Reaction
While whispers erupt around you wherever you walk, it seems as though the news hasn’t yet reached Solas, judging by his reaction when he sees you. He’s at his desk, not sitting, but leaning over it, sleeves rolled up. A cursory glance is enough for you to tell why, even with only a single eye working. He’s painting something… with the box of water colors you’d gotten for him in Val Royeaux. Your flush of happiness at the sight, however, is quickly washed away by the expression on his face when he glances over his shoulder to see who entered.
His eyes widen, his jaw goes slack, and he actually drops the brush he was holding. You smile nervously as it clatters to the floor, still uncertain as to what kind of a reaction, precisely, you’re about to see when the shock wears off.
“What… what happened?” he chokes out, staring a moment longer before crossing the rotunda in quick strides.
“A man named Lawrence Underhill. He happened to my face, actually, with great enthusiasm.” you reply. You hadn’t banked on exactly how awkward it would be to tell people what happened—you’d been so busy celebrating your victory that you’d barely even formulated anything resembling a story.
“You’re joking now? No, never mind.” Solas reaches towards your bandaged face, but stops just shy of touching you… which you appreciate, actually, since you’re still a bit tender despite the herbs you were given. You feel… well tenderized, in general. “Someone did this? You were attacked, here?”
“Yes,” you reply as evenly as you can. Solas’s eyes are blown quite wide, and you think he’s a bit more pale than usual. You haven’t exactly looked in a mirror, but just judging from the reactions you’ve been getting since Underhill took to your face, you must be quite the sight. “On the battlements. Luckily, the Commander happened by during the, uh… struggle.”
“A soldier? Templar?”
“Soldier.” Solas’s hands catch your shoulders as you learn forward a bit too far. You’d barely even noticed you were teetering. “He and I had less than pleasant interactions in the past. I may have said some slightly rude things about his manhood.”
“That is no excuse for this!” Solas almost hisses, but it doesn’t alarm you since it’s not aimed at you. “Ah… sit down, you’re nearly falling over.”
“It’s just the medicine,” you assure him as he leads you to the couch, one arm wrapped around yours as if you’re an infirm old lady. “I’m actually not that badly injured; it’s all face and arms.” You flop down on the couch, then hold up your hands, wiggling your perfectly intact fingers. “See? All good.”
“…Yes,” Solas says, and you register belatedly that his tone is a bit steely. “Such a relief that your fingers are intact.”
“W-well… it’s the important part…” you mutter. You realize it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as it leaves your lips.
“Is it? Your hands? Not your skull?”
“I… um.”
“Perhaps you need a basic anatomy lesson, Emma. Your skull is where your mind is,” he says icily. “Without that, your hands will do remarkably little.”
“Sorry,” you mumble sheepishly, intertwining your hands nervously. You had walked in ready for a lecture, but forgotten to guard against it that quickly in the face of his concern.
Solas sighs. “No, I shouldn’t be scolding. You said the Commander interrupted? So I take it the man has already been dealt with.”
You nod, and regret it somewhat as it makes your head spin a little. “The Commander arrested him.”
Solas looks slightly displeased. Perhaps he, like you, had been halfway hoping for a bit of on-the-spot justice dispension. But you’re quite content with what you got. That man isn’t going to be getting out of jail anytime soon. You have at least until the Inquisitor gets back, and even then, you sincerely doubt he’ll risk keeping the man as a soldier… or even alive, hopefully. You may need to set a few discontented whispers going around, so that they can reach the ears of the Spymaster and Lady Montiliyet, but… You may barely have to do anything, if you look as bad as everyone seems to think.
“You ought to have stabbed him,” Solas says with a scowl. “I hope you didn’t refrain merely because you were worried about the consequences.”
“I wasn’t expecting him to actually take a swing at me,” you lie. Even if you were going to tell him the truth, this wouldn’t be the place for it. “He caught me off guard, and the first hit to my face disoriented me.”
There are holes in your story, ones only Solas could pick out. He knows your history as a bard. While it’s possible for you to be caught off guard and disoriented, he—and only he—would know it was unlikely. And honestly, if he wants to quiz you in Elven, you would probably tell him the truth… or a version of it. But you can’t, not in Common and right underneath the Spymistress’s nose.
But if Solas does think anything odd about your story, he isn’t questioning you now. “I’ll send for lunch,” he says. “Do you mind if I take a look?” he asks, gesturing at your face. “I won’t remove the bandages, but I’d like to examine the damage… and the healing.”
“You don’t think the healers did a good job?” you ask, though you have no real objection.
“I think that they let you out alarmingly quickly,” he replies. “Were it me, I would have kept you in bed for at least a day.”
You… don’t even think you can form a coherent response to that. “Go ahead,” you say instead, gesturing to your head.
Solas kneels down on the ground in front of the couch before taking your face—very gently, stressfully gently—into his hands. You hadn’t been completely prepared for that, and you suspect he can probably feel your heartbeat in your ears. Maker, being high isn’t helping at all. In the end you just close your eyes as you feel his magic gently press into your skin, not trusting yourself to be able to maintain any kind of dignity.
“How’s the damage?” you ask, to distract yourself from the sensation. You can’t say you actually like the feeling of his aura probing around your skull. It’s making you feel dizzy. Fortunately, your aura is at a comfortable medium, not so anemic that it’s starving, nor overly fat and in need of exercise. And frankly, you’ve gotten good at dodging Solas. You can predict the way he’ll move.
“Considerable, judging by the amount of healing they piled into you,” Solas replies. “Was this soldier armed?”
“Only with fists and righteous fury,” you reply. “Fortunately.” You crack one eye open. Solas is giving you a look that, quite plainly, says he thinks you’re not telling him something. You can’t blame him; he’s right. You force yourself to hold eye contact with him for several seconds longer than you’re comfortable with, then, pointedly, look upwards. He follows your gaze briefly, then drops his eyes back to yours.
“Fortunate indeed,” he replies finally, then falls silent as he continues his prodding. Finally, he sighs. “The healers did adequately, given their capabilities. Your body can only take so much healing in one sitting, especially given your…” he pauses. “…Frame.”
“Is… that your delicate way of calling me underweight?” you ask, almost laughing at the absurdity of it.
“It seemed more polite than saying you make lampposts look rotund.”
“Solas!” you exclaim, then laugh. It makes you dizzier. “I’ll have you know I’ve gained considerable weight since I’ve been here.”
“I actually think you’re correct, which makes your current weight no less alarming,” Solas replies dryly. “Regardless, if you have no protests, I can layer in some slow healing that will not tax your limited resources overmuch.”
“Alright,” you agree, almost without thinking about it. That kind of magic would normally make you nervous, particularly on your skull, but after the small miracle he performed on your hands, you’re willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps you shouldn’t. You can certainly hear warning bells ringing deafeningly in your ears as his magic seeps into your flesh and bones. Now that you realize what he’s doing, however, you can investigate the magic yourself. Maybe you’ll even learn something. You don’t know a damn thing about healing, but you’re confident in your ability to recognize most other things an asshole mage might think to sneak in there. Or at least that something was out of place.
You keep your eyes closed, more for the sake of your own sanity than anything. Solas’s hands on your face is hard enough to deal with, and with the way he’s kneeling in front of you, you just… No. It looks like a pose on the cover of one of the terrible romance novels that you absolutely don’t read.
You feel the magic leave your skin, but Solas’s hands remain on your face. The corner of your mouth twitches towards a frown that you barely manage to suppress. You shouldn’t be able to tell that the healing is done. But he really needs to remove his hands from your face now. You hear him sigh again.
“Fenedhis,” he says softly. “You look terrible.” He drops his hands, finally, and you open your eyes to see something like irritation on his face. Aimed at you? “One would think you would be more safe from harm within Skyhold’s walls,” he says, voice becoming tight again. You thought you’d distracted him, but it seems he’s still angry. “But look at you. One of the Inquisitor’s own soldiers, doing more harm than bandits or the Red Templars.”
“To be fair,” you pipe in. “The Red Templars probably would have done much worse if I hadn’t run when I did. And Templars killed my mule.”
“…Red Templars killed your mule?”
“No, the regular kind.”
“Why in—never mind,” Solas says. “The point remains. This should never have happened. And the Inquisitor isn’t even here to deal with the imbecile he recruited.”
You’d like to attempt to calm him down, but you’re not sure how to do so without sounding like you’re defending the Inquisitor… something you have no particular desire to do. Especially considering how he and Solas clearly feel about each other.
“It really must look much worse than it is,” you say instead, reaching up to touch the bandages on your face. “Honestly, I feel sore, but I think my ass hurt worse than this from riding Revas on the way to Val Royeaux.”
“That would be the herbs they have you on,” Solas says dryly. He snaps his fingers directly in front of your eyes. You blink owlishly about two seconds later. “You’re high as a bird. You can’t even sit up straight.”
“I can’t?” you wonder, looking down. Hm. You are sort of slouched over to one side, as if your body is insisting that it’s time to lie down without asking you first. “Oh. Huh.”
“Mmhmm,” Solas hums. “Lay here. I’ll fetch lunch—” You nearly ricochet upwards. You would have stood up entirely, but Solas catches you rather effortlessly, hand against your chest. “Emma, no.”
“If you go the kitchens, they’ll know something happened to me,” you insist. “And I promise you, their little imaginations will go wild, particularly with you bringing me lunch. I’ve been avoiding it, but I would rather have them know the truth than whatever ridiculous nonsense they can come up with in an afternoon.”
“Fine,” Solas says with a sigh, in a tone of voice that makes you suspect he just doesn’t want to argue with you. “I’ll send someone to the kitchens and have something brought here. But you will stay on this couch.”
“Alright,” you agree. “…Thank you, Solas,” you add, belatedly, as he’s heading out the door.
You’re not sure how long he’s gone. Without something to focus on, your mind spirals away, and you realize that Solas was quite right. Whatever they’d given you had been potent. You somehow manage to keep yourself from prodding at your face overmuch or unwrapping it to feel the damage. You’re wildly curious. Apparently you look horrible, and if they have you on this much medication, the damage must be considerable. Either that or they hoped it would knock you on your ass and you wouldn’t be able to leave the tent. Actually, that seems likely too, thinking about how much those healers hadn’t wanted you to go.
Well, whatever. Once you get some food in you, you’ll be able to get some work done. Leliana wants this tome done, and you can’t let your personal issues interfere so much with your work. It’s unprofessional, frankly.
Solas returns some indeterminate time later. It probably hasn’t been very long, you reason. He likely just caught the nearest person and told them to take a message to the kitchen. They seem to have a very loose definition of what constitutes a messenger here at Skyhold. You hope Celia gets roped into actually bringing the food. You can probably convince her to be quiet about your condition. News will get out sooner than later, but you need to perfect the details of your story and make sure what you want to be heard is exactly what is heard.
Or at least close.
“I half expected to walk in to see you at your desk,” Solas comments.
“Only half? That’s a lot of credit you’re giving me,” you reply dryly. Then you sigh. “I’m too dizzy, there’s no point.” You see Solas nodding out of the corner of your eye. “By the time I got settled, the food would be here,” you continue. “And I’d just have to stop and then get settled all over again. Might as well just lay here.”
“That’s… certainly a reason.” You glance over; Solas is making a bit of a face. He probably wanted to hear you say something like you’d seen the error of your working ways and were intending to take the whole day off, or something similarly ridiculous. Pfft. Maybe if you didn’t have the Spymaster breathing down your neck. No, even then, you’d get bored.
“This soldier… you knew him?”
Oh, for… really? He knows damn well you’re watching what you say. Why doesn’t he just wait and ask you in private?
“Yes, to an extent. I’d had a few run-ins with him in the past… none pleasant.”
“Did you have any reason to suspect he’d do something like this? Had he made threats?”
You pause, uncertain of what to say. “Not really anything I thought I needed to take seriously. You know how shems like that are, Solas.” You run a hand over the top of the bandages, realizing only now that your hair is loose. It’s more comfortable when you’re lying down like this, but you’ll need to fix it soon. “They’re normally all talk. I had no idea he’d get violent, and certainly not so suddenly.”
“No, I suppose not,” Solas says with a sigh. “I don’t mean to sound as though you hold any responsibility for what happened. That rests sorely with the soldier in question… and the many higher ups who failed to prevent this,” he adds darkly. “I am simply wondering if this sort of thing has any regularity amongst the troops.”
“You mean, how they treat the other elves? Well, what do you expect when there’s an elf-only bathhouse?” you say with a snort.
Solas is silent just long enough for you to glance over. You sort of wish you hadn’t. You thought you’d gotten past being scared of Solas… around the time he was shirtless and shouting at you Elven. But his expression is… yikes.
“There is a… what?”
“Oh, you uh… didn’t know,” you say with a nervous chuckle. Whoops. “Yes. I don’t believe the higher-ups necessarily know about it. It seems to be something that’s only unofficially enforced. I was simply given a different location for the bathhouses than my human friends… I didn’t even notice until Sera took me to the ‘human’ one. We got odd looks for being there, but we were hardly thrown out into the snow.”
“Ridiculous,” Solas says darkly. “Why do they even bother?”
“The human baths are hot,” you answer, watching as his hand contracts spasmodically into a fist. “As opposed to the elven ones.”
“And those in power are too busy with their private baths to even notice,” Solas says, through gritted teeth. You really should have sugar-coated this a little bit more. At this rate, he’s going to lose his temper. “This needs to be brought to the Inquisitor’s attention. He is quite eager to talk about how important his elven allies are.”
Wow, any more venom in Solas’s voice and you’d probably be poisoned just from being in the same room. Yikes. “Not it,” you say jokingly, trying in vain to lighten the mood.
“Of course not!” he snaps, then seems to catch himself. His body tenses, and then relaxes; he’s likely forcing it. “From you, it would be disregarded. I will… speak to the Seeker, when she returns.”
To Seeker Pentaghast? Well, he knows her better than you, but you can’t really imagine a human Seeker giving a single flying fuck. In fact, even the idea that he’s on speaking terms with her seems ludicrous to you. But he did say he’d been around from the beginning, and Seeker Pentaghast had essentially founded the Inquisition, along with the Nightingale. Maker only knows what sort of agreement a Seeker and an elven apostate would come to for Solas’s current arrangement at the Inquisition to be what it is.
You manage to keep from saying anything sarcastic or derisive. Now really doesn’t seem the time, even though the concept of a human Seeker being any use to you at all is seriously laughable. But who knows. The Commander is proof; humans get upset when you mess with their elves. If Seeker Pentaghast feels that way towards Solas, maybe she would even look into it.
Fortunately, the food comes then, and even more fortunately, it is being carried by Celia. Less fortunately, she nearly drops the tray when she sees you, the plates clattering dramatically. Solas steps in to help—oh sure, he’ll help her with a heavy tray—and manages to bring balance back to the tray before everything slides off.
“I’m sorry, thank you, sorry,” Celia says in a nervous burst as she gets a handle back on the tray and brings it over to his desk. Her eyes are squarely on you as she walks, however, and she keeps glancing back your way as she sets out the food on his desk. She takes a few awkward steps backwards towards the door, slowly, and finally you just wave her over. She scurries over in a rush, tray still in hands, and squats down by the couch.
“Maker, what happened, Emma?” she exclaims in a hushed voice. “Was it an accident of some kind? Did something happen with the Iron Bull? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Celia. Well, I mean…” You gesture at your face. “But I’m recovering quickly thanks to Solas and the healers. I’m sure I’ll be out of the bandages in no time.”
“If they let you out of them any sooner than three days, I’m rebandaging you myself,” Solas comments mildly from his desk. You glare over Celia’s shoulder at him. Now is not the time for his antics.
“How did it happen?” Celia asks again. “What happened?”
“A soldier… Lawrence Underhill,” you reply. Her eyes go flat. Perhaps he has a reputation amongst the elves. If he didn’t before, he would now… if he even lives long enough for that to be an issue. “He caught me up on the battlements this morning.”
“Thank the Maker you’re not dead,” she breathes. Finally, someone who isn’t going to ask why you didn’t gut the man in self-defense. “Who knows?”
“Hard to say. The Commander happened on us while he was…”
Celia’s eyes go harder, then glance to the side, over towards Solas. “If you don’t want to talk about this here…” she begins.
“No, nothing like that. Not at the point the Commander found us, anyway; he was just pounding my face into the stone.”
“Just,” she says with a little sigh. You can tell she’s relieved, but likely hates that she has to be relieved to hear that. You know the feeling. “What did the Commander do?”
“Pulled him off of me, had him arrested, and then made sure I got to the healing tent,” you reply. You don’t want to downplay Commander Rutherford’s heroics, but you don’t really need any rumors about the two of you floating around. Best to leave out the part where he carried you.
“That’s good to hear.” She looks at you again, and you can see her wince. “Maker’s breath. Is your eye going to be alright?”
“No one has told me it’s not,” you inform her. “And I think I someone would have mentioned.”
“Will I need to bring dinner, as well?”
“No, I’m sure by then I’ll be able to make it down to the kitchens—” You hear a sound of protest from Solas, but simply raise your voice. “It’s just the herbs they have me on making me dizzy. Besides, I have to face the girls eventually.”
“Do you want me to tell them anything?”
You sigh. “Yes, you might as well. News will be all over the place sooner or later. Just let them know what happened—that I was attacked, but I am okay and the man responsible has been arrested already. If word is going to be flying, I’d rather it be accurate word.”
“Alright. Maker,” she says again, shaking her head. “You should try to rest.”
“Hypocrite. I couldn’t tell you to stay in bed to save my life when you were sick. You were back to work almost immediately,” you joke.
“At least I took a single day off!” she counters. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“You’ve already helped, Celia,” you say with a smile. “Thanks. You better get back to work before Gaston starts his screeching.”
Celia leaves, which means all that’s left for you to do is make it over to Solas’s desk. He sees you hesitate and stands, probably to help you, but you shake your head. “I’m certain I can at least walk. It’s not like he broke my legs,” you say with a scowl.
“I’d rather not have you fall,” Solas points out.
“Then I won’t.” You sit up, testing to see how much the movement will make your head spin. You do feel a brief surge of dizziness, but it passes quickly. Solas is still standing, one hand slightly away from his body as if he might reach you from there. You’ll be damned if you’re going to be hobbled across the friggin rotunda. It’s like half a dozen steps! You stand, and close your eyes to fight the surge of dizziness, fight to keep your legs straight instead of letting them wobble. And after a few moments, the dizziness does fade away and you take the few tottering steps to Solas’s desk successfully.
“See?” you say as you sit down on your stool… too far to the left, and slide off onto the ground with a thud. “Fututiones…1”
“Would you like assistance, or is sitting on a chair a beast you must fight alone?” Solas asks mildly.
“Oh, shut up,” you say with a scowl. “I can…” you make a single failed attempt to stand before deciding you’ll lose less dignity just letting him help you. “Fine. Fine, help me get up,” you grumble.
“Are you sure? You look like you have things under control, and I wouldn’t want to be condescending.”
“You should be nicer to me when I’m injured,” you whine.
Solas doesn’t quite laugh, but his shoulders shake slightly in a silent, suppressed chuckle. “You’re right. Let me help you.” You let Solas grip your forearms and heft you back onto your feet. You move towards the stool again, but his grip stops you. “Perhaps it would be better if we traded chairs for this?” he suggests, gesturing with his head towards his high-backed desk chair.
“Oh, I… I couldn’t…” you begin.
“It’s just a chair, lethallan.”
It’s the “lethallan,” that does you in. Solas probably even knows that. You let him steer you over to his chair, and nervously, you sit down in it. You’d slept on his desk, but you’d never actually sat in his chair. It feels like it dwarfs you.
Solas’s mood, which you’d worked so hard to improve, plummets again as you begin to eat. Celia hadn’t known your condition, so the food is just the sort of thing you would normally eat… however, normally you can chew. You hadn’t realized your jaw was in bad shape until you tried to open it wide enough to take a normal sized bite and, quite simply, couldn’t. You resort to cutting your food up extremely small, only to find that chewing is rather painful, even with the medicine you’re on.
Solas watches you struggle to eat with an expression that turns from concern into thinly veiled fury as you continue to struggle. You really wouldn’t want to be in Underhill’s shoes right now. But then again, that had been the entire point. He was the one who’d turned it into him or you.
You manage to struggle down enough food to satisfy Solas, at least. He clears the plates off his desk and onto a side table, and you just sort of sit in his chair for a few more moments before rising to make the journey over to your own desk. Solas intercepts you about halfway.
“You should lay down,” he protests. He must have realized you were going to your desk and not the couch.
“Sitting on the couch, sitting at my desk, it’s the same thing,” you say, moving to walk around him.
“Resting is not the same as working,” he counters, though he doesn’t step in your way again.
“You’re right,” you agree. “One accomplishes something.”
“Healing yourself is accomplishing something.”
“And I can do it while sitting up. Multitasking!” you reply as you—carefully—sit down in your chair.
You expect Solas to sigh, but what you actually get is less a sigh and more an exasperated groan combined with a frustrated grunt. Well, too bad for him. He can whine all he wants; you’re getting work done today. It’s bad enough that Underhill’s stupid antics have inconvenienced you as much as they have. You’re not letting them get in the way of your work. You won’t even allow him that much of a victory. The sight of you bloodied and smashed is all he gets. You hope it brings him comfort in fucking prison.
Work is slow, as you expected it would be. Your head feels thick and heavy, and you find it difficult to concentrate. So you just focus on getting words on the paper. You can worry about your elaborate decorations later; they’re way more fun than just the writing anyway, and will be a pleasant break from the slog of transcribing once you’re feeling better.
Solas keeps bothering you, too. Twice he comes to linger briefly over your shoulder—one of these days you’d like to climb onto his shoulders while he’s casting and ask him how he likes it—and both times he makes you pause so that he can check you for fever and remind you that you should be resting. You suspect he intends to annoy you into compliance. Fair enough; that was your strategy for him this whole time and it totally worked. But he’s underestimating how damn stubborn you are.
After you’ve been working for a bit over an hour, you get a surprise visitor. You had been expecting, now that the kitchens knew, that word would be rapidly spreading across the whole castle. It’ll be everywhere after the dinner run… so you had been wondering if you might get guests. What you hadn’t been expecting, however, was Commander Rutherford himself to come into Solas’s rotunda. He looks bizarrely out of place despite his office being just a short walk away.
“Commander,” Solas says by way of a greeting. “I assume you’re not here for a chess match.”
“You assume correctly. I wanted to see how Emma was doing.” He glances over towards you. “I checked the healing tent first, but to my amazement, they said you’d insisted on leaving.”
“I was healed first, Commander,” you point out, gesturing to your bandaged face.
“Not even eight hours ago we were scraping you off the battlements. Most soldiers would still be bedridden at this point.”
The words ‘toughen up your damn soldiers then’ die as you bite your tongue. No need to antagonize him. “My job is much less vigorous than a soldier’s, Commander. Sitting here or sitting in bed… it makes no real difference.”
He opens his mouth, likely to protest, but to your surprise, Solas interjects.
“Commander. If you have a moment, there’s something I would like to discuss with you.”
Cullen’s eyes flicker away from you to Solas. He looks momentarily annoyed, probably at being interrupted, but any protest he might have been about to voice dies when he sees the steely look in Solas’s eyes. Both of their gazes flicker back to you, and you have little doubt exactly what Solas would “like to discuss.”
“Of course, Solas. If Emma will be alright here…?”
You don’t need a fucking sitter. You bite those words back again, however, and simply reply, “I will be fine, Commander.”
The two of them leave together, and you wish you were in good enough condition to risk shadowing them. You’re damn curious about what Solas is going to say. He has a rather serious expression on, and you’ve little doubt that whatever they’ll be discussing, it will involve you. Perhaps the fate of Underhill, or the fact a man with such violent tendencies was not weeded out of the Inquisition earlier. You would suspect he might bring up the subject of the bathhouse if not for the fact he’d specified an intent to bring it to Seeker Pentaghast’s attention… for whatever reason.
But you simply sit and try to focus on your work while burning curiosity damn near consumes you.
Solas returns some fifteen minutes later. He dodges your casual attempts to get him to tell you what they discussed, so you let it rest. Given how irritated he looks, you fear it hadn’t gone well. Best not to force the matter.
You work—or attempt to work—for the rest of the afternoon. You had been worried that others might come into the rotunda, after the Commander had, but perhaps the effect Solas has at keeping people away is working, or perhaps word just hasn’t spread very far… or, perhaps, no one actually cared to come visit. Either way, it works for you, since the only one you have to worry about pestering you is Solas. And pester you he does. Despite his constant checking and fretting, however, you do manage to get some work done. You’re a bit grumpy about it by the time dinner rolls around, however, because it’s not quite as much as you would like… and because your medicine is starting to wear off and your face is starting to really fucking hurt.
But less medication means you can walk, at the very least, so despite Solas’s protests, you leave the rotunda and head down to the kitchen yourself. You’ll be damned if you’re going to risk chewing on tough meat for a second time today.
Of course, walking into the kitchen all banged and bandaged up is its own painful venture. It seems like half the kitchen staff abandons their stations to swarm you… The elven half. The humans stay a distance away from the small mob of elves, mostly looking guilty or uncertain, some trying to look as though they’re minding their own business and don’t notice the little elven swarm. At least they have the capacity to recognize they should be feeling guilty. You quickly find out why, as not one but three of the other kitchen workers mention that they’d had trouble with a man by Underhill’s description as well. They’d have to see him to be sure, they say, but even more have been harassed by soldiers or other workers in Skyhold in general. Nothing so serious as what happened to you, mind, but enough that this incident isn’t going to be filed under “soldier versus the help” so much as it is “human soldier versus elf.” To the elves, at least.
Good.
You love to see this sort of thing. This much elven dissatisfaction coming together can be used. You’ve done it in the past… sometimes more successfully than others, if you’re being honest. But you’re damn near an expert at it now. If you had half a mind, you could likely tear the Inquisition apart from the inside. At least cripple them. But you have no real desire to do that. The Inquisition is the only standing force really attempting to do anything about the chaos in the land right now… or the only one strong enough to do it, perhaps. It wouldn’t be beneficial to you or anyone to damage it right now.
Still, it’s a shame to let all this energy go to waste. Perhaps you can steer it in a more productive direction.
Your mind is spinning with ideas as food is essentially gathered for you. You get several offers to help you carry it up the stairs, but turn them down. Your legs are just fine, you point out. The sheer number of people fussing over you is quickly becoming intolerable, but you suppose you can endure it for the sake of getting everyone focused in the direction you want them to be focused in. Although you still have to figure out exactly what you want to do with all this energy.
You head back up the stairs… with some difficulty. It’s much harder to walk without your arms to help you balance. You wind up essentially leaning against a wall half of the way back to the rotunda, but you do manage to make it without spilling any… well… much of the potato chowder that had been given to you.
Still, when you get back to Solas’s desk and try to eat, you find that even the mild stew is giving you difficulty. You blame the weakening of the herbs. They had given you more; you should take them. But you’re loathe to spend the rest of the evening dizzy and useless. Instead, perhaps you should try to get some work done, then take them before “going to bed.” That time is all but wasted anyway, thanks to Solas’s stubborn insistence that you “sleep.”
Solas, however, clearly notes that you’re having trouble. His mood had been rather dour all afternoon, despite—or perhaps because of—his conversation with the Commander. You half expect him to drag you to the couch, or to the healers. But instead…
“If you’re going to insist on working,” he says with a sigh. “At least let me help with the pain. It’s been long enough now from the original healing… your body should be able to take a little more.”
You brighten up at that thought. Surely magic can dull the pain without making you so damnably dizzy? You agree immediately, despite the realization this means he’ll have his hands on your face again. You’re never going to get used to that, no matter how many times it becomes necessary. You try to focus on the magic and not the warmth in his hands as he places gentle fingers on your jaw, and then lets them trace upwards as his spell takes hold.
The pain does fade, almost immediately. Not completely, but enough that you can focus a little more clearly and eat a little more easily… which you do, wanting as much food in you as possible to help with all this healing and medication. The sooner you get visibly better, the sooner less people will be fussing over you.
You return the dishes to the kitchen happily, but as you return and sit down at your desk, you begin to recognize another sensation catching up with you… exhaustion.
It’s no surprise. You’d been through the wringer these last twenty-four hours. You haven’t slept in… how long? You have no idea anymore; you can’t remember. You’re not even certain how long it’s been since you returned from Val Royeaux. How long had it been since you sparred with Fenris in the courtyard? A week? A month?
You tell yourself there’s no helping it and simply try to focus on the work in front of you. Solas’s magic will be wasted if you’re unable to get anything done. It doesn’t even matter if you lay down and close your eyes like your body is screaming at you to do. You wouldn’t be able to sleep. You’d just be wasting time.
Despite your determination, however, you keep catching yourself trailing off halfway through a word, staring blankly downwards at nothingness, mind drifting towards an oblivion it can’t reach.
“If you are tired, feel free to lay down,” Solas comments. You glance over your shoulder sluggishly, and he gestures towards the couch. You eye it, tempted, but shake your head. Come to think of it, you had gotten tired after you’d let him put more damn magic in you. There’s no guarantee he didn’t do something. You’d like to trust that he wouldn’t… you’d like to. You don’t. He had, perhaps, learned his lesson with the blanket, but would that necessarily expand to other forms of magic, if he thought he could get away with it?
Your cover hasn’t been blown so far, even with him strolling right in on you in the Fade. But that’s damn near a miracle, and he could have well been distracted by your… ahem… actions… There’s absolutely no reason to push your luck. No. You need to stay up, for any number of reasons. Work, work, work, you tell yourself. Focus on that, and you’ll catch a second, third, fourth wind. Always.
But not even ten minutes later, your eyes are drooping and your arms feel like lead. You resolve to rest your eyes for a few minutes. It isn’t as if you’ll be able to really fall asleep, particularly not at your desk. You’re a finicky sleeper even when you’re not forcibly separated from the Fade like this. So you lay your head down on your arms and rest.
You don’t sleep, but you drift into a daze. “Five minutes” stretches into an indeterminate amount of time. You’re vaguely aware of the sound of Solas’s quill against parchment, of crows cawing from above, the soft pad of feet on the ground, but it all blurs and fades. Not sleeping, but resting. It does feel good.
You stir slightly when you feel a weight on your shoulders. How long have you been at your desk? You’re going to get a crick in your neck doing this. You focus slightly more as the weight shifts to cover your back. A blanket? You lift your head slightly to look. Not a blanket, you realize. A pelt… Some kind of pelt, grey and dusky off-white. Your eyes slip off the pelt to the hands putting it over you.
“Mm… Solas,” you say sleepily, shifting further upwards. You should get back to work. You’ve rested enough, more than enough.
Solas shushes you, his hand against your back gentle but firm, encouraging you to stay down. “Hamin2, lethallan,” he says softly.
You sigh gently. You never can seem to say no to that elven voice. You lay your head back down onto your arms. Just a little bit longer.