Fussing
Knowing you could tear Skyhold apart from the inside is an amusing feeling. You’ve no actual desire to do so, of course; this place is important. No matter your personal feelings on the Inquisition, the Inquisitor, or any of the advisors… They’re doing something that needs to be done. Arguably.
None of the other nations are in a position to do shit against what apparently actually is an ancient magister darkspawn with a dragon, at the very least.
With that in mind, you weigh your options as you climb the steps to the Great Hall. Sera leaves you in front of Solas’s rotunda door, eyeing it with obvious distaste. It’s just as well. Isn’t that why you work in there? People don’t go in. You can work in peace.
Relative peace, you remind yourself, as Solas accosts you seconds after you walk in. You liked him better when he was ignoring you. No, you didn’t.
“Did you sleep in this morning?” he asks as he looks over your healing. You have to force yourself not to make a face. He knows damn well you didn’t; he would have gotten an alert when your door opened. And as it—hopefully—hasn’t opened again since, he has to know that was you getting up in the morning. You hate dealing with spies.
“Relatively, perhaps, but not particularly,” you reply, deciding on honesty since there’s no point in lying when he’ll know you are, other than to annoy him. “But fear not, I’ve been with people since I awoke. Bull, the Chargers, and then Sera ambushed me in the Great Hall.”
“No surprise. Both came to see you yesterday, while you slept, but—”
“You turned them away to let me rest. They told me. I appreciate it, actually.” Particularly Bull. It was helpful to have him fielded off long enough for you to get your story somewhat in order for a man who actually knew certain things about you. Solas and Bull are the only two who have any clue you can actually defend yourself. Leliana, to a much lesser extent. To everyone else, you’re a helpless little elven maiden, and you being beaten half to death by a soldier is surprising only in that the soldier had done such a horrible thing.
“Did you go back to the healing tent this morning, then?” Solas asks as he probes his magic around in your face—a sensation as uncomfortable and unpleasant as ever.
“Erm…” You were supposed to go back yesterday evening, weren’t you? You’d fallen asleep and then just never bothered. “Not as such, no.”
Solas draws back slightly to give you A Look.
“I… forgot?” It’s as good an excuse to any, and fairly close to the truth. You’d at least partially forgotten. You’d only thought about it—briefly—when you realized you would probably need more herbs to chase off the pain. Solas could arguably do any actual healing required, and while being fussed over by him is its own unique torture, it’s preferable to the publicity of the healers’ tent.
“Well, since you shouldn’t be alone, perhaps I’ll bring you to them now—” Solas begins, voice holding just a hint of darkness. One of these days, he’s going to lose his temper with you; you just know it. You’d seen it once already, in fact, but that had been…
Well, he’d been shirtless, in your defense. And you’d enjoyed the cold shoulder he’d given you afterwards much less than all the yelling.
“Emma? Is that your irritated cadence I hear?” a familiar voice comes from above.
There’s a steady, quick thumping down the stairs, and then one of the doors is shoved unceremoniously open.
“Vishante kaffas! You’re a mess!” Dorian says with horror apparent in his eyes, striding over to you. “Did I hear right? Some brute of a soldier attacked you?”
“Lawrence Underhill. Yes,” you reply. You want that name known to literally everyone.
“Why?” he demands, grasping your shoulders, pulling you slightly away from Solas so he can have a look at you.
“I told him that just because his dick was too small to pleasure human women didn’t mean that any elven women would be interested, either.” You see Solas’s eyes widen slightly; you hadn’t been quite so crass with him the day before.
“Ha! I take it he was being a bit too free with his affections?”
“Free and loud,” you reply with a frown. “I’d had problems with him before… Sera and I both, actually. I knew he was a pig; I just didn’t think…” You choke up just the smallest amount, your throat seizing. A subtle act, just enough to be picked up by the two perceptive men. You can see the anger in both their eyes.
“Ridiculous,” Dorian says darkly. “I can’t say I’m surprised to find such a man among the ranks here, but I had hoped for better. I trust the Commander took care of him?”
“He’s been arrested, yes,” you reply, not having to try very hard to put relief in your voice. “The Commander, thank the Maker, stumbled across us.”
Dorian’s mind goes where everyone’s goes: what might have happened if he hadn’t? You know, obviously… you would have kneed him in the crotch and hurled him over the battlements. It wouldn’t have been as pretty, but you would have still had the injuries to prove your story, and the tears to make it believable. He had attacked you. It happened in the struggle. But there would have been more of an investigation. It wouldn’t have been so beautifully open and shut as this has been. Only Bull seems to suspect there might be anything more to the story at all.
Dorian fusses over you a bit, then turns to pester Solas about your healing. That gives Solas the perfect opening to pointedly say, “Actually, I was just about to take her down to the healers’ tent.”
“Take her?” Dorian asks with a sly smile. “Does she need an escort?”
“Tell me,” Solas replies evenly. “How comfortable are you with the concept of her walking down all those stone steps with only one eye working?”
Dorian winces. “A fair point.”
“I can walk, you know,” you say sourly.
“You trip down stairs with every part of your body functioning perfectly,” Dorian counters. “And off of walls, as I recall.” If you live to be one hundred, you will never live that one down. “And now you’re high as a kite—I can tell—and half blind. Let the nice elf take you to the healers’ tent.”
You scowl. You hadn’t actually been protesting Solas taking you there. Just this idea that you’re an invalid. It wasn’t that serious of an injury. All your limbs are intact, none of your organs are spilling out, and your eye would heal on its own eventually, even without all the magical intervention you’re getting.
“You two play nice,” Dorian adds as he’s heading out of the door, presumably to climb back up to the library.
“As opposed to what?” you grumble, mostly to yourself. “Solas pushing me down the stairs himself?”
“Come on then,” Solas says, ignoring your little aside.
He leads you down into the courtyard. You’d like to say you spite everyone by walking down the steps perfectly, but you do stumble slightly. Solas catches you before you can even catch yourself, a firm hand on each of your shoulders, from behind.
“I’m fine,” you mutter, shouldering his grip off of you. It isn’t as though you would have fallen; you’d just stumbled a bit. You hate to admit it, but there was a bit of truth in what Solas and Dorian had said. While you can see just fine, it’s a bit difficult for you to tell how far off things are… including steps. Most, you can do by instinct, but you’ll still be very happy to get this bandage off of your face.
“What in—oh! There you are!” one of the healers exclaims when she sees you. Not necessarily a good sign. “Thomas, get Yuli. Maybe now she’ll stop whining.” The woman turns back to you. “Please, lay down over here. Where have you been?”
You resist the urge to give a catty response. You know she’s just being concerned as a healer, but you really wish she just… wouldn’t.
“She’s been asleep,” Solas replies evenly when it becomes clear your focus is on not being overly rude, rather than actually replying. “I have been keeping an eye on her. I thought it better that she rest—”
“There she is!” The accented voice is unpleasantly familiar. The accent part is, anyway. You look up to see a Dalish elf, of all things. Apparently you hadn’t hallucinated the vallaslin yesterday. You’d rather hoped you had.
“Serah Solas has been keeping an eye on her,” the healer you’d been speaking with informs her. The Dalish woman is wearing a smile that couldn’t possibly look more forced. What’s the point? If you’re going to look like a grumpy asshole, go for it completely. Dive in with both feet. At least when you smile, it looks genuine.
“She shouldn’t have been allowed to leave in the first place, as I’ve said,” the Dalish says, voice just as falsely cheerful as her expression. “She should have been here, where real healers could keep an eye on her condition.”
You feel a little burning heat in your chest. Unfortunately for everyone involved, the Dalish continues. She grabs you, hands on your shoulders as Solas had. You’re even less pleased about it than when Solas did it. She guides… or perhaps pushes… you to a cot, where you sit, trying not to look as irritated as you feel.
“Now, how are you feeling?” the Dalish asks, finally actually addressing you.
“In better condition than everyone seems to expect,” you reply evenly. “It isn’t as though I’ve been going without healing. Serah Solas has been—”
Her eyes slide over to Solas briefly, where he waits near the entrance, then back to you. “That’s all well and good, but with injuries like these, you need actual healers, people with expertise, who know what they’re doing.” She continues on, rambling about how injuries like yours can quickly take serious turns for the worse, blah blah blah, head injuries, blah blah, eyes. You don’t really hear it. All you can actually hear is the blood rushing in your ears. Solas can clearly hear the woman. He barely even looks annoyed… just tired. You, however, are far beyond annoyed. It’s bad enough you have to listen to Dalish prattle on about how superior they are in general. To hear Solas maligned and belittled by her is more than you can stand, for multiple reasons. Not least of which is that he knows more than you. By acting as though she knows more than him, she’s also putting herself above you. Which she certainly would have done anyway, but this was arguably the worst way she could have.
You don’t know if she can see the anger in your one good eye. She doesn’t appear to, continuing on as if she’s the only thing in the tent.
“All I actually need,” you interrupt, “Are more of the herbs, for pain.”
She pauses, as if momentarily caught off guard. “Actually, you need more healing. This sort of an injury shouldn’t be left alone to—”
You glance over at Solas, as if questioningly. “Well, I’m not sure about that… Solas, that won’t interfere with the long term healing you’ve already placed, will it?”
Solas blinks, seeming surprised that you’re addressing him. “Ah… No, unless she purposefully unravels it or prods at it too much.”
You turn back to the healer, who looks even more surprised than Solas did. “I suppose that’s fine, then. Just watch out for Solas’s healing spells.”
Her surprise fades into mild irritation, then she forces the smile back. “I’m sure I can manage. I’ll need to take these bandages off, and—”
You turn back to Solas. “You said something about not wanting them removed?”
Recognition glints in Solas’s eyes. He’s figured out your game now, if not why you’re doing it. “They need to be replaced anyway,” he tells you. “The bindings were slightly haphazard to begin with.”
Back to the Dalish, smiling. “That should be fine, then.”
She smiles through gritted teeth. “Wonderful.”
This continues essentially the entire time. Every time the woman suggests something, you turn for Solas’s opinion before allowing her to so much as apply an elfroot salve. You’re also just difficult in general, protesting or requiring explanation for, frankly, things you already know about. Each time, you buck her suggestions, but immediately defer to Solas’s. By the time the woman leaves to fetch more of the pain herbs, she looks ready to scream. Or perhaps throttle you. Fair enough, you’ve wanted to scream and/or throttle her since she opened her mouth.
When she does finally leave earshot, Solas, who had moved to your side about halfway through your pettiness, turns to glare. “What purpose could you have for antagonizing that woman?” he scolds.
You cross your arms, glaring right back, but saying nothing. Solas looks increasingly frustrated, but the Dalish returns before he can say much else.
“Here are your herbs,” she says, sounding somewhat tired. “They should last you for another few days, but don’t take too many at once.” She eyes Solas sourly. “I’m sure Serah Solas here knows the proper dosage.”
You smile, mostly to yourself. Annoying people into submission really does work so well.
As for your actual healing progress, well… It’s coming along nicely for what it is, but—though you’re loath to admit it—your injuries had been serious. Not life-threateningly serious, or any such thing, no matter how people are acting… But serious enough you can’t just pop in and out of the healers’ tent and be done with it. Unfortunately.
Without the bandages, you’re able to tell that your left eye is making some progress. It’s not swollen all the way shut anymore, and you can kind of see out of it, though your vision is extremely blurry. You confess some worry about that—to Solas, anyway, though the healer is present—and are reassured by both that it’s just due to the fact you haven’t used it in a day. There is no damage to your vision.
The cracks in your bones will take the longest to heal, apparently. No surprise there. Bone is, by its nature, slow and reluctant to grow. And, as both Solas and the Dalish inform you, your body is too weak to handle as much as healing as a soldier’s could. The Dalish surprises you somewhat by going on a sour, clearly oft-repeated rant about the diet of the servants of Skyhold versus the diet of the soldiers.
You privately agree, although your thoughts are also on the diet of the nobles and the Inner Circle. Those with clout in Skyhold seem to have no issue getting food much better than that served in the mess halls. Even Solas is served better food than most… if you’re being completely honest with yourself, the mages probably are too, at least Madame de Fer’s mages. The common servants are simply at the bottom of a long chain.
It’s probably practical. It likely has good reasons for being like that, or at least what those in charge think are good reasons. But you’re with the Dalish on this one.
Despite your secret agreement on this single issue, you’re happy to have your herbs and get out of the healing tent, once she’s done. She’s given your head a thorough bandaging, as well as replaced the bandages on your arms, which just seems unnecessary to you. You immediately head back towards the steps to the Great Hall, when Solas pipes up.
“Perhaps you should rest?”
Your nerves are rather thin at the moment, all things considered, so you have to stop and physically square your shoulders to prevent snapping at him. “No. It can’t even be three hours after sunrise. I am going to work.”
“Seeing as how I seem to be your primary healer—” he begins snarkily, clearly still annoyed by your behavior in the tent.
You cut him off. “My room is freezing. There is no fireplace. There is no heating. I could not rest there even if you dragged me back and magically bound me in bed!” you snap, with more vehemence than you really intended.
Solas’s eyes widen slightly; you meet them only briefly before your gaze slides off him and onto the ground, embarrassed by your outburst but still frustrated with everyone needling you.
“I had not realized it was so cold,” he said finally.
You sigh. “It’s not really an issue, normally,” you lie. Well. Mostly lie. It’s not an issue, per se. You’d bought blankets. “It’s just…” You gesture to your bandaged face.
“The cold makes your injuries ache,” Solas answers for you. The glint of an idea in his eyes tells you that your outburst may have been a mistake on multiple levels.
“Yes,” is all you say, however. “So I would prefer to head into the nice, warm rotunda, and get some actual work done. Injured though I may be, I am capable of sitting… and if I need to rest, there’s a couch right there.”
“You’re correct, of course,” he says, beginning to move again, leading you up the stairs. “I suppose it’s pointless for me to say, but do try not to overwork yourself.”
You roll your eye when he’s not looking. Forget your injuries, the most annoying consequence of your scheme to remove Underhill’s threat from your life is everyone’s incessant fussing.
Despite half of Skyhold apparently being determined to baby you, you do manage to get some actual work done in the hours before lunch. To your surprise, Celia arrives with lunch before you can so much as rise to fetch it. Solas must have said something to her, asked her to. You hope against hope he’s at least paying her… but that’s nonsensical. Technically, this sort of thing is her job. You’re just paying her to fetch Solas’ meals to earn her friendship and discretion.
Still, you rise to help her with the plates and thank her profusely.
You can’t help but notice that today’s lunch for you is soup… and Maker, are you glad. You’re trying to minimize your usage of the herbs, which keep you uncoordinated at best and downright stupid at worst. It makes it difficult to work, yes, but also they make you sleepy and vulnerable. Solas no doubt realizes this, which is why he’s being so ridiculous, but the fact of the matter is… his “protection” doesn’t make you feel any safer. In some ways, it’s quite the opposite.
He’s the danger.
One of many. Even if he doesn’t realize it.
You dwell on that fact grumpily as you eat. It’s your fault and your fault alone. You’d known he was a mage, but you’d planted yourself down here anyway, just because it was quiet and you were cocky. And then you just kept making it worse for yourself, because he was interesting and smart and knew Elven.
Now you’re beat up and weakened next to one of the biggest threats to your safety in all of fucking Skyhold, and it’s your own damn fault.
Solas seems to notice your pensive mood, though what he attributes it to, you have no idea. General bitchiness, maybe. Either way, the two of you share a mostly silent meal, with only a single inquiry as to your condition. You manage to answer it neutrally.
After lunch, you want nothing more than to swipe the wolf pelt off of the back of his chair, curl up on his couch, and go the fuck to sleep. Instead, you clean up the dishes, though he stops you from returning them. Celia arrives to do it for you before much longer anyway.
You flop back down at your desk, glaring blearily at the pages and pages of work you have left to do. Thanks to your injury, you’re working slowly when you can work at all; there’s no way you’ll finish as quickly as you told Leliana. Hopefully, she’ll understand that being beaten causes delays, but somehow, you rather doubt you’ll get as much sympathy as you’d like.
It’s perhaps another two or three hours into the afternoon—around midpoint between lunch and dinner, really, which is the only way you bother to tell time lately—when a messenger arrives. You ignore him completely other than glancing up when he enters, assuming he’s there for Solas. You might think Leliana somewhat stone-hearted, but surely she wouldn’t pester you with a missive when everyone thinks you’re supposed to be bedbound.
The messenger approaches your desk however, and you glare up at him sourly. He doesn’t look like one of Leliana’s. He quails at your open glare, whereas Leliana’s all just fix you with a steady gaze and get on with it.
“U-um, Lady Montiliyet requests your presence at tea?” he says uncertainly. “If you’re up to it.”
“If I’m up to it?” you repeat dryly.
“Th-those were her words, yes.”
It’s only then that his words actually register for you. Lady Montiliyet wants you for tea? Is that her polite, ambassador-esque way of requesting your presence? Leliana would just summon you up to her chambers, but Lady Montiliyet is an ambassador… and just plain polite, beyond that.
You stand, then glance sourly down at your clothing. It’s nothing that you would wear to any sort of tea in Orlais. You’d sooner mug someone and steal their clothes. But you doubt she’s expecting you to dress up, or she would have sent the message sooner. Plus, your face is bandaged. You’re going to look a sight, no matter what.
The man is just staring at you.
“This is the part where you take me to Lady Montiliyet,” you say, a little more gently. Is this his first day on the job? Or maybe he’s just nervous, being near Solas.
“Oh! Yes! Right this way!” he exclaims, then leads you out of the room. You give Solas an apologetic shrug. You could hardly say no. You doubt she’s invited you to tea just to catch up on the latest gossip…
As it turns out… she has.
Well. Not quite. Actually, Lady Montiliyet, after doing the appropriate—if mildly confusing, given your comparative societal ranks—“thank you for coming, so nice to have you” song and dance, informs you she’d been hoping to have you for lunch yesterday, but given the, “um… incident…” thought it better to postpone. Not very long, however. You suppose she has greater estimation of your stamina than anyone else in Skyhold.
You’re quite surprised to learn she’d been intending to speak with you before your injuries. You’d assumed it had something to do with them. But while she does ask after your health and recovery, once you assure her that you’re healing well and in good hands with both the healers and Solas, she does her best to move on… though she does occasionally wince.
The spread is… well, you regret that you don’t have complete usage of your jaw, and also that Orlesian manners prevents you from actually doing anything more than polite nibbling. Could you get this sort of thing from the kitchens? You remember how Solas had eaten a tiny cake with an actual fork. You would pay to see him eat some of these tea foods.
As for Lady Montiliyet, well… She does have business on the roster. Your injury, the steps being taken to prevent other such incidents (not much, but you know she has to say something), your work with Fenris, the ex-slaves, and the spontaneous little farm in the courtyard. It’s clear, however, what she actually called you here for.
“So, Leliana tells me you can speak Antivan?” she asks, polite voice masking excitement in her eyes.
“Sì, certo, nobildonna. Ho vissuto in Antiva per diversi anni,1” you reply evenly.
Lady Montiliyet nearly glows. “Meraviglioso! Così molti qui parlano Orlesian, naturalmente, non è difficile rimanere in pratica, ma mi manca la mia lingua madre!2”
You get it now, and more as the two of you continue to chat.
She’s homesick. She misses Orlais, but more specifically, she misses Antiva something terrible. There is enough here to remind her of Orlais, at least, but Antiva is a very, very long way off, and it’s clear that it’s been a while since she’s been back. There are surely others that speak Antivan within Skyhold, but it’s quite possible none of them have your grasp on not only Antivan politics, but Orlesian politics as well.
While the two of you speak mostly in Antivan, you do slide into Orlesian once or twice as well, and the discussion roams cheerfully around Thedas, though it does stay mostly in the affairs of nobles, as well as her own amusingly petty complaints. Well. Petty is the wrong word. So is silly. She does serious work, as serious as the Commander or Leliana. Diplomacy keeps the wheels of organizations such as the Inquisition from getting stuck in the mud of political discourse, and she really has her work cut out for her, given how genuinely unpopular the Inquisition tends to be with foreign powers.
But it’s still extremely amusing for you to hear her exasperatedly expound on the lack of social graces of most of the Inner Circle—particularly Sera and Blackwall—as well as pause to irritatedly admit that they have to keep stopping a certain noble from treating the elven servants here like the ones “back home.” You’ve no doubt the man is Orlesian, and also no doubt that Lady Montiliyet could mean all number of unpleasant things.
So no, her complaints aren’t petty. They’re quite serious. But somehow, it’s hard to keep that in mind as she pouts about them over a delicate, light blue teacup.
As for you, you’re semi-astounded over your good luck as of late. A chance to butter up the Ambassador? Yes, please. You let her carry on long past what is reasonable for tea. It’s not particularly a struggle; you could always use practice in Antivan, and her stories are genuinely interesting. Both in the sense that they give you insight to what the higher ups of Skyhold are engrossed with, which you can barely see from all the way down at your level, and in the sense that some of her stories are genuinely hilarious.
“—direttamente di fronte agli ospiti! Perbacco!3” Lady Montiliyet is finishing, clearly exasperated.
“Maleducato!4” you agree, clearly amused. You’re used to seeing such things. People in Orlais treat the elves like furniture half the time. It’s what makes spying so damn easy. You’d think people would learn that bards are as often elves as they’re not, but there are always idiots in the Game who never learned.
“Così, ovviamente, la serata era completamente—5 Oh!” Lady Montiliyet follows your gaze behind her, and sees the person who’d just walked in, drawing your attention. “Leliana!”
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Leliana says, sounding just as amused as you were feeling a few minutes ago. It’s a strange tone of voice to hear coming out of her mouth. You’re so used to her being a bit more… somber (terrifying, deadly). “But you wanted to discuss—”
“Oh! Maker, yes,” Lady Montiliyet says, looking a bit flustered. She turns her gaze to you, apologetically. “I’ve kept you far longer than is reasonable, Miss Emma!”
“Not at all, Lady Montiliyet,” you reply, surprisingly honestly. “It was a pleasure.”
“Perhaps you would… like to join me again?” Lady Montiliyet asks hesitantly, and you blink. Seriously? You don’t have to force the smile that comes to your lips.
“I would very much enjoy that, Lady Montiliyet.”
Lady Montiliyet’s smile back seems just as genuine, though you’ve no doubt she has a fake smile to rival yours and the Spymaster’s. “Next week, then. I’ll work out the details. And… please, call me Josephine.”
You feel like you could fly, on the way back to the rotunda… or perhaps that’s just the effect of the healing herbs, since you took another dose right after leaving “tea” with the Ambassador.
You now have connections to three of the five main powers of the Inquisition… and you want no connections to Seeker Pentaghast or the Inquisitor himself. Mind, you didn’t want connections to Commander Rutherford, either, but that’s already a done deal. Of all of them, Lady Montiliyet is the only one you’re comfortable with. She’s the only one whose power and favor you would have actively sought out, if left to your own devices.
She’s a known quantity, in part because you already knew of her, as the diplomat from Antiva to Orlais, and in part because you know her kind, quite well. The Spymaster pries and digs and is just generally dangerous. The other three are either Templars or worse. Lady Montiliyet, she was predictable. Known. Safe. And powerful. A beautiful combination in, admittedly, a beautiful woman.
She must be very popular at soirees these days.
In any case, you’re beyond pleased to have a tie to her, and such a friendly one! Tea, of all things! You could kiss Fenris; though you doubt he knows it, this is thanks to him. Him and his little elves… They’d given you an excuse to talk to Lady Montiliyet, though that hadn’t been on your mind at the time. Or perhaps it’s Baptiste you should be kissing, though it’s… a little late for that. Rather than blame you for his death, Lady Montiliyet had seemed appreciative that you did everything in your power–which was a lot–to complete the mission after his death.
Whatever the cause, you now had an open line to continue befriending Josephine Montiliyet… one of the only friendships here you could actually see being useful after you inevitably left the Inquisition.
Solas notices your mood as you enter the rotunda; you’re practically floating.
“Good news from the Ambassador?” he asks curiously.
“We had tea,” you say simply, smiling broadly.
“Ah,” Solas says, seeming to understand. “Lady Montiliyet is a very pleasant woman.”
You just beam. “I’ll be having tea with her again, next week. She misses having someone to speak Antivan with, I think.”
“Ah… homesickness,” he notes. You nod.
“I have, uh… passing familiarity with Orlesian politics as well as Antivan politics, so I suppose my company is suitable to her.” Solas gives you a bit of a look. Passing familiarity, is that what we’re calling it now? Not that either of you can say much. Some days you miss the relative privacy afforded to you by the little inn room in Val Royeaux. It’s much more oppressive here, living under the Inquisition’s thumb much more directly.
Speaking of the Inquisition and the fact that you technically work for it… You have an actual job to do. You manage to sit down and get some work done, though it’s slow going. You’re loopy and light-headed from the medicine, and have to work slowly and with focus to keep that from affecting your handwriting.
It feels like you just sat down, but the modest stack of pages informs you that you’d been working for a while when your stomach begins to grumble. You ignore it automatically, but it quickly becomes more insistent, letting out a growl that you think Solas must be able to hear across the rotunda.
Dinner time then, you suppose.
It’s a bit embarrassing to be using your own stomach as a gauge for such things. You actually feel a little twinge of guilt as you head down to the kitchens. You often joke about using Solas for his food connections, but going down specifically because your stomach is telling you makes it feel true. It’s silly… You know if you had put off fetching the food, Solas would simply have reminded you, in his way. Not only him, but essentially everyone wanted you to eat regularly, and injured as you were, it was doubly important.
You still feel a bit like you’re using Solas.
What a stupid thing to feel guilty over. You’ve done so much worse than use a man for food.
That sobering thought does nothing to cheer you up, however.
What cheers you up slightly is the greeting you get in the kitchens. There’s a rather delightful smelling chowder waiting for you, and you’re loaded up with various extras, all of which seem to have been carefully selected for minimal chewing. Many times, you have gotten extras for taking the burden of dealing with Solas off the skittish kitchen workers. This time, however, it feels as though the extras are for you. A way of wishing you well.
It’s… touching, in a way, and while you still feel sort a looming sense of fault, you can’t help but smile as a no-nonsense human woman instructs you not to let “that apostate” steal the sweet muffin she’s setting on the corner of your tray.
You smile a little bit more when you share half of the sweet muffin with “that apostate,” though.