Birdwatching
You wake up with regrets.
But you had spent the night in blissful, blissful, dreamless unconsciousness, so the regrets honestly only go so far. On the plus side, you’re in your bed, though you don’t remember how you got there. On the not-so-plus side, however, you have a splitting headache and your mouth tastes and feels like you were waterboarded with acid. And you’re fucking freezing despite your cocoon of blankets. You realize why when you peel one eye open. The sun is already beginning to peek in your window—your uncovered window. The cloth you’d put over it only a few nights before has been torn.
You groan unhappily as you roll out of bed. You’re still in your clothes from yesterday… no big deal, honestly; you’re going to have to start sleeping in more and more clothes as it gets colder and colder. Before you change into your “getting beaten up by a Qunari” clothes, however, you stumble over to the window, a single blanket still draped around your shoulders. How had this been torn? You peer out the window and see something out of place immediately… there’s a bird feeder outside your window, hanging from a metal hook drilled into the stone that had very much not been there yesterday.
You eye it with a frown, and then your eyes focus on a man just past it, a man who’s pulling weeds growing up by the wall.
“Excuse me,” you say, loud enough to be heard—and to make your head ache, as it turns out. The man turns, and you see pointed ears. Good to see the Inquisition still uses elves for all the fun tasks, like weed-pulling. “Do you know where this bird feeder came from?”
The man tilts his head slightly, then smiles. “Why, you got it in Val Royeaux, miss!”
You stare at him blankly for a few moments as he wanders away. You got it in…
FUCK.
Your hand snaps out to the bird feeder and you all but yank it off its hook and pull it inside. You take a step back from the window and set it on your bedstand, swearing quietly and breathlessly. He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t…
He would, as it turns out. There’s a compartment in the bottom of the birdfeeder. You couldn’t see it without flipping the damn thing over and spilling it, ordinarily, but this is hardly your first time. A few minutes of careful prying and you get it open, and yank out a small, folded piece of parchment. You’re going to kill him.
You unfold it and glare down at the message. It’s an old code you and Banal’ras developed years ago. It reads like a birdwatching manifesto, which makes its placement brilliant. No one would be that thrown by a birdwatching document in a bird feeder, and the compartment wasn’t well hidden enough to be that suspicious. This had better be damn important.
You don’t even need to pull out paper to work the translation; something you’re this familiar with and you can read it like a language, easily.
Found you, fire. Killed six of your boss’ soldiers. They deserved it, but I thought I’d give you a head’s up. Left a calling card. Have fun with that. Ice.
Yep.
You’re gonna kill him.
You crumple the paper in your fist, and almost ignite it yourself before thinking better of it and holding it to a candle instead.
What the fuck had he done? He had killed Inquisition soldiers?! And left a fucking calling card? Just declare war on the place where I’m hiding, why the shit not, Banal’ras?! Was he hoping you’d leave? As your pounding head settles, however, you realize this is possibly more grim than you’d thought. Banal’ras isn’t an assassin. Never has been. It was possible that they had threatened him, leading him to act in self-defense, but if they had, a calling card would never have been left. That’s not how it worked. If he left a card, it was to leave a message.
…What had those soldiers been up to? There were only so many options, and none of them pretty. For Banal’ras to slaughter all six, not maim, but slaughter… leaving not a single one alive with a message? Not entirely unlike him, but unusual enough that it paints an ugly picture.
Of course, whether or not it was justified doesn’t do a damn thing to help your situation here. Fortunately, Banal’ras had completely buried your connection to him, so Leliana would probably not come straight to you demanding answers. But she would hear about this… she may have already, in fact, depending on how fast Banal’ras’s messenger moved. Not as fast as a bird, you’re willing to bet.
That man, then, the old gardener, must be one of Banal’ras’s. A good move… the people associated with Banal’ras were young upstarts, always had been. Still… that man had better be a retired bard or something good, because blowing his cover could quite possibly blow yours. Which Banal’ras knew.
Bastard.
Still, that man was probably the only one. It took time to put people in safely, and the more there were, the riskier it was. If you looked into the man, you’d need to do it discreetly. You couldn’t risk anything that might cause the Spymaster to look into him more. Or anything that might put you at risk if he was found out.
Fucking hell, Banal’ras, it wasn’t that important to communicate! You’re going to beat a lesson about sentimentality—and possessiveness—into his hide the next time you’re in Val Royeaux. Which might be soon, if he blows your cover. Or never, if he blows your cover and you’re killed.
Not much you can do from here other than tell him off, however. You coin a quick reply—with your left hand, no need to make this easy for the Spymaster—in the same code and shove it back into the bird feeder, trusting the old man to take it from there. Hopefully Solas doesn’t make a habit of visiting your bedroom (ha) because he’s the only one who might realize that you did not, in fact, buy a bird feeder in Val Royeaux.
You patch up the window cover as best you can, resigning yourself to cold nights until you can figure out a more practical way of blocking the freezing air coming in from outside. Then you quickly change into your get-a-beating clothes and head out to make your hangover all the better by being pulverized by a Qunari and/or an elf.
It’s only the Iron Bull today, which is actually something of a relief. Technically, you’re late, but Bull doesn’t bring it up. You get to take out some of your frustration on someone who can take it and probably deserves it anyway. Between Solas, Banal’ras, and your own pathetic, ever-growing list of utter failures, you have a lot of frustration.
You wind up with Bull in the most amusing (and possibly least effective) headlock ever, which is really just you with an arm against Bull’s neck, traditional headlock style, dangling half a foot off the ground from around his neck. Your body weight is enough that it’s uncomfortable for him, and he spends several minutes trying to dislodge you while you cling to him like a furious koala.
“You know,” he says, rubbing his neck after finally managing to pry you off of him. “If that had been an actual fight, all a Qunari would need to do is fall backwards on you or have their buddy stab you.”
“That wasn’t an actual fight,” you point out, still sitting on the ground where you were dropped. “That was me hanging off of your neck for fun. Weren’t these sessions supposed to be for stress relief?”
“And here I thought I was teaching you something,” Bull says, clearly amused.
You shrug. “Side effect.”
And so the two of you spend the next hour on “stress relief,” which is apparently code for “wrestling each other.” It must look amusing from the outside looking in, given your size differences. Once, while crossing the Hinterlands in Ferelden, you saw a rather daring fennec fox harassing the shit out of a bear. It probably looks like that.
You use a bath as an excuse to get out of breakfast again. You don’t really feel up to socializing today, not with your head still aching and your irritation at yourself and Banal’ras still flaring. You don’t even know if you can face Solas… You have an empty gallon of wine to explain, and while you DO have the excuse that Dorian helped you drink, it was still Solas’s wine and neither yours to drink nor yours to share.
So you put it off a bit longer.
You head to the human baths almost without fully thinking about it; you’ve gotten into the habit. Every time you get a sour look while in there, it reminds you that you need to do something more permanent about the bathing situation in Skyhold, especially with winter coming. From what you’ve dug up, Skyhold actually has something like five bathhouses. They’re spread out across the grounds, and there’s really no reason for them to be segregated the way they are. You’d like to know whose decision it was, and how it was made… and also if the men’s situation mirrors the women’s.
You’re considering all this as you bathe—research and information gathering doesn’t cost you anything, after all, so you can do it even if you’re in no position to actually implement change. Your normal strategies won’t work here since you don’t want to risk sabotage for a multitude of reasons. But you’re buttering up to enough of the high ranking men and women of the Inquisition that, given time—
“Hey!”
You’re toweling off, and so deep in your own thoughts that it take you a moment to realize that the angry voice is, in fact, speaking to you. You look at the irate woman blandly. She’s clothed while you’re still clad only in a towel, but you’ve been confronted in more uncomfortable situations than this one.
“Why do you keep coming to this bath, huh?” the woman demands indignantly.
Ah. This conversation.
“I keep forgetting I’m in Ferelden, technically,” you say mildly. “Regular bathing is good for one’s health. That nonsense about winter bathing being unhealthy is—”
“Don’t play smart with me!” she snaps. “There are other baths!”
“I’m aware. But this one is closest to where I work, so obviously, I use it. If you’re having issues with it being crowded, I recommend coming during the slow periods around—”
“There’s no need for you to come here,” she hisses. “You’re making trouble!”
The altercation is starting to draw a crowd. Most of them stay back, but a few move forward. You wonder how ugly this is going to get. You’ve never been assaulted while wearing a towel before. It could be a first.
“Trouble?” you say blithely, and you see the slight panic in a few people’s eyes; some move to shuffle out of the bathhouse, not wanting to be witness to whatever happens next. “I’m sorry, I think I might have water in my ears.” You tilt your head and tap the side of it exaggeratedly. “I’m creating trouble by bathing?”
“You know damn well what she means,” another one of the women interrupts.
“I’m afraid I really don’t,” you say, placing a hand on one hip and jutting it to the side slightly. “How could I create trouble by bathing? Believe me, it would be trouble if I didn’t, given where I work.”
You’re not going to name drop Solas in this kind of a situation. He deserves far better than that from you, and his reputation is bad enough without you kicking shit all over it. But if any of them already know, it wouldn’t hurt to remind them.
“Go to your own baths!”
“Oh!” you say, laughing gently. “I think I understand.”
“Then you’ll leave?” the woman says with a scowl.
“I don’t know where you got the idea that I have a private bathroom, but I assure you, I don’t,” you say with a friendly smile. “I’m not important enough for that.”
“You cannot be this stupid!” the woman explodes.
“She’s not,” another says with a frown. “She’s playing dumb on purpose.”
You blink slowly. “Pardon?”
“Look! We don’t want your kind here, and I think you know that!”
“My… kind?” you say slowly, tilting your head to the side. There’s a moment of tension amongst the women, both those accosting you and the ones simply watching. Everyone who wanted to avoid the show has probably already left. But you’re not going to give them the satisfaction that easily. You want to hear them say it. “Redheads?” you say blankly.
“Knife-ears!” the woman practically shrieks. It echoes through the bathhouse. There are a few non-bigots left, apparently; you can see shame clearly written on a few faces who were listening in.
You suck in a long breath. This is hardly your first time with this sort of thing, but no matter how jaded you get, it never feels good to hear. But you win nothing by flying off the handle. The ones who lose their tempers lose; she’s just proven that.
“So… you’re telling me this is a humans-only bathhouse?” you ask mildly.
The woman hesitates slightly. She has to know how it sounds. But then her shoulders square with the strength of the institutions at her back. The Maker doesn’t look favorably upon the elves, after all. There are no elven Revered Mothers, no elven Templars. The elves go in the cages, they don’t hold the keys. Even here, in the Inquisition. Where are the elves in positions of power?
There aren’t any.
“Yeah, that’s right,” she says, voice a little shaky. “And every other knife-ear here is smart enough to know it! You think you’re better than them?”
“I think they’re better than you,” you reply, not trying to keep the disgust from your voice. It doesn’t matter if any of them lose their temper and hit you. It’s not like they’re gonna hurt more than Bull. “There are dwarves here, too. I’ve seen at least three Qunari; you going to keep them out of the men’s bath?”
The woman looks livid, but you just keep going. “Gonna get some Chevaliers to enforce it? Oh, but wait…” You tap your finger against your chin. “You can’t. We’re not in Orlais. We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere, and you’re powerless.”
The woman raises a hand, as if to slap you, but one of the other women catches it. “Don’t; she just wants you to.”
“You’ll get yours, knife-ear,” the woman spits instead.
“Go file a complaint with the Commander,” you spit right back.
“I don’t have to,” she says, snapping her hand away from her friend. “These things always take care of themselves.” Then she turns and storms out of the bath. The other women stare for a moment longer before following her out, and the rest of the bathhouse returns to normal, slowly. All of the humans pointedly avoid your gaze… as does the one dwarven woman still in the water, who appears to be attempting to make herself look—ironically—as small as possible.
…Well. That was interesting.
You decide fate is punishing you for putting off the inevitable, and that your day probably can’t actually get much shitter. You dress quickly and head towards the rotunda. At this point you’re heading into work well over an hour later than you usually do. It’s time to face the music.
Solas isn’t at his desk when you walk in. The wine bottle—tellingly—is, however. It’s sitting upright on the corner of the desk; the cups are nowhere in sight. So like Dorian to take his cups and yet leave the empty bottle. You immediately assume that Solas’s absence at his desk means an absence from the rotunda, but that assumption is short lived. Movement draws your eyes towards the edge of the room, where he’s walking, possibly from one door to another. He seems to notice you at about the same time; you take a deep breath and prepare for… you’re not sure. A lecture? Yelling, like when you’d snuck the Qunari into your inn room? Punishment of some kind, such as a removal of any of the things he does for you? Or perhaps just… quiet disappointment. The kind you seem to inspire in him so often.
You’re not expecting what you see on his face first, however, before you can glance away, before you can turn your gaze down to the stone floor. He looks relieved.
It hadn’t occurred to you that he might be. Your mind had been dwelling on the inevitable anger—and you’re sure that will still come. But of course, with your penchant for making terrible decisions, it’s understandable if he had been worried you’d drunk too much and fallen off of something. It wouldn’t be the first time, honestly.
You stare pointedly towards the floor. When it becomes clear you don’t have the guts to speak first, Solas does.
“I’m… surprised to see you upright and intact,” Solas says finally.
“I didn’t drink the whole thing myself!” you blurt out guiltily.
“Ah,” Solas says. “That would explain it.”
“S-sorry! Dorian came down, and we were talking about the differences between Southern and Tevinter Circles, and well… Well, I…” The truth is, you don’t actually remember anything past that. “I guess the night sort of got away from us.”
Solas lets out a very long sigh. You risk a glance up, and see him rubbing his head. You’ve probably given the poor man a migraine. “Perhaps I should not have given you the entire bottle, but I’ll admit, I did not expect you to drink it all.”
“I’m sorry,” you repeat. “I didn’t intend for us to drink the whole thing.” You’ve gotten really good at technical truths over the years. “I was just going to have enough to help me sleep. I try not to depend on alcohol for that sort of thing, but I thought, since I hadn’t been sleeping well lately, if I could say I slept the whole night—w-which I did, I might add…”
“Unconsciousness is not quite the same thing as sleep,” Solas chides.
“Better than nothing, though, right?” you say with a very sheepish grin. Solas gives you a Look, but then glances away and sighs yet again.
“Are you feeling any more rested?” he asks.
“It’s hard to feel much other than the headache right now,” you admit. “And no, don’t offer to help me with it,” you interrupt as he opens his mouth.
“I was not going to,” he says. “I was going to say that after that much alcohol, you should be grateful a headache is all you have.”
You offer up a guilty grin. “Is it all I have? I thought I’d have an earful, as well.”
“A lecture on top of an aching skull might teach you something resembling a lesson,” Solas says, and you’re amazed to see him actually roll his eyes. The sass is like a breath of fresh air… anything but anger, anything but disappointment. You’ll take it, and gladly. “But neither of us have the luxury of time today.” Solas points over to your desk, and your face falls as your eyes follow his gesture. There’s a message on your desk.
“From Leliana?” you ask with a groan.
“I assume; the messenger was one of hers.”
“Thank you, Solas.” You wander over to the desk. “Perhaps I need a personal assistant.”
Solas chuckles, returning to his own desk. You glance at him over your shoulder. “You were quite good at it in Val Royeaux. Are you looking for a new job?”
Solas snorts, and you smile. Joking is good. Laughing is good.
“You practically do it anyway, making sure I eat, enchanting my wrist, bringing me wine…” you point out, teasingly.
“When you phrase it that way,” Solas says dryly. “Perhaps you should be paying me.”
“Name your price,” you say immediately.
Solas laughs. “I don’t need money, lethallin.”
“I didn’t say anything about money,” you rebut. “I’m serious, Solas. You do me a lot of favors, and I can only think of a few I’ve done for you. If you ever need anything… anything I can even possibly help with…”
“I… Thank you,” he says, seeming slightly taken aback at your sudden turn to seriousness. “I will keep that in mind, should anything come up. But for now, I believe you have a missive.”
“Unfortunately,” you grumble, picking up the message. What th… “This is ancient Tevene,” you say out loud, scowling. “Surely she has other people for this! I’m not a bloody codebreaker!”
“I’m sure she sent it to you for a reason,” Solas says calmly. You only scowl more. Yeah, you’re sure she did too. You just don’t trust her reasons. Nonetheless, you sit down at your desk, moving a few things aside so you have room to work. For someone who wants that book done as soon as possible, she sure loves handing you distractions.
The code isn’t even a tough break. You’ve never seen it before, but it honestly is not that complicated. A spy in training could probably break th… Oh. You suppose that’s probably what you are, to her. She certainly seems to be attempting to yank your chain in that direction. You let out another irritated sigh. Between her and Banal’ras, you’re going to be pulled right back into the thick of things, kicking and screaming. But really… you have only yourself to blame. You practically jumped back in with both feet forward, what with your antics in Val Royeaux. Breaking into the White Spire, freeing an enslaved Qunari… You’ve been doing this shit for too long; it’s become second nature.
The only two people on the delivery list are the Commander and the Spymaster. Easy enough. It’s still very early in the morning, but you’re confident the Commander will be up and about. In fact, judging by the time of day, you might be able to catch him on his morning stroll of the battlements, if you hurry.
Surely enough, you find the Commander walking the exterior wall of Skyhold, taking in the constant construction efforts and some of the troops training in the yard. He’ll probably be down there with them within the hour. But for now, you’ve got him more or less to yourself. Thank the Maker for his punctuality… you could probably set a clock to him.
“Excuse me, Commander?”
“Hm? Oh, Emma.” He looks somewhat pleased to see you. You hate it. “I assume you’re not just here to tell me who won the chess match?”
“Not quite, ser. I’ve got another missive from Leliana. A basic cypher and written in… honestly, in extremely shitty, broken ancient Tevene. Whoever wrote this, they’re not a scholar, that much is certain.”
“Ah, that would be the Venatori,” the Commander says matter-of-factly. You blink. Well, you suppose that does make sense. Even moreso when you take a moment to consider it further. They were trying to bring back the glory days, weren’t they? Makes sense they would speak in broken ancient languages. Same as the Dalish, in a way… though the Dalish, you note, don’t summon demons and go to war to try and bring back the good old days. They just hoard legends, which is a much safer way of doing it. Less effective, maybe, but safer.
Still, the Venatori have no excuse. One can actually still learn ancient Tevene, to a point. But then again, the average cultist probably doesn’t have access to Magister-level educations.
And now that education, given to a Magister’s slave, is screwing them over. Poetic! You like it.
“Thank you, Emma. So… who did win the match?” the Commander asks.
“Solas trounced me utterly,” you reply with a self-derisive chuckle. “I suppose luck only holds out so long. Have you given any more thought to a tournament?”
“Yes, actually!” the Commander says, brightening immediately. “I’d like to put up fliers of some kind, but I feel poorly about the idea of taking a scribe away from their work for something like this… I’ve been trying to do it myself, but ah…” he rubs his neck, almost sheepishly, and you have to struggle to keep a straight face as images of stick figures and squiggles dance through your mind. You’ve no reason to believe the Commander that inept, but it’s an amusing thought nonetheless.
“I’m sure it wouldn’t take very much time for a scribe to throw something together quickly, and surely you have mages that could duplicate the image,” you suggest. “As far as people who needn’t be wasting their time go, you’re near the top.”
“That’s a good point,” the Commander says with a sigh. “But I try not to ask the mages for favors. It’s astounding there are any here at all, really.” You privately agree, but keep your mouth shut on that subject.
“Ask Dorian,” you suggest. “He’ll like the idea as much as you, and if he can’t duplicate them himself, he’ll know someone who can. Or Varric, after he gets back from…” you wave your hand vaguely. “Wherever he is right now. I know he’s got either a mage or an enchanted press hiding around here somewhere.”
The Commander chuckles. “You’re quite good at logistics, aren’t you?”
You blink. “Pardon?”
“One of the first things you did here was find shelter, food, and clothing for refugees. Then jobs for ex-slaves, homes for goats of all things…”
“I just notice things that need doing—” you begin.
“And then immediately come up with a practical solution. It’s a useful trait to have in the Inquisition. I know the circumstances around your joining up were not precisely… ideal…” Is that what they were calling one’s home burning down now? Not ideal? “But we’re lucky to have you.”
“Thank you, Commander,” you say with a bow. It’s the safest thing to say. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to deliver a copy of this to Leliana, as well.”
“Oh… of course,” Commander Rutherford says with a nod. “Thank you.”
You’re not pleased to be climbing up to Leliana’s perch, but it’s rather unavoidable, particularly now that you work for her. It’s a reminder of how hard you fucking failed at being a nobody. You’re friends with half of the Inquisitor’s friends! You work for the fucking spymaster! Ugh.
For an “ex-bard,” you’re pretty shit at going unnoticed.
You hand over the translation without incident, giving her a similar rundown to the one you gave the Commander. You don’t mention that he brought up the Venatori. You’re never quite sure what will give you the leg up, particularly with the Spymaster, so you wind up hoarding secrets. You’re certain she does the same.
“How goes your training with the Iron Bull?” she asks, apropos of literally nothing. She catches you off guard, and you blink a few times as you take a moment to recompose yourself. You’d thought yourself in the clear from blowing off Argent after, like, two whole training sessions. Perhaps not.
“I’m not sure that it qualifies as ‘training,’ serah,” you reply. “But it goes well. It certainly wakes me up in the morning.”
“I imagine,” Leliana responds. “And the tome?”
“Well enough,” you say with a slight frown. “There are distractions, of course…” Like this bullshit. But you definitely don’t say that.
“Do you have an estimate for how long until it’s complete?”
“A week, perhaps? Less, if I push myself. The translation is complete, as are the illustrations. It’s all calligraphy from here, and then binding. I’m assuming you have a person who makes duplicates?”
“Magically, you mean?”
“It will take a great deal longer to have a copy to send to the Inquisitor’s draconologist if we have to do them by hand,” you say with a thin smile.
“Have the pages sent to Dagna when you finish,” is the only answer she gives you. Dagna? Not where you would have thought to send pages for copy, but alright.
“I’ll take them myself,” you reply, and you mean it. Those pages aren’t leaving your fucking sight for a single second. You intend to keep the original, after all. Copies can be made for the draconologist and the Inquisition. Not an issue, considering you’ll be the one binding them.
“Don’t injure yourself, but finish it,” Leliana tells you firmly. You wonder if the need for it has become more dire, or if she simply wants you available for more of whatever nonsense she has in mind.
“Yes, serah.”
You’re dismissed, and you head back down the steps somewhat irritably. Meetings with the Spymaster always seem to put you in a certain mood, particularly since you got back from Val Royeaux. She’s essentially been poking you with a stick, and the both of you know it. It gets tiring, and it gets annoying. If it was just the missives, that would be tolerable, but that business with Argent had been equal parts irritating and worrying. And she’d had agents watching your training with Bull, ones that you noticed, but ones that were taking some effort not to be seen.
You’re damn lucky Banal’ras covered his tracks with you in Val Royeaux, or you’d be under painful—literally—amounts of scrutiny right about now. Does Leliana know about the dead soldiers yet? Will she wonder if you had anything to do with it? Half a dozen men dead either in or just outside of Val Royeaux… But hopefully, she doesn’t know of your bardic connections at all. Solas is the only one in the Inquisition with that particular knowledge, unless something’s gone horribly wrong. And hopefully he hasn’t already spilled the first damn secret you told him.
What in the Maker’s name had those soldiers done? To piss Banal’ras off badly enough that he slaughtered all six, leaving no warning, no message other than a calling card? And for him to leave a calling card, it would have had to have been an action against an elf, or elves.
You don’t know how much you trust his judgment, but he can’t have changed that much in the time you’ve been away from Val Royeaux. And judging by the kind of dangerous morons you’d run into in the ranks here, you can just imagine the fuckery they’d gotten up to.
Despite the chaos of the last twelve hours, when you finally get back to the rotunda, you’re able to actually buckle down to work. Solas places a quick enchantment onto your wrist, for which you thank him. Then—Leliana’s words sharp in your mind—you absolutely tear through pages. You complete each one in its entirety just to break up the monotony of constant writing, adding some decor and borders to each page. It slows your pace considerably, but you’ll be damned if you’re going to have a subpar book with your name attached to it. The Inquisition sent you to Orlais for two weeks. They’ll just have to deal with any delays due to that.
You barely remember to stop for lunch, but you do, scurrying to the kitchens and back with Solas’s meal. You almost want to take yours at your desk so you can keep working, but the sight of “your” stool at Solas’s desk stops you. And when you start bringing over some of your work to his desk, he gives you a Look. You sigh.
“Leliana told me to hurry, you know,” you inform him sourly as you sit down to eat—and not work.
“I sincerely doubt she wishes you to work unceasing. And if she does, she’ll simply have to be disappointed,” Solas says, and that’s that. You force yourself to eat at a decent speed rather than rush through your meal, and clean up his dishes and yours before tearing back to your desk to continue working.
Solas’s enchantment lasts you all through the afternoon. You can feel it beginning to wear right around the time you stop for dinner. You’re almost relieved. Your shoulder is killing you and your eyes are weary from squinting. You’ll likely work after dinner, but at a more leisurely pace. You’re getting fatigued more quickly than you’re used to… likely the lack of sleep. Every now and then you get hit with a wave of exhaustion—and often nausea—and have to just pause to regain yourself.
Despite how tired you are, and how your stomach complains, you force yourself to eat a decent, if small, supper with Solas. If Solas notices the way you pick at your food, he doesn’t comment on it. You try to get back to work after cleaning up the dishes, but it is—as you suspected—slow going. The enchantment is still there, but thinning, and the rest of your body is complaining, loudly, about your the treatment you’ve been giving it as of late. Your head begins to throb and your vision blurs as you try to focus on the page in front of you. How long has it been since you slept? Weeks? You try to count the times your mind touched the Fade in the last month.
You wonder if Solas would let you take that enchanted blanket of his back to your room, to use in privacy. But no, after the scare from last time, there’s no way he would risk it. If you let your aura out one night to sleep, would you be discovered? Yes, all it would take is a mage passing by your window in the night, a Templar doing exercises nearby. You can’t take that kind of a risk, just for one night’s sleep.
Why did they have to send Solas with you to Val Royeaux? You could have… could have slept… No, if Solas hadn’t been there, all of your companions would be dead on the road and you would be long gone.
Your mind is spinning in circles like a confused halla on ice, scrambling frantically yet getting nowhere. You lay your head down on the desk, just for a moment, cradling it in your arms. You want to sleep.
You wait for the wave of dizziness to pass, then pull your head up, grasp your quill again, and continue working on your tome.
You head to bed when Solas does, and only because you know that if you stayed, he’d pitch a fit. Or the Solas equivalent, anyway, which tends to be more passive aggressive than an actual fit. He’d rarely raised his voice to you. The only time you can remember him really laying into you was when you’d snuck Sataareth in the inn room window. Maker, that had really been something.
You would have preferred to remain there working all night. It isn’t as though there’s any real point to your nightly trek to your room to lie mostly-conscious on a cold, uncomfortable bed for six hours. Other than allowing you to change clothes and keep up the appearance of a normal person. But that’s reason enough, in the end, so you say goodnight to Solas and head out across the frigid courtyard.
It’s still early in Kingsway, but you’re certain that you’ll be ankle deep in snow by next month, ancient magical weather enchantments or no. You wrap your arms around yourself and walk a little faster as a biting wind whips through Skyhold. You bought a proper jacket in Val Royeaux. Time to start using it.
“Heeeey there li’l rabbit, where you off to in such a hurry?”
Oh great. Drunken slurring. Just the cherry on top of your shitty, shitty day. You keep walking, hoping to get nothing more than a few angry slurs thrown your way.
“Don’t run away, li’l rabbit, we just wanna have some fun—” you feel a hand on your arm and snap away, spinning around as you do so. Drunken words you can ignore. Drunken grabbing, not so much.
You find you recognize one of the men. Lawrence Underhill, your mind supplies helpfully. The man you’d kicked off an escort job. He’d slurred at you as you climbed a wall, he’d drunkenly shouted at you at least once since. Apparently some of these bastard soldiers just make a habit of drunkenly harassing elven women… which is a worry. How many elves who weren’t you had they grabbed at? Ones who couldn’t defend themselves, or were too scared to? You don’t have long to consider it, however, because apparently, he recognizes you as well.
“Ah, fuck, it’s that uppity bitch,” he spits. You’ve been remembered worse ways, honestly. “That knife-eared apostate’s whore.” Like that. You grit your teeth as power throbs inside you, reminding you of how easy it would be, whispering in your ear about how much better the world would be if you made like your friend in Val Royeaux, if you made an example out of these scumbag soldiers.
“Elves fucking elves,” the other one, the one you don’t recognize, says, curling his nose in disgust. “Only a matter of time before she’s knocked up with a brood. You should do yourself a favor, lady. I’ll fill you up loads better, and a elf-blooded bastard is still better than a knife-eared—”
“One more fucking word,” you snarl. “And you won’t be siring any children.”
“Are you threatening harm to an Inquisition soldier, knife-ear?” Underhill asks arrogantly.
“Are you threatening to rape an Inquisition agent?” you spit back. He seems momentarily taken aback by the bluntness of your words. He recovers quickly, however.
“Like I’d even stick it in, whore,” he snaps.
“Then go back to your fucking barracks and jerk each other off,” you hiss. “I don’t have time for the half-cocked posturing of dogs no one’s bothered to neuter yet!”
The response is stunned silence. You doubt that will last, however, so you decide to leave now before it gets uglier.
Too late for that, it would seem. You get only a few steps away before you feel an arm close around both of yours, gripping them behind your back. It’s the stupidest thing the man could have done. Your vision flashes red; suddenly the cold air feels hot and sticky, full of rain that has yet to fall. The humid heat of a Seheron jungle in the summer. Instincts kick in. And you’re used to wrestling with a Qunari.
You slam a heel into his foot, and hear a sharp curse of pain. The grip loosens slightly, but he decides to make his bad decision worse by wrapping his right arm around your neck, wooden bar of a spear, tight, this is it, this is how you fucking die—
You slam your head backwards. Where on Bull it would have bounced uselessly off his chest, it hits this man square in the face. Your head throbs painfully, but you hear a crunch, a cry of pain. The grip on your arms loosens, and with a savage, full body flail, you wrench them free. Immediately your hands fly to the arm around your neck. You grip the wrist, the forearm, and twist, yanking it away from your neck. His arm is extended over your shoulder now, palm upwards, and you slam the back of his elbow down on your shoulder as hard as you can. On Bull, it would have been painful, enough to make him swear and jerk his arm away. On this human, it is beyond that, and as you throw your weight up against the bend of his arm, forcing it to bend the wrong way, you hear a loud, satisfying snap, followed immediately by a blood-curdling scream. It fits right into the fog-filled jungles where your mind currently resides.
You glance over your shoulder once, register the man as incapacitated as he staggers backwards, clutching his arm, which is currently bent in a way arms were very much not meant to bend. “Elbows don’t go that way,” Cole would have said. Then you bolt, the agility you’ve refused to show to Bull, Argent, Leliana, even Solas, propelling you rapidly across the courtyard. You don’t look back again, just tear into the nearest door, slam it behind you, and keep running.
It takes you a while to come back to reality. When you do, you find yourself in a dark corner, a part of Skyhold you don’t recognize. Your arms sting where they were grabbed, the back of your skull aches, and you just broke a man’s arm over your shoulder.
Worse, a soldier’s. That was likely his sword arm. What, you wonder, is the punishment for breaking a soldier’s arm during wartime? Whipping? Having your own arm broken? Being injured, being refused healing magic? You could run… No, you could explain to the Commander. He knows the man’s friend has had issue with you in the past. Would he believe your word over theirs?
Their word… You realize that you’re being foolish. Would a soldier admit that he’d had his arm broken by an elven woman while he was attempting to brutalize, possibly rape her? Or would he, like you, make up a believable lie to avoid scrutiny by the healers, as well as mockery from his peers? You are, after all, a rather scrawny elven woman. It isn’t commonly known that you spend your mornings practicing hand-to-hand combat techniques with a Ben-hassrath “turned” mercenary. It would be humiliating, and furthermore, if you came forward with the bruises now forming on your arms and around your neck, he would have a broken arm and a lot of trouble.
He will probably lie.
You quietly resolve to do nothing about it unless the man acts first. You would rather avoid it becoming well known that you snapped a man’s arm… rather avoid the fuss and attention that comes with an accusation of assault. You hold your arms tight as you wander through the corridors of Skyhold until you find a familiar part… from there you make your way to your room, jumping at shadows and occasionally breaking into quiet runs when something spooks you.
Your door doesn’t have a lock, but you move your large, heavy chest in front of it. It’s not reasonable or logical, but it makes you feel slightly better. You tear your cloak out from under your bed and toss it over your window, hoping that it will block the cold air somewhat. Then you wrap yourself in a cocoon of blankets and sit on the far corner of your bed, knees tucked up to your chest, to wait out the night.