Elven Fears
Despite your determination to share your food with Solas, there’s still quite a bit left after the two of you have eaten your fill. There’s a fairly good chance you’d just keep eating it if you brought the leftover soft, baked sweets to your desk, but you think of a better idea. You gather the sweets, excuse yourself, and head up into the library. You acquiesce to give Dorian a muffin, but your aim is Thea, who you find shelving returns on the other side of the library.
Her expression is one of surprise, then alarm, then relief. Thea never has been particularly good at hiding her expressions; she wears them on her face, and now is no exception.
“You look just as bad as I’d heard,” she says sympathetically, reaching out towards your face automatically, then stopping, as if realizing what she was doing. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop in to see you… I wanted to, but… well…” Her eyes glance over to the circular hole in the library, where, if you looked down, you could no doubt see Solas, still at his desk.
“It’s fine; I was unconscious most of yesterday anyway,” you reassure her, following her gaze. “He doesn’t bite, though, you know.”
“I suppose you’re an expert on what he does and does not do with his mouth by now—”
You fix her with a withering glare. “Why are you so skittish of him, but not Dorian?” you ask, deciding not to rise to her bait… or allow her obvious deflection.
She chuckles a bit. “Well, to tell you the truth, I was nervous as a virgin on her wedding night when he first settled in at the library. I couldn’t believe there was a Tevinter Magister, here of all places—”
“Altus,” you correct absent-mindedly.
“Yes, so he said as well,” she says with a snort. “But it really is six of one, half a dozen of another, innit?”
“Magisters are members of the government, the Magisterium,” you begin. “An altus is just—”
“Oh, don’t you start too. They’re both scary Tevinter mages with a bunch of power.”
You can’t really argue with that. “So what changed? I’ve seen you hit him with a book. Not scared of getting hexed?”
“I will be if you say that enough,” she says with a scowl. “And I’ll have you know, he deserved that. But Dorian, well… He’s a charming sort of fellow, y’know? He gave me flowers, once.”
You snort. “He charmed you like a pony.” It’s her turn to glare at you, but you can’t help but shake your head, smiling. “No wonder you don’t like Solas. He couldn’t charm his way out of an Orlesian purse.”
“Seems to have you charmed well enough,” Thea says archly.
“Au contraire1, mon ami,” you correct with a grin. “I have him charmed.”
“Oh, of course,” Thea says, rolling her eyes, but smiling as well. “Wrapped around your finger. Y’know, he’s almost less scary ‘cause of you.”
“Oh?” you say, although you’d intended for that to be the case.
“Yeah, almost. I think it makes you more scary, though, more than it makes him less.”
You snort, then gesture to your heavily bandaged face. “Not scary enough, apparently.”
Thea winces. “Yeah, I guess not.”
It’s nice catching up with Thea. Solas being intimidating isn’t particularly news… Although it is sort of annoying. Instead of aggressive assholes being intimidated, and nice people feeling comfortable coming up to say hi, the opposite has happened. Solas’s scariness doesn’t rub off on you enough to keep away people like Lawrence Underhill, and your… subtle charm or whatever… doesn’t rub off on Solas enough for most people to feel comfortable talking to him.
You suppose it would be too easy, otherwise. Sigh.
Back down in the rotunda, you try to get some more work done, but it seems like fate just isn’t on your side today. Not very long after dinner, you get a guest… or guests, to be more accurate. A lot of them.
You hear the door open, but it barely even registers; you’re focusing on your work. It isn’t until Solas says something that you glance up… and see Fenris standing in one of the doorways, looking a bit uncertain.
“—but if she’s busy…” he’s saying, glancing from Solas over to you.
“I’m not busy,” you say immediately, setting down your quill. “Do you need my help with something, Fenris?” You pointedly ignore the look Solas is giving you. He probably thinks you aren’t in the condition to help anyone. Well, nuts to him.
“Oh, not at all,” Fenris replies, giving you an alarmingly similar look to the one Solas had. It’s the face bandages, isn’t it? They make you look like you’ve got one foot in the pyre. Hmph… Lady Montiliyet hadn’t seemed to mind. “I… that is we… were just hoping to stop in and… ah…”
Sheepish is a very, very good look on Fenris. You should probably chime in to help him, fill in the gaps, reassure him that he can visit you whenever. Instead, you take a moment to enjoy the way he’s awkwardly looking down and to the right, body sort of folded in as if he’s trying to hide himself.
Fenris, your long time hero, is being bashful. At you. The man who shoves his fist through slavers’ chests is a bit nervous because he thinks he might be bothering you while you’re recovering.
Aaaaah… life is good.
Finally, you have some mercy. “Of course, Fenris. Please, come in. I was just trying to get some work done, but honestly, I could use a break.”
He looks a bit relieved as you finally break his awkward explanations with an invitation in. You don’t get to enjoy it for long, however, because at your invitation, a little mob of much tinier bodies bursts through the door, several at a time, pushing around him.
Oh, he’s brought some of the ex-slaves! At least, you assume they all are… to be honest, you’re not entirely sure. The four children are, certainly, but you would be hard pressed to identify all of the adults. The woman with the long, white-blonde hair doesn’t seem to be present, and she’d been the adult who had stood out to you the most amongst the ex-slaves.
“Miss Emma! Miss Emma, I heard a shem hit you, is that true?”
“I heard the Commander rescued you!”
“He’s a shem too, though…”
“I keep telling you, Elpis, they’re not all gonna punch people.”
“I haven’t seen any that don’t!”
“Sure you have!”
“Yeah, what about Ser Blackwall?”
“Just cause he hasn’t yet—”
You clear your throat gently, unable to prevent a slight smile from quirking at the corners of your lips. “Where did you hear that, Elpis?” you ask the first child, rather than answering the question. You remember him. He came in with the ex-slaves, and took rather fondly to the goats right away. You’ve seen him out there a few times now, showing the others how to milk them.
“All the adults are sayin’ it!” he announces firmly. You glance over at the adults who filed into the room in a much more orderly fashion than the children. They’re pointedly avoiding eye-contact, including Fenris.
“Well… it’s true,” you admit, squatting down a little so you can talk to the children more directly. “But it’s also true that Commander Rutherford arrested him right away. He’s in the prisons now, so you don’t have to worry about him.”
The children all exchange glances. They’re not stupid. One of them, the one who expressed concern over Blackwall and the other ‘shems,’ finally voices what you know they’re all thinking. “It’s not like he’s the only one…”
You sigh. “No. He’s not the only one. But it should mean something that the Commander arrested him, right? I’m not going to lie and tell you something like that could never happen again… but it’s not like Tevinter, here. He’ll pay. He’ll never be in a position to do anything like that again.”
The nervous child shifts uncomfortably, but says nothing.
“If Ser Blackwall and the other humans make you uncomfortable, Elpis, you don’t have to talk to them,” you assure him. “But I think Ser Blackwall is a fine man. He’s a Warden, you know, and the Wardens have always held elves and dwarves as equal allies within their ranks.”
“Yeah! The hero of Ferelden was an elf!” another child chirps in.
“That’s right, she was,” you agree. “And while Ser Blackwall didn’t know her personally, they would be comrades.”
The boy makes a face, but seems to be a bit less nervous. “He smells worse than the goats, though.”
You can’t stop yourself from snorting, especially when another child chimes in, “Well, southerners don’t even bathe, I heard!”
“I wish! The bathhouses always have people in them!”
“Just ask Belassan to spray him off with a hose the next time he washes the horses,” you say, trying hard to keep a straight face and failing.
“You didn’t come here just to complain about our hosts, did you?” one of the adult women says to the children sternly.
“Oh! Right! Give it here, Elpis.”
“No way, I wanna give it to her!”
“You got to carry it over, that was the deal!”
“Let’s just all grab one! She can put them back in the basket!”
“That’s stupid!”
The children fuss over a covered basket that one of them was carrying, and with a bit more bickering and struggling, manage to produce something… or several somethings… out of it.
“…Cheese?” you say, blinking. It’s something of a dumb question; it’s very obviously cheese, just judging by the layer of wax and general shape.
“The first batch,” one of the women chimed in, smiling broadly. “Or some of it, anyway. We’ve got some that we’re going to keep for longer, obviously, but well… we were all pretty excited to see if it worked.”
“It’ll be easier once we have more goats,” a man adds in. “But now that we’re producing milk and cheese, even if it’s just a bit, we think the Inquisition will be more enthusiastic about getting them to us.”
“I’ve spoken to a few people about it,” you say absent-mindedly, examining the cheese. “I’m hoping there will be some coming within the next week or two. It takes a bit of doing to bring goats up into the mountains, but the sooner we bring them, the better. Skyhold’s first winter is bound to be an experience, and anything we can do to help pad out our food storage will be a blessing.”
“I’ve spoken to Lady Montiliyet, as well,” Fenris chimes in. You glance up from the cheese. “She assured me that goats and ‘a few other things’ are already on their way here.”
“A few other things? From anyone else, that would be alarming,” you say mildly. “When did you build a cheesehouse, Fenris?”
He laughs. You would pay him to do it more. “It wasn’t me; it was Ser Blackwall and Hawke, and a few others.”
You snort. “The Champion of Kirkwall built a cheesehouse?”
“I wasn’t even a little surprised; that is a man enamored with cheese,” Fenris says. He scrunches up his nose. You’ve noticed he does that, sometimes. Solas does too, but differently… maybe because their noses are so different? Or maybe because their personalities are. Perhaps personalities inform the manner in which one’s nose scrunches. “I’m told it’s a Ferelden thing.”
Now it’s your turn to laugh. “Oh, yes. Well, so the stereotype goes, anyway. I’ve yet to live anywhere that didn’t have a strong fondness for cheese.”
“Perhaps you simply noticed because you’re Ferelden.”
You laugh again. When was the last time you laughed this much? Definitely before you got your face bashed in. It doesn’t hurt to laugh anymore, either because of the healing or because of the pain medication.
“In all seriousness, Emma,” he says, his smile faltering somewhat. “I’m relieved you’re alright. We all are.”
One of the women nods. “We heard the news, that an elf had been attacked on the battlements. There was a lot of rumor all day. Some people were saying it was a spy that did it. Some people were saying it was a soldier. Then rumor started saying you were the one who got hurt, and that you’d been rushed to the healing tent. But no one knew what happened, not really.”
“And then Serah Fenris said he’d been to see you and they weren’t letting anyone in…” someone else added. You glance over at Fenris.
“I came by the rotunda,” he explains. His eyes dart over towards Solas, who most people seem to have forgotten is there.
“I was asleep,” you explain, both to Fenris and to the gathered elves.
“We were a little worried they’d killed you,” one of the elves admits quietly. You’re a bit startled, both that they would have been worried about you dying… and that they, in particular, would have been worried about you dying. But you suppose it makes sense, if they were worried about “an elf” being killed, rather than you, specifically.
You suspect that’s the source of the frustration and even anger you read on the faces of the assorted elves. They had come a long way to escape elves being killed like cattle. To come to the other side of the world, be told you’re finally safe, and then have an elf you know—an elf who was seen to be helping you—attacked, perhaps killed…
“It was one man. His name was Lawrence Underhill,” you find yourself saying. “I knew him. I knew he was trouble, although I underestimated how much. He had bothered me and my friends before. I didn’t tell any of the Inquisition authority because he was a soldier, and I was a scribe. Because he was a human and I was an elf. Because he was a man and I was woman.” You let your gaze drift along the small crowd, meeting the gaze of each of them in turn as you speak. You see recognition and frustration in a lot of eyes.
“Maybe that was a mistake on my part,” you continue. “Maybe it wasn’t. I can’t really know whether or not my words would have been taken seriously, because I never voiced them. But I can assure you one thing… the sort of behavior that led up to this won’t be underestimated now.
“It was Commander Rutherford who saw Underhill attacking me and stopped him. He arrested him on the spot, had him dragged off to the dungeons that instant. I told him what had happened, and what had happened between Underhill and myself previously. I believe he will be on the lookout for other such men… especially now. If any of you—or all of you—go to him with a similar complaint, I believe you will be listened to. If you have complaints about the way things are here, I believe now is the time to voice them… but to someone who can actually change them, and in an organized manner.
“If you’re too nervous to talk to the Commander, I don’t blame you. Find Sera. Find Belassan. Find someone you can trust, someone who can get the word where it needs to be. You don’t have to suffer in silence. The Inquisition says it is an Inquisition for all. Make them—make us—live up to it.”
The aftermath of giving a speech is always a little awkward. Fortunately, you have cheese, which serves as a ready distraction. You also still have some sweets leftover from dinner, which you distribute to the children. You sit on the couch; so does Fenris and one of the other elves. Another pulls your desk chair over. One sits on the armrest of the couch. The children clutter onto the floor, swapping pieces of sweetcake and chattering amongst themselves. You’re a little uncomfortable, having brought a small crowd into Solas’s rotunda, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s sitting at his desk writing as if he hasn’t a care in the world, least of all about the little mob of ten elves gathering in his room.
You talk about kitchen work, and farm work, and cheese and milk and eggs. The children here are all ones that are kept busy working the farm. They’ll be kept more busy when it’s more of a farm than three goats and an assorted gathering of chickens.
Eventually, the elves filter out, dragging the children along with them. It’s time to bathe before bed. You smile slightly at the thought of the elves bathing as a group, but your smile falters when you remember the cool water they’ll be doing it in. Hmph. Speaking of change, it really is getting towards time for you to do something about the state of the bathhouses here. It won’t take much to take the tense energy of the elves and turn it towards something productive.
Fenris stays though. It’s not quite being alone with him, since Solas is still at his desk. The way he’s pointedly ignoring the two of you, it feels sort of like a father chaperoning when his daughter has a boy over for the first time. You’re pretty sure that comparison would annoy him, which makes you want to point it out all the more.
“I should thank you for introducing me to Lady Montiliyet,” Fenris comments. “She’s been extremely helpful in getting everything set up for the elves here.”
“I’m glad,” you reply with a faint smile. “Having a small supply of animals here really is a very good idea, but I was a bit worried it wouldn’t be seized upon by dint of it being elves that came up with it.”
“Yes… the Inquisition has a lot of egg on its face in regards to how elves are treated, right now,” he says, eyeing your bandaged face.
“I would say the actions of one soldier don’t reflect upon the Inquisition, but…” you say with a sigh. “I’m fairly sure that’s what the actions of soldiers do by definition. At the very least, I can say it was dealt with swiftly.”
“A man arrested still isn’t ‘dealt with,’ unless there was a sentencing I didn’t hear about?”
“I’m sure that will have to wait for the Inquisitor to return,” you reply simply. “I wonder which will get here first… Him, or the goats?”
“Either way, I doubt I’ll be here to see it,” Fenris says. “I’ll be leaving in a few days… a favor to the Inquisition.”
You blink, a bit surprised. “For the Inquisition?”
“Yes. I’m not sure I can call it a favor if they’re paying me, but…” he shrugged. “I do the occasional mercenary job, anyway.”
“Bankrolling all the slaver murder?” you ask with a smile.
He laughs. “Something like that.”
You’re not surprised he’s leaving, at least… You hadn’t even expected him to show up, let alone stay as long as he had. Part of you wishes you’d seized upon the opportunity and spent more time with him. But, ah… After you’d essentially climbed on top of him during that sparring match, well… It had been fairly clear to you that some degree of avoidance was necessary to prevent doing anything stupid. Just being around him now is filling your mind with some very stupid things, not even all relating to how the lyrium in his skin sings out to you like sweetest candy.
No, avoiding him had probably been the right call. Still, you can’t make yourself regret having had the chance to meet him. It’s not every day a person gets to meet their idols… and certainly not every day that they wind up living up to expectations. Awkwardly, you try to find a way to voice this, without actually admitting any of it out loud. It proves difficult.
“I, ah… It was really nice meeting you. After reading the book, er, that is, not just after reading the book, but. Um. Let me start over.” He looks amused, but lets you fumble on. “When you read about a person, I think it puts a sort of… image in your head, of what they might have been like… or in this case, what they might be like. But that’s just a guess, colored by what the person writing the book thought, even by their own self-image if it’s a journal, and then again by your own perceptions. Erm.” You grope desperately for a conclusion. “What I’m trying to say is, you don’t actually expect people to be like how they’re written. So when you meet them, and they are, it’s… nice.”
Wow, that was the most convoluted way any person has ever expressed appreciation for another person, ever. Good job, you.
Fortunately, Fenris seems to have followed. “I’m not sure I should be pleased that Varric’s descriptions are so accurate,” he says dryly, but clearly amused.
“Oh, well, he didn’t get everything right,” you say. “You’re nicer than I might have guessed.”
“…Nicer?”
“Friendlier… kinder?” At this point you’re just listing synonyms. “It’s a good way to be different than your written representation,” you assure him. You’re already a bit flustered. If anyone could manage to insult someone by calling them nice, it would be you.
“I… Thank you,” he says. You would say he glances away, but he’s not really someone who maintains firm eye contact to begin with. “It was interesting to meet you, as well. Varric, as always, has interesting taste in friends.” He said interesting twice. You’re either fascinating or the kind of thing that inspires people to hesitantly say “interesting” in lieu of any other, more accurate adjectives, like “bloody weird” or “kind of awkward really.”
“I’m sure we’ll run into each other again,” he adds, a bit more confidently. “You work for the Inquisition, and I’ll be doing work for them as well… for a bit, at least. It’s… really something, having Hawke and Varric back in the same place again.”
You can’t imagine what people see in Hawke. You really can’t. He’s like a ball of slime that rolled in grease. With a dog, because no horrible person is complete without a horrible dog, apparently.
Not that you say any of that to Fenris, mind.
Instead, the two of you share equally awkward—at least they feel that way to you—goodbyes before he finally leaves. You just sort of lean against the wall for a moment, trying to collect yourself. Maker. This is all way too much to deal with while under the influence of this healing herbs. You’d managed to tie your head on straight for the time the elves were here, but now it’s threatening to fly off like a rogue pidgeon.
“That was interesting,” Solas comments, before you can so much as stumble back to your desk.
“Not you too,” you mumble absent-mindedly. Your head feels halfway detached from your body. “Interesting. Everything’s interesting today, I suppose.” You realize, belatedly, what he probably meant… he’d just had a random assortment of complete strangers wander into his workplace. Shit, yeah, that was probably actually really rude of you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think; having them all in here like that…” you begin, trying to find footing for an apology.
“I did not mind,” Solas interjects as you try to grope your way towards a semi-coherent statement. “It isn’t as though I was doing something from which I could not be disturbed.”
That’s true, you suppose… and no one would have come in if he was doing magic, or probably even if he’d been painting. Still, the little twinge of guilt is there, telling you that you’d definitely done something wrong, no matter what anyone told you.
“You seemed concerned that the elves might do something rash… and equally concerned that they felt helpless. Scared,” Solas observes.
“I love it when you state facts to me,” you say, finally starting the tentative process of wandering back to your desk.
“Do you often find yourself managing the hopes and fears of the masses?”
You scoff. “When you put it like that, it sounds so dramatic.” C’mon legs, walk straight. “It’s nothing like that.”
“Is it not?” Solas says mildly. “I must be mistaken. I could have sworn you were assuaging their fears and turning their passion in a productive direction at the same time.”
You give him a withering look as you finally lean down against your desk. Sweet, solid desk. Phew, you’re dizzy. Maybe you should have something to drink. “They needed something to focus on, to help them feel less vulnerable. People do stupid stuff when they’re scared and angry. Whatever I think of the Inquisition, they’re safer here. Those kids deserve stability, especially. As much as anyone can give, in the middle of a war.” You manage to sink into your chair and almost instantly feel better for being off your feet.
“Whatever you think of the Inquisition?”
Ah… oops. “I’ll admit, I’m feeling a little bitter about being beaten into the healing tent,” you “confess” with a sigh. “I know it’s not anyone’s fault but Underhill’s… and I’m sure that will actually be a comfort to me when more time has passed. I’m not an exception to the ‘stupid when scared’ rule, after all.”
“I… simply meant that you have remarkable care for the downtrodden. It’s admirable.”
You can’t help a snorting laugh, leaning around your chair and looking back at Solas with a somewhat amused expression. “Solas… I am the downtrodden.”
You do manage both a drink and some work, that evening after things have settled down. The work is thanks to your own unflappable work ethic. The drink is thanks to Solas, who actually brings you tea. Of course, it’s not the dark, strong tea you prefer, but a light chamomile. But you’re hardly about to complain… it’s good, and you can’t believe he brought it for you, and an entire pot. Did he go to the kitchens and get it? Maker, that must have been a sight. Hopefully the staff didn’t have a collective apoplectic fit.
You continue working on into the night, drinking tea and slowly but steadily working your way through line after line. There’s a sweet spot about four hours after you’ve taken the herbs for pain, where the pain is neutralized but your head isn’t dizzy and spinning. Once you hit that stride, you finally begin to make real progress.
Before you know it, the rooms in the tower above have gone dark, the echoing murmur of voices has died down to silence, and your daily candle has burned away to nothingness. You probably would have continued working into the wee hours of the morning, if not for Solas. You don’t really register the noises he makes as meaning anything until a gentle hand lands on your shoulder. You jump slightly, but his touch is light enough that it brings up no bad memories automatically. You glance back and up at him, only realizing upon looking away how strained your eyes feel.
“You have been working for hours,” he informs you. “If you’re satisfied with your progress, perhaps now is the time to rest?”
You almost smile. That has to be the gentlest request for you to go to bed yet. Perhaps he’s trying to improve his bedside manner?
“I won’t be satisfied with my progress until I’m done,” you say, glancing back at the work. “But I suppose.”
“You mentioned earlier the chill of your room was causing your injuries pain—” Oh dear. “The rotunda does get a bit cold at night, but I suspect it’s significantly warmer than a room with an open window. You might consider resting here, for the time being.”
Diplomatically put. But you shake your head despite the fond memories of sleeping on his couch with that delightful blanket. “Despite the cold, thanks to these herbs I’ll be able to sleep regardless,” you lie.
“It might be—”
“I’d be much more comfortable in my own room,” you say, cutting him off. “It can be difficult enough for me to sleep comfortably without adding a semi-public place and a couch into the situation.”
In truth, you simply don’t want to sleep anywhere that gives him such easy access to you. Not after that little trick with your doorknob. True, that was likely only because he was worried for your safety, and wanted to ensure no one entered your room, but… He’s shown a few times now his willingness to cast magic on and near you, thinking that you can’t tell. He’s not exactly trustworthy on that score, no matter what you’d prefer to believe.
You really shouldn’t let down your guard. That’s when things get ugly.
“Very well,” he says, thankfully allowing it to drop. “Let me at least walk across the courtyard with you. This late on a Friday, there may well be intoxicated soldiers roaming about.”
You agree, and the two of you head out of the Great Hall and down into the chill of mid-Kingsway. You can’t quite decide if this month is speeding by or dragging. It’s certainly been eventful.
This time, you stop at the door into your hallway, turning around there and thanking Solas for walking you. You don’t want to give him another chance at your doorknob… He could follow you in later and do it, of course, but you’re not going to make it easy on him. You want him to feel like a creeper if he does, waiting until you go into your room and then following you there. Whether that will stop him, you have no idea, but you’re more than willing to be passive aggressively difficult for its own sake.
He doesn’t follow you, though. You wait about fifteen minutes, staring at the doorknob, then go over and run your hand along it. No magic. No silent alarm waiting to go off if someone kicks down the door.
You return to your bed.
Ten minutes later you get up and shove your storage chest in front of the door, and then return to bed again.
You try to sleep.
You don’t.
- On the contrary ↩︎