… Enas…”
That’s how you lose your morning, work set aside to muse over your lackluster Elven pronunciation. When you master the words in the letter, you begin to extrapolate, correcting decades of poor word usage into what you hope is the correct pronunciation, or at least closer. The few words you had correct are words your mother taught you when you were very, very young. Ir abelas you can say, but you stumble to learn enasal. You wonder sourly if your emphasis has been off your entire life based on the way Solas has instructed the word enansal be pronounced. Harel and din’an come naturally to you at the same time your lips twist to guess at samahl.
By the end of it, you feel you’ve learned the correct way to say a few choice phrases that you wish to repeat to Solas. Perhaps if he sees how much you can learn from a simple note, he’ll finally relent to teach you more. You amuse yourself with the thought of his expression when he returns… If he returns.
That thought sobers you, and quickly. The vapid, dreamy little smile on your face evaporates, and you tuck the note away under a stack of paper. You need to get back to work, anyway, not wonder at questions you have no answers for.
You work your way through lunch, stopping only when a missive comes for you. Again, you have to roll your eyes at her use of a messenger… you are literally down the stairs. She could tie a rock to it and drop it and it would get to you just as effectively. You thank the man and accept the papers. As expected, the main part is recognizably Qunlat. You glance over it quickly, then frown. It’s nigh incomprehensible, a jumble of words and syllables that are clearly Qunlat, but disorganized and messy.
There’s a note in the common tongue attached, identifying the scrambled letter as a ciphered letter, asking if you’re at all good with ciphers. If not, the letter continues, she has a man upstairs whose skilled with ciphers but knows not a single word of Qunlat; perhaps the two of you together could translate it? You scowl and toss the note down onto your desk. As if you’d waste your time. Asking a man who cannot read, write, or speak the language to translate a cipher… You might ask well ask an illiterate nug. The cipher seems simple enough. You’ll translate it yourself.
You spend the next few hours on it, slowly narrowing it down. At first you think it’s a full-word code, due to the fact that the words look like Qunlat, but that falls through quickly. Eventually, you struggle through it… It turns out to be a very clever dual substitution, a polygraphic cipher over top of a keyword cipher. You’ve seen more complicated codes in Seheron, but only just. Whoever wrote this not only didn’t want non-Qunari to read it, they likely didn’t want to risk it falling into the hands of someone who knew Qunlat, either. Tal-Vashoth, perhaps? Or is this a report out of Seheron or Rivain, where Qunlat is somewhat more common?
The answer becomes apparent as you translate the note into Qunlat, and then into Common. It seems as though the Qunari have been taking children out of Llomerryn. You can hardly blame them; Llomerryn is a shithole. You can’t honestly say that the children are better off, however. You have too many reservations about the Qun. It’s more interesting that it’s a breach of the peace treaty, although Rivain has never taken those treaties particularly seriously.
Translation finished, you pick up the attached note again to see if there’s anything else Leliana needs from you. A scowl forms on your face as you read, then deepens. “Please scribe several copies and deliver them to the following…” What are you, a messenger?! She has people for this, goddamnit! Ugh… She’s likely trying to reduce the number of eyes who see this. She’s putting trust in you, you remind yourself. You need to show her that she can do so safely. Sullenly, you begin scribing additional copies of the translation.
Your disapproval deepens when you glance over the names and vague instructions on where to find the people you’re looking for. Bringing a copy to Leliana is easy enough, but you’re not sure which is worse: trying to find this “Crassius Servis” fellow—a Tevinter name, just fantastic—or delivering a copy of this stupid message to none other than Commander Cullen Rutherford.
Wait. Rutherford? Cullen Rutherford? You stare at the name, uncomprehending for a long moment. Maybe it’s a common name. Maybe this is a different Cullen Rutherford.
Yes. Sure. In a military organization that includes Templars and Varric goddamn Tethris, this just so happens to be another man with military leadership experience named Cullen Rutherford. Don’t be stupid. You just don’t want to believe they’d have the second-in-command of the fallen Kirkwall Circle in charge of anything here. Maker. How can the mages even stand to be around him? How are you supposed to stand it? Everyone knows what he did. It was in a fucking book.
Well, it seems you’ll have no choice but to come to terms with it, seeing as how you live here and work here and also are about to go deliver him a message. You opt for finding “Servis” first. It will be harder than finding the Commander, almost certainly, but anything that puts that off for a little longer is worth it. The note instructs you to begin your search near the mage’s quarters, but you doubt you’ll find him there. He’s presumably a mage (or else that bunking decision was the poorest in history), but Circle mages from Tevinter are very much not like Circle mages from Orlais, Ferelden, or the Free Marches. You go anyway, although the thought of being so close to that many mages makes your skin crawl. She might as well have asked you to deliver to the Templar barracks.
He’s not there, as you suspect, but after asking around a little, you manage to hunt him down to the dusty library you’d found near the kitchen. He’s got a Templar breathing down his neck, looking equal parts frustrated and bored, and you feel a slight pang of sympathy. You’d loathe being watched like that, by anyone.
“Servis?” you ask politely. “Crassius Servis?”
The man looks up from the book he’s idly flipping through, gives you a bored, up-and-down glance. “I suppose you’re one of the Nightingale’s then? Does she finally have something interesting for me to do, or am I to continue skipping about with an armed escort?”
Ah, Vints. They come in two flavors: sardonic and “MAD they called me, MAD! I’ll show them MAD!”
“I don’t presume to know, ser. I was only told to give you this.” You place the translation down in front of him, and his eyebrows raise.
“Oh… so that’s what she was talking about. Hmm…” he picks it up, glances it over, and you suspect you’ve done your part, even though you’re more than a little curious as to his connection to Leliana. What’s a Tevinter mage doing here? Your questions will have to wait, however… It seems you have nothing to use as an excuse to keep you from delivering your message to the Commander.
You leave Servis muttering to himself as he reads over the note and head towards the Commander’s office. You know where it is; you fell down the stairs right next to it not that long ago, after all. You head towards the exit, only to find that it’s still raining outside… in fact, it’s pouring. You frown at the long walk across the ramparts, knowing you’ll be well and truly soaked by the time you get there. With a long, drawn out sigh, you tuck the message down your shirt, then you double over and bolt through the rain.
You dart across the walkway, up to the Commander’s door, and then, stupidly, stop to knock. You can’t just… just charge in. You spend a good ten seconds getting absolutely drenched before you hear a voice call, “Come in.” You probably would have just walked in… But you would rather get drenched or have to scribe a second copy on the spot than make a rude faux pas in front of the Commander.
There’s a guard speaking to him when you enter, but they seem to have just finished. The guard nods to you as he walks by you to exit, and you’re left alone, nervously eyeing the Commander at his desk. He finishes reading whatever it is the guard gave to him and you just sort of… stand there, waiting for him to be done. Maker, you haven’t felt this awkward in a while. Meeting the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces would have been nerve wracking under any situation, but you’re keenly aware that he knows you from two rather embarrassing incidents… Both of them Sera’s fault, come to think of it. At least you have someone to blame.
He finishes reading and looks up, and you find some small comfort in the fact that he looks startled by your presence. Or perhaps he’s just amazed to see you when you’re vertical, uninjured, and not being actively threatened by racists. You clear your throat softly.
“A message from …” you stumble momentarily over Leliana’s title. “Mistress Leliana.” Your strides up to his desk are even. If you can walk towards Solas over unknown wards, you can approach a retired Knight-Commander. You place it in front of him with a slight bow, then turn to leave, but he holds up a hand. You freeze in place as he glances over the missive.
“Ah. So this is what she meant.” He turns his gaze onto you, and it’s a testament to your willpower that you don’t shift uncomfortably, or, in fact, make any kind of expression at all. “Why are you delivering this? I thought you were our linguist.”
“Our” linguist. Well, you suppose that he’s high enough in rank to use such phrasing. “I am. I was the one who translated the missive. Leliana requested I scribe extra copies and deliver them myself.”
“Getting you drenched in the process, I see,” he says with a light smile. Ah… You are sort of dripping all over his floor, aren’t you? He sets the missive down, turning his full attention onto you, although you really wish he wouldn’t. “Have you recovered fully? I’m surprised to see you up and about so quickly.”
You frown slightly. “Of course, Commander. I was injured two days ago and, thanks to you, given immediate attention by the healers. I would be an embarrassment if I wasn’t back to work by now.”
The Commander chuckles—actually chuckles, to your shock—and comments, “I wish my soldiers had that kind of work ethic.” You want to comment that your work is hardly as intensive as a soldiers, but the day after your injury, you wrestled a Qunari, so you keep your mouth shut. “Well good, I… Oh, I don’t believe I ever caught your name.”
You had, in fact, told him your name the first time you met, but it’s something of a relief that he doesn’t recall. “I’m Emma, ser,” you say with a bow.
“Just Emma?” His voice isn’t sharp. He doesn’t have the tone Solas, Leliana, or even Iron Bull would, asking that question. But his casual tone and expression don’t fool you. He’s as much searching you for information as anyone else since you’ve arrived. You shove aside the rush of panic and answer smoothly.
“Just Emma, ser.”
He seems satisfied by that, and for a moment, you think you’ll finally be able to exit what’s rapidly turning into an interrogation. No such luck, however.
“I was informed this was in cipher. Do you know who managed to decode it?”
Oh, Maker’s balls. No point in lying; he’ll just hear it from Leliana later. “It was I, in fact, ser.” You rush on, trying to ignore the surprise in his eyes. “I’m unsure if you know, ser, but I was… stationed… in Seheron for some time. I’ve seen similar codes from Ben-Hassrath reports there.”
“I see. Well, Leliana certainly wasn’t overstating your usefulness. Thank you, ‘Just Emma.’” He says the last words with a smile, and you feel a flush coming on. You bow quickly and make your exit before he can think of any other questions to ask you. You never thought you’d be relieved to be outside in the rain again, but compared to staring down a Knight-Commander… Even if he is “retired.” Do Templars ever truly retire? You can’t unlearn those talents. A Templar can no more retire than a mage.
You realize, upon darting back into the rotunda, that you were holding your breath. You breathe in big, gasping gulps, heart pounding. Not embarrassment or fluster, but fear. You’d thought you were done with this kind of mortal terror after the incident with Iron Bull, but it seems the Inquisition has no shortage of truly terrifying people to throw into your path. Leliana may be the truly dangerous one, between the two, but the Commander fills you with mortal dread nonetheless. Leliana or Solas may be the most likely to discover you, but the Commander is the one most likely to bring down the blade.
It takes you some time to calm down enough to feel comfortable walking up the long steps to Leliana’s perch atop the tower. You can’t be shaken when facing her down; she’ll no doubt have questions about your ability to translate the code, as well. There’s nothing suspicious about your skill with codes, when you come right down to it—your whole existence as a slave was translating intercepted missives from the Qunari. That required an in-depth knowledge of the language, yes, but also the ability to crack a code.
And yet, everyone here has the tendency to react to each new fact learned about you with barely-repressed glee, as if any glimpse of knowledge is a victory. You suppose it’s just the nature of curious folks. It doesn’t help that you’re constantly paranoid that each concession of knowledge will be the one that spells your undoing.
Eventually, you find the courage to climb the stairs. You can’t really put it off. When you reach the top, you wait until Leliana is absolutely free—you know this isn’t something you’ll get away with dropping on her desk.
“Serah? I translated the missive you sent me,” you say when the Spymaster has a moment. “I scribed the additional copies as requested and delivered them to Crassius Servis and the Commander.”
Leliana smiles, almost smugly. “Somehow, I imagined you might be able to do it yourself.”
“Indeed… I saw similar codes used in Seheron. If you would like, serah, I can write down an explanation of the code, in case your codebreakers need to translate the same or similar codes in the future,” you offer.
She taps a finger against the side of her face, considering. “Yes, actually, I believe that would be most useful. I will spare you attempting to instruct my men to their face, however… A written explanation will do. Excellent job.”
“Thank you, serah. Ah… If I may? You said before to inform you if I had need of anything…”
“Of course, Emma. What do you need?” she asks, steepling her fingers. You wish she wouldn’t.
“A magnifying stand, to duplicate some of the finer work of the original tome. They can be… difficult… to obtain and transport. Mine stood no chance of surviving the trip here.”
“Of course,” she says with a nod. “Our arcanist has something similar. I will see that one is obtained for you. Is that all?”
“Yes, serah,” you say with a quick bow. “Thank you.”
You can’t help thinking that it went better than expected as you head back to your desk. Perhaps you overreacted to the Commander’s curiosity? You suspect you may have been doing the same with Iron Bull, frankly. Solas had you blathering about magic like a damned moron just by being attractive and intelligent. You revealed worse to him in the course of a single day than you ever had with Bull. You chock it up to paranoia and get back to work on the tome.
You work through dinner, despite the discomfort of damp clothing. You intend fully to work late into the evening, given how much of your day you flitted away with missives and mercenaries. Of course, it’s never that easy; not anymore. Sera appears sometime after dark, popping into the rotunda dripping wet. You have to laugh when you notice her forming a puddle on the stone.
“No practice today, surely?” you say with an amused smirk, setting down your quill. “I’ve been drenched twice already today, and by the looks of it, you’ve fared badly as well.”
“I was gonna have us explore outside of Skyhold some, but look at this weather!” Sera says with a scowl.
“Oh, Maker, I’m heartbroken! I’ve lost another opportunity to horrifically maim myself for your pleasure!” you say dramatically, pressing the back of your hand against your forehead and pretending to swoon.
“Oh, shut up, you. S’miserable out. Everyone’s all locked away in their quarters, workin’ late so they don’t hafta go through the rain. The whole place is a depressin’ mess!” She crosses her arms. “We gotta do somethin’.”
“Must we?”
“Yeah! And I’ve got just the thing, too…” You already know this is going to lead someplace unfortunate.
It does, in fact. It leads to the corridor where Solas’ and Vivienne’s rooms are. Somehow, Sera’s convinced you that what this miserable, rainy day needs is a few good pranks. You’re not entirely sure how she did it, either. Your last clear memory is of her placing a hand on your shoulder, almost on your neck, batting her eyelashes, and saying “please.” Everything after that is something of a blur. You really need to get your libido under control.
“I’m really, really not sure this is a good idea, Sera,” you whisper as the two of you crouch by the door to Madame de Fer’s quarters. “And the last time you insisted it would be fine, I wound up in the healer’s tent with my leg halfway off.”
“That probably won’t happen again, though!” Sera whispers back. It does not inspire confidence. “Besides, this was your idea!”
“No, pranks were your idea. All I said was-“
“You came up with the whole plan!”
“Yes, but the concept of pranking, that’s completely on you.”
Sera rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, and you can’t resist sticking out a tongue. “If I go down for this one, Sera,” you say, “I’m taking you with me.” You place a hand gently on the First Enchanter’s doorknob, but feel no magic. Ridiculous. Don’t any of these people believe in security? The door is locked, of course, which you demonstrate by wiggling the knob. A few moments with Sera’s picks, however, fixes that problem, and then two of you sneak into the room.
“Have you ever done this to Madame de Fer before?” you whisper to cover for your slow pace and you check for wards.
“Viv? Naw, couldn’t think of a really good one. This should be golden!”
You make your way to the desk, where you snatch up the little bottle of clear liquid you’d seen when you were here catering to the “leader of the last loyal mages,” as she liked to fancy herself.
“Bet you that crap costs as much as fifty dinners! What an arse,” Sera grumbles, glaring at the tiny bottle. You’re inclined to agree with her. Fashion is fashion, you can understand that, but clear nail polish? It just doesn’t seem worth it.
The question of whether or not Vivienne has one of the fancy tubs is quickly answered: she does, of course, and her soap is resting nearby on a tiny little pedestal. Fancy, expensive soap, no doubt. You certainly hope so, anyway.
“So we just coat it?” Sera asks, delicately picking up the bar of soap.
“Yeah,” you say with a nod. “When she… or her servants, I suppose, go to lather it up, nothing at all will happen.” You frown. “You don’t suppose she actually has servants wash her, do you? I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Except you, maybe.”
“Not unless she brought them from Orlais,” Sera says, wrinkling her nose as she opens the bottle of polish. “Servants are at a premium here.”
You snort. “That explains a lot, actually. No, no, not like that.” You grab her hand—she was about to overturn the whole bottle onto the bar of soap. “See the brush? Just… Here, like this.” You brush some of the polish onto the bar. “We just have to make sure we get the whole thing.”
It’s a painstaking process, intermittently interrupted by giggles, but the two of you manage to cover Vivienne’s expensive soap with her expensive nail polish. A victory all around. You quickly put the bottle and the soap back where they were, then quickly exit the premises, locking the door behind you. You breathe a sigh of relief when it’s all over. Hopefully, if there’s any blame to be given, it’ll go directly to Sera. At least now, you can—
“Alright, who’s next?” Sera asks excitedly.
“…What?”
It’s a miracle you don’t get caught, honestly. You manage to rein Sera in somewhat, convincing her there’s no point in pranking any of the people who are gone (this madwoman wanted to prank the Inquisitor!), but she still runs about Skyhold leaving delayed-blast havoc in her wake. You sincerely hope the stone underneath the Commander’s desk doesn’t irritate him too badly, and you very much regret showing Sera where the kitchen throws their waste. Lady Montilyet will likely never be the same.
When she talks about pranking Leliana, however, you know it’s time to get out.
“She’s not that scary!” Sera protests.
“Yes, Sera, she is. So is the Commander. So is Madame de Fer. And Lady Montilyet could probably destroy me in any number of creative ways, as well. But this? No way, Sera. There’s no way,” you say firmly. “She’s the Inquisition’s spymaster, and also my boss. I don’t want to die.”
Sera rolls her eyes dramatically. “Yer a pansy! There’s no harm in havin’ a little fun!”
“If only that were true… I hate to play the ‘horribly mangled leg’”’ card again so soon, Sera, but…”
“Awright!” she says, throwing her hands up in the air. “I guess we got enough people today anyway. You think about what I said ‘bout Dorian, though! Prissy pants needs a good prank, and he’s always ditherin’ around with those books…”
“I’ll certainly think about it,” you say dryly. Think about what a terrible idea it is, anyway. As if you’d take a book apart and put it together again just for a petty prank. That’s just too much work, and you’re in a state of perpetually not having enough hours in the day, despite essentially never sleeping.
You return to the rotunda, after finally convincing Sera you’ve no more entertainment to offer her, and continue work on your poor, patient tome. In your quiet cottage back in Orlais, you’d know doubt have made twice the progress. You have no magical back-up with Solas gone, and the distractions are becoming more frequent every day. You hope that Draconologist—and the Inquisitor—is patient.
When it gets late, there’s no question of returning to your room. It’s still raining outside, and you’re a filthy little addict. The thought of a cold, wet, restless night is so unappealing compared to a cozy, soothing night in Solas’ domain. Plus, your hip is still slightly sore, likely due to the cold and damp. When your eyes can no longer focus on the work in front of you, you stumble the few steps onto the couch, wrap yourself up in Solas’ warm, sweet-smelling blanket (how, oh how, does it still seem to smell of him after so many nights?), and, miraculously, drift off into sleep almost immediately.
You dream, that night. Not vividly… not even whatever perversion has enabled you to sleep in the first place could make your dreams clear and bright in the condition you’re in. But you do dream, and you dream of Solas. It’s no surprise, really. You’re in his rotunda, on his couch, under his blanket. You dream of warm hands, of soothing, tingling magic. You dream of rain and thunder, a memory from a childhood long past. In the hazy reverie, you huddle, frozen, in a cave as a thunderstorm much like the one outside rattles and shakes the skies. Within the desire-tinted fog of the Fade, however, you’re not alone in that cave. Solas is there, lighting a magical fire to warm you both. That’s how you know it’s a dream—in reality, you had sat in that frigid cave all night, shaking and slowly losing feeling in your feet, too cold to sleep. Now, Solas wraps that stupid, warm, perfect blanket around your trembling shoulders, wipes away tears that threaten to freeze solid on your cheeks. He runs a thumb across your cheekbone idly, and you close your eyes momentarily, wondering how much different your life would have been with a companion…
His fingers continue their idle explorations, running along the length of your long, pointed ear. You feel breath on your neck, and—
You force yourself awake with a jolt, bursting through the restraints of sleep to sit bolt upright on the couch. You have a moment of panic when you can’t move your arms, but quickly realize it’s only because you’ve rolled yourself up in the blanket. With some difficulty, you toss it off, then yank on your boots as quickly as you can.
You thrust yourself into the frigid, pre-dawn air, eyes wide with shock and embarrassment. All the danger posed to you by an ex-Templar, a Ben-Hassrath, a wicked Orlesian spymaster… And yet you’re beginning to think one elven apostate is more of a threat to you than the lot of them combined.