Lessons
The day dawns slow and dreary. It’s thickly overcast, murky grey clouds promising a cold, miserable day. It’s still quite dark because of the thick cloud cover, so you swing by the mess hall for breakfast instead of going straight to the stables. When did you last eat breakfast, anyway? Solas would probably scold you. But no one really needs three meals every day. You’re pretty sure the concept of breakfast/lunch/dinner is entirely arbitrary. In Rivain, the demonstration of wealth was to have four meals a day, and Orlesian nobles have “brunch” with enough frequency to probably bump them into five meals a day.
You spot Thea in the hall and sit down across from her. She seems a bit surprised to see you, but you can’t blame her.
“You skip breakfast more than you don’t,” she points out. You shrug.
“I get lunch and dinner every day no matter what I do, so it doesn’t really matter if I skip breakfast,” you explain.
“Yeah, and your lunch and dinner are probably better quality than this stuff,” she says, spooning a bit of gruel out of her bowl sourly. “Pass that honey of yours over here. Every morning you skip breakfast is a morning where I miss it.”
You snort, but pull the jar out of your bag. It rattles against Solas’ present, and you bite your lip. Maybe today…? You could pull it off as a “thanks for teaching me Elven” present. The longer you wait on it, the more embarrassing it’s going to be, because he is going to realize you bought it in Val Royeaux and then held onto it. This might be a good excuse for why.
“So, you still use Sundays as a day off?” Thea asks after the two of you have globbed a decent amount of honey into your gruel.
“Mmhmm,” you reply through a mouthful, then swallow. “I’ve got lessons all day today.”
Thea snorts. “Listen to you. Lessons. It’s like you’re a page.” She sighs. “But I suppose you’re still young. Have to learn while you have the chance, hmm?”
“Still young?” you say with a laugh. “And just how old are you, to be talking like a grandma?”
She glares at you. “They don’t teach elves that it’s rude to ask a lady her age?”
“Nope!” you reply cheerfully. “Age is pride for an elf. You rub it in people’s faces. ‘I didn’t live to be thirty-five by being an idiot!’ ‘If you want to see your second decade, you’ll stop playing the fool on the streets at night!’ And on, and on…”
Thea rolls her eyes. “If you must know, I’m thirty-two.”
You choke on your food slightly. “What, really?” She just glares, and you have to laugh. “I thought you were closer to my age!”
“Yes, yes, rub it in,” she says with a sigh. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Oh, well…” You rub the back of your neck, a bit sheepishly. “I don’t know, exactly… orphan and all that. I didn’t get dropped off at the orphanage with tags, you know.”
“…Oh. Yeah. I didn’t think about that sorry.”
“It’s fine,” you say, waving your hand as if to dismiss her concerns. “I’m somewhere in my mid-twenties. Not thirty-two, that’s for damn sure.”
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up…”
By the time you leave the mess hall, it’s drizzling, an icy cold sheet of water falling steadily from the sky. You should have worn Skinner’s coat, but it’s thick and armored and not exactly the kind of thing you wear just to keep the wet off. And your Orlesian cloak would have made you stick out like even more of a sore thumb than the outfit you’re actually wearing. You bolt to the stables, not wanting to get too wet, but even in that short time it feels like your ears are going to freeze off. You should have at least worn a hat.
Belassan is waiting for you by the harts’ stables. You note right away that he’s done exactly what you suggested; he’s turned the little halla horns into earrings. The bone white of the ironbark perfectly matches his vallaslin—which is to Ghilain’nain and therefore also styled after halla horns. It really does look as though it was done intentionally; no wonder he liked the present so much.
“You look like a frozen calf,” he says with a laugh as you rub your arms to try and urge some heat into your hands.
“I wasn’t expecting it to rain,” you grumble. “It would wait until my day off to get so cold.”
“You can’t ride out like that,” he points out. “Hold a moment.” As he walks off, you turn to Revas, who is snorting and straining against the side of his stall.
“What is it, ma ashi1? Use your words,” you tease him. He takes a deep breath and, before you can stop him, lets out a loud, screeching honk. That, of course, causes three of the other harts to begin honking as well, and pretty soon you have a cacophony of honks and neighs.
“I was joking,” you hiss as you sidle up next to him and put a freezing hand on his nose. “You’re terrible.” He only wuffs hot hair against the palm of your hand in response, then lips it as if looking for treats.
Belassan returns a few moments later, grinning. “They misbehave around the ladies the second I leave,” he says with a soft tut. “At this rate the harts are going to start trying to mount the mares.”
“Don’t blame me for any interspecies trysts,” you say with a snort. “Say, what’s that?” You gesture at the pile of cloth he’s holding. Doubtless, it’s what he left to get. A blanket for the hart, maybe?
“A spare coat,” he says, handing it off to you. It’s clearly his, you realize as you hold it up. It’s large, broad around the shoulders. It’s also Dalish—very clearly Dalish. A dark green in color that you find rather pleasing to look at, the coat is all flowing sleeves and tails with a thick, padded hood. The hood, sleeves, and hem are all lined with a thick, fluffy fur.
“This is abhorrently elfy,” you say with a laugh.
“Then it will match,” he replies, with a deft glance downwards. He noticed your footwraps, then. “If you are not used to going barefoot, I fear for your toes around snow and hoofed animals,” he points out.
“It’s just for a day,” you reply. “I’ll watch my toes around Revas. And if I can avoid falling off, snow and puddles shouldn’t be an issue.” Belassan does you the favor or not inquiring further as to why you decided to suddenly dress up like this. Doesn’t matter; you had a joke prepared about “running off to find the Dalish” to deflect with, anyway.
You’re a bit surprised when, after you’ve saddled up Revas and are leading him out of his stall, you see Belassan leading one of the other harts—not Ashi’lana, but one you don’t recognize.
“I thought we’d ride out into the mountains today,” Belassan explains. “We’ll just tear up the fields if we ride around in the rain here, and I need to see how much that trip through Orlais improved your skills.”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” you say with a chuckle as the two of you lead your harts out of the barn. “I fell off rather spectacularly on at least one occasion, and half the trip back I spent riding with Solas because Revas nearly got himself killed saving my hide.” You glance back at Revas as you say this; the scar is still boldly visible across his side and stomach, and probably always will be. A constant reminder of what a shit you are.
“A week of travel is a week of travel,” Belassan says firmly. “That you’ve improved isn’t in question; the question is how much.” Once the two of you are outside the barn, you both mount up and head out of Skyhold. It always feels a bit strange, going across that ridiculously long stone bridge. It’s the only way in or out of Skyhold that you’ve discovered, and for that reason alone it’s ludicrously well guarded at all hours. Even though you live in Skyhold, work for the Inquisition, have permission to be going in and out… the eyes of the guards on the back of your neck makes your skin crawl. Just a reminder of how poorly things will go for you if—for whatever reason—the Inquisition decides you are no longer an ally.
You notice it almost as soon as Revas’s hooves hit the dirt past the bridge. This isn’t rain anymore–it’s sleet. You glance over your shoulder at Skyhold. It’s impossible to tell if it’s changed there or not, but you’re willing to bet that if you turned right around, it would be raining inside the walls of Skyhold.
Enchanted bathtubs with running water. A green garden this high in the mountains. Rain instead of sleet, snow, hail. There’s no doubt in your mind; Skyhold is magical. Very magical. Tevinter, this far south…? The ancient Tevinters performed wonders with magic, yes, but this… Perhaps it’s Elvhen? Their ruins are scattered seemingly randomly across Thedas, and the way Skyhold is perched in the middle of nowhere with no roads absolutely screams Elvhen to you.
You make a mental note to ask Solas about it. This sort of thing is his area of expertise, and if he’s been in Skyhold this long, there’s no way he hasn’t explored the Fade nearby and found all sorts of interesting answers. This is Solas. Of course he’ll know the history of the giant magical castle he’s living in. Perhaps today, if you get the chance, but you don’t want to distract too much from your first Elven lesson, particularly when you just got him to teach you… Maybe—
“It’s good that you’re comfortable enough on Revas to allow your mind to wander,” Belassan comments, snapping you out of your thoughts.
“Oh! Sorry, Belassan. I was just thinking… about Skyhold. It’s an odd place.”
Belassan’s laughter is light but hearty. “Now that is an understatement.”
His laughter is contagious, and you find yourself chuckling as well. “Admittedly, but I meant the physical castle itself. Look at these trees,” you say, gesturing around. “Evergreen, all of them. But inside the castle grounds, there are several kinds of trees, seemingly from all over. There’s one large one in the garden that I don’t even recognize. And there’s a garden. In the mountains. I would swear I saw ghoul’s beard when I was there last, and that normally grows best in a hot, arid climate.”
“You have suspicions, I take it?”
“Magic, it’s gotta be,” you say with a frown. “But that’s pretty vague. I’ve heard of weird things happening above ground and it turned out there was a large quantity of unmined lyrium underneath the surface. Places where the veil is thin, or warped, places where powerful abominations have caused havoc, old Tevinter and Elvhen ruins… Saying ‘I think it’s magic’ is probably the least useful conclusion one could have.”
“Do you have a lot of experience with this sort of thing?” Belassan asks, sounding surprised. You blink. You always forget he ignores rumor and doesn’t really speak to much of anyone. He’s always a few steps behind in ‘shit people know about you.’
“My work is mostly in history and—thanks to the Circles—magic. So… magical history, it comes up,” you say with a shrug. “When there are weird things like Skyhold, people write it down. When other people explore them later, they find old Tevinter or Elvhen writings, they need someone to translate it.”
“Your job must be very interesting,” Belassan muses. “Do you do much work with ancient Elvhen?”
“No, not really.” It’s not really a lie. Almost all of the Elvhen things you dig up, you’re hunting down, not being paid to look at. “My speciality is actually ancient Tevene. But there’s a lot of overlap… everything pre-Blight blurs together, since we have so little records.”
The two of you chatter your way through the woods outside of Skyhold. At one point, Belassan has you break into a run. You surprise yourself by staying on Revas without too much difficulty. This is mostly because Belassan is in front and that means Revas can’t break into a bound like he did back the Dales. You’re quite certain if he did, you’d come flying off just as quickly.
“You’re improving excellently,” Belassan informs you when he slows to a stop. You’re panting despite the fact you weren’t the one running–it’s not effortless for you to stay on a running hart. Your legs are going to feel like over-boiled chicken bones when you dismount. “And to say Revas has grown attached to you would be a colossal understatement. I hope you are here for the long run, Emma. If you left, he would likely become distraught, or break out trying to follow you.”
You stare at Belassan, trying to determine if he’s joking. He doesn’t appear to be. You run a hand along your hair, looking down at Revas, who tilts his head to eye you. It’s as if he’s saying “I would, you know. You’re stuck with me.”
…Great.
“Well, I guess I better stay with the Inquisition, then,” you say jokingly. “Because I can’t afford to buy a hart.”
Hopefully when you do leave, you can steal him or leave on good enough terms to take him with you. You don’t need a pissed of hart trying to track you through the countryside… though Belassan might be exaggerating about that. But… you do kind of owe him.
The two of you—or four of you, in a sense—spend several hours out there, despite the frigid weather and determined sleet falling from the sky. It’s not so bad under the tree cover, which breaks up the worst of the wind and protects from the icy sleet. And Belassan’s coat is quite warm; being Dalish, it even has extra padding around the ears. After the two of you finally do return to Skyhold you note that it is, in fact, raining there. The temperature is dropping, however, and you suspect that it might start freezing before too terribly long. What a miserable day… to spend inside Solas’s rotunda learning Elven.
Maybe… sitting right next to him at his desk… pouring over an old tome… Or sitting at your own desk while he leans over you from behind, pointing out errors in your script… Or maybe—
“Emma?” Belassan is leaning onto the stall door, having already finished brushing down his hart.
Oh, you’ve been brushing Revas in the same spot for a while now, huh. Even Revas is giving you a knowing look.
“Sorry, I was just, uh… thinking about my plans for the rest of the day,” you explain.
“Busy with work again?”
“Something like that,” you murmur, smiling a bit despite yourself. You can still barely believe it. You keep feeling like you’re going to get there and he’s going to reveal that it was all a dream or something.
“Are you being elusive for a reason, or just for fun?” Belassan jokes, and you laugh.
“Solas has finally relented and decided to teach me some Elven,” you explain. “Just for the afternoon, but… if I’m lucky, it seems like this will be a regular installation of my Sundays.”
“You’ll be eager to finish riding every week now,” Belassan comments, and you’re not sure if he’s teasing or genuinely displeased by it. You have no idea what displeased would look like on Belassan; you don’t believe you’ve seen it before.
“I’m sure he’ll scold me if I start showing up too early,” you say with a laugh. “He has other things to do. Besides… I’m eager to start today, but it would take a lot to keep me away from Revas,” you add with a fond pat to the hart’s nose. You finish brushing him off and exit the stall.
“It’s pouring rain,” Belassan comments, and you nod. Even inside the barn, it’s just about all you can hear. It’s coming down on the roof in sheets. You’re not looking forward to bolting across the courtyard. “Keep the coat for today,” he tells you. “You’ll freeze the second you step outside, otherwise.”
You eye Belassan. You’d normally say yes right away, just due to the sheer amount of cold and wet involved, but after that kiss from last time, you’re a little hesitant. But… he’s been perfectly normal all morning. He’s wearing the earrings, but neither of you called any attention to them. That probably was just a bizarre cultural thing from his clan. And if he’s not going to make things awkward, you sure aren’t going to either.
“…Thank you,” you say finally. “I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can.”
“No need to rush,” he says with a shrug. “It isn’t as though it’s my only one.”
Even after you finish brushing Revas, it’s still a little early for lunch. After a moment’s consideration, however, you decide to fetch it early anyway. You don’t want to get started on your lesson only to be distracted by a meal.
You suspect you’re at least an hour early with lunch; it’s hard to tell when it’s this stormy out. But rather than being annoyed or amused at your eagerness, Solas seems pleased.
“I am never quite sure how long your ‘riding lessons’ will last,” he says. “Let alone when something else will waylay you. It’s good that you are a bit early. We will begin and soon as you’ve eaten.”
You pout slightly. “We could start—”
“Eat,” he says pointedly, and you sit on your stool with a thump, frowning deeper.
“I did eat breakfast, you know,” you grumble.
“Is that supposed to be an occasion worth celebrating? You should be doing that every day.”
“I… That…” After a moment of trying to think of a retort that isn’t insipid, you give up and start eating. Solas gives you a look that says ‘that’s what I thought,’ but says nothing as well, simply starting his own meal.
You eat quickly, then shift anxiously while you wait for him to finish. As soon as he sets down his fork, you’re staring at him expectantly. He pushes his plate backwards away from the edge of the desk. You watch. He reaches for a book. You wiggle slightly in your seat.
“We will need use of the desk for this.” You’re about to ask him what the hell is stopping him from using the damn desk already when he gestures to the plates.
Son of a…
Wordlessly, you gather up the damn plates and take them to the fucking kitchen. You see Servis on your way there, and you’re pretty sure he intended to talk to you, but whatever expression he sees on your face stops him dead. You pass him without a word and drop the plates off in the kitchen where, coincidentally enough, absolutely no one talks to you.
You’re mentally daring Solas to come up with one more thing for you to do—you don’t care how old, smart, or strong he is, you’ll kick his ass, damnit—but when you return to the rotunda, he has your desk chair, not the stool, pulled up to the other side of his desk. The sight makes you hesitate for some reason. It seems… you’re not sure. Important, somehow. Solas is seemingly still setting up a bit–a scroll placed carefully on the desk, a journal placed next to a quill and ink.
It looks so… official. How many of those soft, leather-bound books on his desk are for this purpose? That quill with its own little box, is that his? That blank journal, did he get it just for this occassion, or is he like you, with half a dozen blank books lying about at any given time? You had thought his offer to teach you sudden, but… Maybe it hadn’t been, for him. Maybe he’d been thinking about it. Since you got back? While you were Val Royeaux?
How long?
Had he been making preparations? Or did he throw these things together in a day or two? Which was more impressive?
“Ah, good,” he says when he spots you standing, stunned, near the doorway. “Now that we’ve done away with any distractions, let’s begin.” He gestures to your chair, and your legs move on their own, carrying you through the room and plopping you down. Unbidden, your hand moves to the quill, and you feel a slight tingling where your fingertips brush along the spine.
“…Solas,” you say, at once distracted out of your stupor. You pick up the quill and hold it up to the light. You recognize it now, but would you have if you hadn’t felt the lyrium running through its core? “Is this your quill? It feels odd.” And looks extremely familiar, but you’re not going to point that out just yet.
“No, it’s—” he hesitates for half a breath, and then rushes onward. “Yours. Consider it a gift. Now, if you’ll consult the scroll in front of you—”
“Solas,” you say again, eyeing him over the desk. “Do you believe for one second I am going to allow you to give me what I believe very much to be an enchanted quill and then brush away from the subject as if it’s unimportant?”
Solas, to your amazement, refuses to meet your gaze. He clears his throat, and you realize he seems… embarrassed? “It was an impulsive purchase, but I have no real use for it—” he begins.
“This is the quill the dwarves we met on the road were selling, isn’t it?” you say, a grin forming on your lips. “The one I kept looking a—” The grin fades quickly when you remember the price of it. “You bought this?”
“I was impressed by the dwarves’ clever use of enchantment,” Solas says, a little defensively. “It’s inlaid with lyrium. When placed in ink, it pulls it up into a hollow reservoir inside the quill. I’ve examined it to my satisfaction, but I don’t write enough to make proper use of it.”
Bullshit. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit! But you’re not going to say that. This thing had been priced at three sovereigns! He expects you to believe three sovereigns was an impulse buy? And you saw him buy other things from those same dwarves! How much does the fucking Inquisition pay him, anyway?! “Solas, I’m not sure I can accept—” you begin, reluctantly. You want it, yes, but that is a very expensive present, and…
“Please,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I have no real use for it, but I have yet to see a day pass where you don’t write something.”
“I… thank you,” you say, after trying to think of something else.
“If you are quite finished stalling—”
“Not quite, actually,” you say quickly, setting the quill down. If you don’t do this right now, you never will. “So long as we’re awkwardly exchanging gifts…” You reach into your bag; you don’t even have to hunt, your hand goes straight to the heavy box. You place it over on his side of the desk, push it towards him slightly.
“What is this?” he asks, clearly confused.
“You are familiar with the concept of how gifts work, yes?” you say dryly. “It was going to be a thanks for teaching me Elven, but now I suppose it’s a thanks for the incredible magical quill instead. Seems a little lackluster at this point.”
Still looking bewildered, he opens the box. You memorize his expression, the way his face shifts through stages of shock, the exact tilt of his eyebrows, the way his lips part, mouth opening as if stunned, however briefly.
“I don’t know if you even use watercolors,” you mutter to yourself when he doesn’t say anything right away. “But… the place where I buy quills and ink a lot in Val Royeaux had them, new color boxes from Renaud. If you can’t use it, I—”
“No, it… I can use it,” he says quickly, snapping the box shut. “You… got this in Val Royeaux?”
You flush. “Yeah, and you got the quill on the way back from Val Royeaux.”
“Was it—No, nevermind,” he says, and you’ll be wondering what he was about to say for the next six months, no doubt. “Thank you.”
Is he slightly flustered? Flushed? Only fair, you’re both in spades. But now the atmosphere in the rotunda is more than a little awkward.
“So! Elven,” you say, clearing your throat.
“Ah. Yes…” He lifts the box and sets it underneath the corner off the desk. “Before anything else, I need to understand how much you already know. Open the scroll in front of you and begin to read. If you do not know a word, you may either attempt it to the best of your abilities, or skip it and move on to the next.”
Oh, Maker, this is going to be embarrassing, isn’t it? “Please attempt to refrain from laughing,” you mutter as you begin unraveling the scroll. “Var… Var’landivalis him sa’bella… bellanaris san elgar…” If Solas finds listening to your hesitant reading painful, he doesn’t show it on his face, which you appreciate. He doesn’t stop you or rush you, he simply listens, occasionally scribbling something down, as you read. After you’ve been reading for about ten minutes, he stops you.
“Do you believe you can translate this?”
You gaze at the scroll for a moment, considering. “With a margin of error, yes,” you say finally.
“Attempt it,” he instructs.
You gaze at the first line for a moment, and then speak. “Our belief became… or maybe ‘transformed’… sa’bellanaris is odd to me… sa as a prefix means ‘one,’ or ‘a single one’, but bellanaris means ‘eternity’ or ‘always’ or even ‘permanently.’ One eternity doesn’t make a great deal of sense, so it probably has another meaning. Elven is… poetic. There are a lot of very confused scholars out there that still haven’t figured out that da’dinan2 means—”
“Focus.”
“Sorry. The last three words, sa’bellanaris san elgar… Elgar is spirit. Spirits are mutable. Did their belief transform a spirit in some way, perhaps? That seems likely. San could be a place, or a land… Our belief transformed… one eternity, one place… Or, could san elgar be talking about the Fade, maybe? Place of spirits? Or… containing the spirits in one place? Forever?” You make a disgruntled noise, gripping the magical quill without thinking and beginning to scribble down notes in the blank journal. “Our belief transformed everything… Our belief transformed everything in the place of spirits?”
“Continue on to the next section,” Solas instructs.
“But—”
“This is not a riddle, lethallin. I am simply gauging your knowledge.”
You sigh. “Alright, alright… Melanada him sa’miras…“
It continues much the same throughout the afternoon. He really is just trying to figure out how much you know… which is perfectly understandable, but also makes you exceedingly nervous. It’s necessary, so you’re as honest with him about your knowledge as you can be. Honestly, you wouldn’t even know which parts to hide. It helps that he has yet to ask how you know any of this, possibly knowing that he’ll just get the same vague answer you always give. …Or that you would turn around and ask him the same question.
All you can really do is hope that he doesn’t realize just how suspicious your knowledge is. Although you suspect you’re just fooling yourself. But if he finds the amount you know suspicious, he should realize the amount he knows is infinitely more suspicious, so whatever. It’s not like you’re the only liar here.
You’re mulling over the translation of a particularly odd phrase when the door slams open. It’s so loud in the quiet rotunda that both you and Solas jump and turn to look. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but a pissed-off, damp Dorian is not it. Your eyes flick to Solas. Solas’s eyes flick to you. Which one of you pissed him off, anyway?
The question is answered when he wordlessly storms over to the desk, slams down a bowl of pickled herring, and levels you with a powerful glare.
A grin blossoms on your face. “Been to the healing tent?”
“You… you… vishante kaffas!” he swears, throwing his hands up. He turns dramatically on his heel and storms back out of the room, muttering angrily under his breath about uppity elves who pull pranks on poor, beleaguered mages for no reason. You’re biting your tongue to try to keep from laughing.
Solas turns to you. “…Would you mind explaining why we were just delivered a bowl of fish by an angry Tevinter mage?”
You burst out laughing, nearly doubling over from the force of it. Maker! Oh, Maker, he looked so annoyed! And the dampness just made it; you can’t believe he went over there in the rain! That poor bastard! Oh, Maker, the look on Krem’s face must have been… Oh, you really have to go see Krem tonight or tomorrow to get his side of the story. This is amazing.
Solas clears his throat delicately. “I believe I mentioned that I wanted your focus, free of distractions?” he says pointedly. You take a few deep gasps of breath and yourself calm… or at least calmer.
“Ir abelas, hahren,” you say with a final chuckle. “Let’s continue.”
And you do, though the bowl of fish doesn’t go ignored for long. You find yourself idly snacking on the tiny fish whenever you have to puzzle your way through a particularly hard to understand segment, or while demonstrating your mastery of the script for Solas. He makes a face at you—complete with an adorable crinkled nose—quite similar to the one he makes when you drink your strong tea. But he says nothing, and so throughout the course of the afternoon you wind up eating the entire bowl. Waste not, want not.
The day slips by without you really noticing how much time is passing. Your strengths and weaknesses hopefully become clear to Solas. He seems quite pleased by your mastery of the script, but that doesn’t really fill you with much pride. Anyone can copy letters. And in everything else, you feel yourself falling short. Pronunciation was a problem you already knew you had, but your lack of knowledge of the actual language itself is rearing its ugly head. There are too many words you just don’t know, or words with alternate meanings you’d never considered. You try to tell yourself that you’ve done your best with the resources you’ve had, but it’s still… discouraging. Although Solas doesn’t seem to think so; if anything, he seems to find the oddest things you grasp delightful. When you mention—off-handedly–—you think modern scholars are relying too much on limited Dalish lore and have been mistranslating certain words for centuries… he practically glows.
“It’s not their fault,” you say, frowning over the section. “The Dalish have limited knowledge, segmented from clan to clan. They practice an oral tradition, which means that every time a Keeper dies unexpectedly, a little bit more lore could be lost. And only one or two clans really share their knowledge with outsiders willingly. So human and non-Dalish elven scholars–like myself–are working off of a tiny piece of a fragmented chunk of a once-great whole. I’ve seen one other scholar suggest that we were relying too much on Dalish lore for the translation of certain words–harellan, in this case–but he never gained much traction. But I think—” you glance up. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“The vigor with which you have pursued knowledge is admirable,” Solas replies, eyes crinkled in a smile that his lips don’t quite follow through with.
“And I suppose knowledge just falls into your lap, does it?” you retort, though your ears are flushing slightly with the praise. “Some knowledge impresses itself onto you whether you want it or not: the sharpness of a Chevalier’s blade, for instance. But by and large, if you want to know, you have to find out.”
“Very true. So tell me, what does your inquiring mind make of this section here?”
And back to work you go.
He must have every Elvhen book in his and the Inquisition’s possession on this desk, including one that appears to be a collection of ancient Elvhen poetry that you would—absolutely literally—kill for. But this time, no one needs to die. If you continue to please Solas, he should continue to teach you, and eventually he’ll probably have you copying down and translating those very poems for study. Amazing. Incredible. The idea of something like that being the point of an interaction, not just a side benefit that you have to struggle through unpleasantness to get…
You wonder, vaguely, if he has even the slightest notion of what this means to you.
It seems as though he’ll be getting Sunday evenings as well, as the two of you work on and on, by candlelight after sunlight ceases to stream in from the windows above. You probably wouldn’t have stopped at all if not for one of your elven sentences being interrupted mid-syllable by a long, low grumble. Your eyes widen in unison with Solas’s but he begins to flush as both of you realize that sound was produced by his stomach.
You glance over at the candle on your desk, the one you use to tell the time. It’s quite low.
“Maker! It’s got to be two hours past dinner!” you say, aghast. “Ir abelas, Solas.”
“Not at all,” he replies, still looking more than a little embarrassed. “I had forgotten as well.” He glances down at the desk, which is strewn with work. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to break for dinner.” You feel a pang of regret; you don’t want to stop. But it’s only fair; he’s been working with you for hours now.
“I suppose so. You’re getting old, after all. Can’t go as long as the younger teachers without needing to take a break,” you tease good-naturedly.
“I’ll straighten the desk while you and your smart mouth fetch us both something to eat,” he says dryly.
Your fantastic mood must show on your face, in sharp contrast to how you’d looked fetching lunch. Celia comments as you prepare two meals that you look like you’re floating a few inches off the ground. You certainly feel like it. Either that or you’re just getting stronger in the upper arms; the tray barely feels heavy at all as you climb the stairs.
Solas has cleared the desk a bit when you return… enough that the two of you can eat, anyway. Dinner as a “break,” however, lasts all of about ten minutes before you say something that has Solas reaching for one of the books again. The two of you wind up going over more elven as you eat. You’re amused to see that Solas has similarly mastered the technique of “eating food anywhere but over the book, even while writing or reading.” One only has to drop a bit of porridge on a book once to pick up that skill, you suppose.
The dishes are cleaned and then lie forgotten beside the desk as the two of you dive straight back into your efforts. Your mind makes a few idle jokes about “stamina,” but you’re too busy focusing on the actual task at hand to bother voicing them. The hours begin to slide by again as Solas begins to explain the basics of when, precisely, one uses an apostrophe during contraction. A ludicrous overuse of apostrophes is perhaps the most telling sign of a novice in the language, after all. It’s a problem you had with Luvian when you were teaching him. The man wanted to put the damn things everywhere!
The two of you probably would have continued on through the night, interrupted by only by Dorian’s snide remarks bouncing down from above, if not for an untimely interruption.
The library has long since emptied of all but the most determined worker; even the rotunda is dimmed as you and Solas work by the light of several nearby candles rather than trying to keep the whole room lit up. Solas is watching over your shoulder as you attempt to translate a poem in to Elven. Then the door slams open–really slams, the loud bang makes you jump.
Both you and Solas twist around to see what in the Void is happening, but who you see is the last person you expected.
“Sataareth?” you say, blinking. You haven’t seen him since you arrived in Skyhold; you hadn’t even been sure whether or not he’d been sent out already.
“Your dark elf sent me!” he snaps in Qunlat, before seeming to remember you’re in mixed company, and then continuing in Common. “The cat is giving birth. He sent me to fetch you and your saarebas.”
You snap back in Qunlat with as little thought as he probably gave in speaking it initially. “I don’t care how much training you’ve been doing with Katari, call him my saarebas one more time and I’ll break you over my—wait, did you say giving birth?”
“Yes! Your sssssSolas is needed, and you should be present, as well. It is your cat.”
You glare at him, both for his not-at-all-subtle save and for calling Asaaranda your cat. “Stop calling things mine! He’s not mine! The cat is not mine! Nothing is mine!” you snap. “But…” You turn to Solas. “There must be complications if Belassan is asking for you. Solas, will you please—”
But Solas is already pulling on his thick, wool-and-fur coat. You yank on the hooded coat Belassan gave you, and the three of your quickly head out into the courtyard.
It’s still pouring freezing rain, because of course it is. Your toes flare with pain from the cold, but quickly grow numb as you splash and crunch—the water is beginning to freeze—across the courtyard.
You immediately realize what one of the problems is when you enter the barn; it’s cold and drafty despite the sheer number of warm bodies inside. Not so cold that a horse would be uncomfortable, but a pregnant cat?
Sataareth leads you towards the back, where you find Belassan and Horsemaster Dennet of all people hunched near Asaaranda. You barely need his help finding her–her yowls let you know where she is as soon as you’re within twenty meters.
“Where is the healing lady from before?” you ask, entering the stall as well. “Shouldn’t she be here?”
“She is providing healing to some of the Chargers’ injured,” Belassan explains. “They can spare no healers for a pregnant cat tonight.” In unison, all four of you turn and look towards Solas. This explains why he was requested. You’re ready to turn on the puppy-dog eyes and start begging, but it turns out to be unnecessary. Without so much as a sigh, Solas enters the stall.
“Who here has actually overseen an animal birth?” Three hands go up. “Saatareth, out of the stall. Who here has actually overseen a feline birth?” Everyone’s hand drops except for Dennet’s. Solas points at you and Belassan. “Out. Emma, go find a small crate of some kind and some clean, unperfumed blankets or towels. Belassan, get that blasted horse out of the next stall; it’s distressing her. Dennet, you’re going to be—” He glances over at you. “Is there a reason you’re still standing there?”
You turn and scurry off. You fetch the crate first; that’s easy enough. Then you bolt across the courtyard to the laundry to get absolutely clean, unperfumed towels and blankets. You put them in the crate to keep them dry as you bolt back across the courtyard. You wish Cole were here. He can fucking teleport. Not you, and you’re also not wearing shoes while running through steadily freezing puddles of water as rain threatens to turn to snow. You’re fairly sure you won’t be able to feel your toes for the rest of the night.
Sataareth is gone when you return. You hand the crate over the stall door to Dennet, then look to see how Asaaranda is doing. She is determinedly licking her crotch, which you suppose is fair enough. After a few licks, she lays down and makes an awful squalling noise, which… is also fair enough. You also note that while it’s still frigid in the barn, Solas has taken his jacket off. A moment’s examination reveals why… he’s placed a fire glyph on the ground to help warm Asaaranda. Impressive. You’re certain if you—or even most mages—tried that, you’d ignite the hay on the floor of the stable.
“How long has it been?”
“About an hour. We were getting worried, that’s why Belassan decided to send for the two of you.”
Which is of course when it occurs to you that Belassan had operated under the assumption that the two of you would still be together this late at night, still in the rotunda. You don’t know whether to be pleased, embarrassed, or annoyed. In any case, he hadn’t been wrong… Better than him sending Sataareth to Solas’ room, anyway.
“Where’s Sataareth?” you wonder aloud.
“Boiling water,” Solas replies, and you snort.
“Do you actually need that, or did you just do that to get rid of him?”
“It can be both. Emma, get in here and line this crate with blankets. Dennet, hold this towel–”
Solas playing kitty midwife would be an entertaining sight if you weren’t actually kind of worried. Should it be taking her this long? How long do cat labors last? How many kittens could possibly survive the process? And what about her health, if they’re all already dead? You would hate to have prolonged her life, nursed her back to health, dragged her through the Frostbacks, just to have her die here in labor.
“Ah, she’s crowning!” Solas’s exclamation breaks you out of your worries. You glance over to see and—oh ew. Eeeeeeewww.
“Is the discharge supposed to be…”
“No,” Solas replies tersely. “She’s in distress… She’s not cleaning the kitten. Dennet—”
“On it,” the Horsemaster says, using a towel to gently grab the tiny, slimy ball that is supposed to be a kitten.
“Emma, get that box ready. Ah, Sataareth, good. Give Emma the water bottle–Emma, put it next to the box.”
“No good,” Dennet says as Asaaranda begins to yowl and strain again. “It’s not breathing… Stillborn.”
You swear under your breath. You’d known that would be the case, but still… part of you had been hoping.
“Keep it to the side. Here comes another—Ah! She’s cleaning it.” A few terse seconds pass, and then a high pitched, plaintive squeak.
“It’s alive!” you say, stunned.
“A tiny little thing,” Dennet comments. “Looks like they’re all going to be runts.”
“That it lives at all is sheer luck and perseverance, considering what the mother has been through,” Solas points out, before moving the kitten from its mother into the warm, blanketed box you’re holding. “Here comes another.”
The third is stillborn; it’s easy to tell because Asaaranda attempts to eat it once she’s cleaned the goop off of it. You make a sickened retch, and Dennet quickly pulls the little kitten corpse away from its mother, likely only to spare you. Nature is disgusting.
You’re starting to think the one kitten will be all that survives, but number four proudly squeaks as its mother cleans it off. That one gets bundled up, cleaned off, and then placed into the box with its sibling.
“Is she done?” you wonder. Four is a good number of kittens, isn’t it?
“She’s still contracting—Ah, here comes another,” Solas replies.
The would-be fifth kitten takes only a single weak gasp outside of the womb before passing–not enough strength to survive outside the mother, Solas explains, as Asaaranda lets out more tired wailing. Another tiny, disgusting blob forces its way out of her–you will be quite happy if you never witness another birth–and you’re expecting it will be stillborn as well. That certainly seems the case; the mother ignores it, prompting Dennet to pick it up and clean it himself. Asaaranda is exhausted, but, it seems, finally done birthing kittens. You turn your attention to the two in the box.
“Will they make it?” you ask Solas nervously.
“That remains to be seen,” he replies, which doesn’t comfort you in the least. But then, a tiny squeak catches your ear.
“It’s alive!” you exclaim.
“Not for long,” Dennet says with a sigh. “It’s tiny. Too weak; it’s half dead already.”
You turn your eyes to Solas, gaze wide. “Lethallin—” you begin. Solas sighs.
“Give it here. Dennet, get the mother in with the kittens as soon as she is able. I don’t want to risk them to the cold.”
You hand the box over to Dennet and move to see if you can assist Solas at all–though you’re certain you can’t.
“You realize if this kit survives, it will require near-constant attention for the first week, yes?” Solas says as he runs a glowing finger onto the shaking kitten’s stomach. It looks like a particularly gross mole rat, not a kitten, but you suspect you didn’t look too great straight out of the womb, either.
“That is fine,” Belassan says, and you realize he and Sataareth are both watching from the stall door, leaning in to see better. “Sataareth, Dennet, and I, have already discussed who will take what shifts with the kittens. We assumed that if any survived, they would need attentive care.”
“You, Sataareth, and Dennet?” you repeat, genuinely uncertain about which part of that shocks you the most.
“I will likely be leaving Skyhold on my first task within the next few weeks, but until that time, my training has slowed enough to allow me to spend evenings here,” Sataareth explains, though that is not what you were confused by.
“I am simply lucky that the Horsemaster is fond of cats,” Belassan adds.
“Every barn needs a few good mousers,” Dennet says defensively. “Look! They’re nursing!”
You’re not too proud to admit that you join in the cheering.
“How is the littlest one, Solas?” you ask after gazing at the two tiny, nursing bumps, who are being enthusiastically licked by Asaaranda.
“I have done all I can,” Solas says with a sigh. “Who will be taking first watch?”
“That would be me,” Dennet replies.
“Excellent. Watch that all three nurse well. If she neglects the smallest, you may need to pump milk from her, but hopefully that will not be necessary.” Solas stands. “Let us move her some place quieter. Emma–get a shovel or something, clean this.” He says, gesturing to the dirtied hay.
He leaves with Dennet as Belassan quietly chuckles, likely at the disgruntled look on your face.
“Worry not, Emma,” Belassan assures you. “I will clean the stall. Why don’t you take the opportunity to catch up with your Vashoth friend? He mentioned it had been some time.”
“Thank you, Belassan.” Normally you wouldn’t risk disobeying Solas on something so minor, but you’re fairly certain he only ordered you to do it because you were there. And you badly want to talk to Sataareth. Belassan fetches a pitchfork, and you and Sataareth walk to a more quiet corner of the stables.
“So… You’ve been training with Katari?”
“Do not strain yourself trying not to sound disapproving, Valo-Kas,” he says wryly.
“Is it so obvious?” you say with a chuckle.
“Yes,” he replies. “But I understand… the two of you are… I’m not sure what the Common word is. Vehlalit-an3.”
You can’t help but laugh at the absurdity. “I think you’re giving me a bit too much credit. I’m probably more like an extremely mouthy gnat.”
“You challenged Katari’s authority on several occasions,” Sataareth points out.
“Yes, and he couldn’t run me through because it was literally his job not to. But enough, I didn’t come to argue with you about him. You said you’ll be sent out soon?”
“Yes, with Katari and a few other elite. I suspect we will be gone for… months.”
You’re surprised by the sensation of sinking in your chest. “Oh.” You pause for a moment, then clear your throat. “Well, I’m glad you’re finding a place, at any rate. Even if it is an odd one, with a Tal-Vashoth and some kittens,” you add.
“You and your—” You cut him off with a glare. “The saare—”
“Third try’s the charm.”
“The elf,” Sataareth says finally, rolling his dark eyes. “You were together quite late at night.”
“Yeah, and you were in the stables making plans with an elf and a human,” you say brattily. “You don’t see me giving you a hard time over it.”
“Saarebas of any kind are dangerous, Valo-kas,” Sataareth warns you. “It is unwise to—”
“If you finish that sentence, Sataareth, I will demonstrate for you how the Iron Bull taught me to ride a Qunari’s horns,” you say with a glare. “You’ve finally put on enough muscle that I could jump on without causing you to tip over, I bet.”
Sataareth grins. “It is good to talk to you again, Valo-kas.”
“Yeah,” you admit, leaning back against a stall. “I think I’ll miss you when you’re gone, Sataareth. Hopefully we run into each other in the stables… and… let me know before you leave?”
Sataareth nods. “I will. And I will write, while I am gone. The other soldiers all write to people. I believe it will help me… fit in.”
“I’d like that. I’ll write back.”
A moment of pleasant silence is shared then, only to be interrupted by a pained yelp from Horsemaster Dennet. “Blasted cat! I’m trying to help!”