Chess
“Is the elfroot everything you’d hoped?” Solas asks, clearly teasing you.
“It’s everything I’d dreamed,” you reply dryly. “You sure you’re not from Tevinter?”
Solas stiffens instantly. Fair enough, though you hadn’t meant it in a rude sense. You’re still working off your embarrassment, it seems.
“What makes you ask?” he says tensely, almost irritably.
“The way you use magic for the most mundane tasks,” you explain. “People here think Dorian’s flashy, but honestly, he’s playing it down now that he’s in the south. I don’t believe for a second he’s not absolutely theatrical back in Tevinter. He’s probably just trying to avoid frightening the locals. My old Master used to magic chess pieces across the board. Totally unnecessary.”
“Did your old Master make a habit of picking his own herbs?” Solas asks. You pause.
“Good point.”
“I may use magic out of habit now, but the root is convenience, not showmanship. I neglected to bring gloves; I would have to pester one of the gardeners here for a pair, and at that point, I may as well simply ask them to do it for me. If I’m capable of doing a task myself, without burdening another, there is no reason not to. Magic or no.”
That many words in a row out of Solas almost qualifies as a lecture. “I didn’t mean to offend, Solas,” you say apologetically. “Tevinter is simply the only place I ever saw magic being done openly… casually.”
“Of course,” Solas says, shoulders relaxing slightly. You had offended him, then. “There are groups of apostates everywhere, but you would hardly have found yourself in their company.”
“And I would have run if I had,” you mutter, causing Solas to tilt his head slightly, questioning. You brush dirt off your knees as you stand. “Apostates are the worst kind of trouble magnets. There would probably be Templars chasing them, and somehow I doubt Templars would take the time to learn my life story if they found me with a bunch of maleficar.”
“No,” Solas agrees. “Most likely not.”
“I suppose that’s the point, though.” You say it as though you’re musing, even though it’s an obvious conclusion, one that you came to years and years ago. Solas is walking through the rows of the gardens, and you follow along beside him almost without thinking. “I saw my neighbors killed for sheltering escaped mages. Just children, really. If a mage had come to me after that, I would have turned them away out of fear. If everyone is too scared to help the mages, it just makes it all the harder for them to survive without the Circles.”
“Yes,” Solas agrees. “Though it’s interesting to hear you say so. Is your opinion of Templars influenced by your friendship with Ba—”
“No, and I’ll thank you not to bring that up,” you interrupt, scowling. Solas can’t just go throwing that name around, or the fact you know him! What is he thinking? He has to know you’re lying, as well, but you can’t just mention out loud that you have sympathies towards mages due to a friend. That’s as much as admitting you’re friends with an apostate, even if they didn’t recognize the name. “I just know what it looks like when someone tries to keep slaves.”
“Speaking of Templars,” Solas comments, just before you look over towards the gazebo and see for yourself.
Fuck.
“Why is the Commander always here when I go for walks?!” you hiss to yourself, even though there have been several times you’ve been here that he hasn’t.
“If you wish to avoid him, it—ah, too late,” Solas says as the Commander looks up and sees you. Perhaps the fact that you are with Solas will be enough to—nope, here he comes.
“Good morning Solas,” the Commander says, and you pray for a moment that his business is with someone other than you for once. “Is Emma assisting you with anything?”
The… the fuck. Why do people always ask Solas if they can borrow you? You’re not his fucking handmaid! And the Commander knows that! He knows your actual job; he has no excuse. You keep your face placid, however, as Solas replies.
“We were simply both going the same direction, Commander.” A nice, neutral answer… that, as it turns out, doesn’t really help you, as the Commander then turns to you.
“Are you busy? I thought I might steal you away for another game. Dorian was supposed to meet me out here, but… some nonsense about a new rune of Dagna’s, or something.” You would much rather be down in the Undercroft looking at whatever Dagna came up with that stole Dorian’s attention. Before you can respond, however, Solas interjects.
“A game?”
“Yes,” the Commander says, turning back to Solas. “Emma here plays chess. One of the few I’ve managed to find here in Skyhold who knows the game.” Lucky you.
“Ah, she mentioned the two of you had played.”
“Solas does, as well,” you say, cheerfully throwing him under the wheels.
“You do?” the Commander says, eyebrows raising. “Play it with spirits, did you?”
“I have a passing familiarity with the game,” Solas says smoothly. You suspect the Commander doesn’t recognize the brief sideways glance Solas gives you. He certainly recognizes what you’re trying to do here. He can scold you later; one awkward game of chess for him is nothing compared to what playing a game with a Templar is for you.
“Then, perhaps Solas can—” you begin, moving in to cinch the deal.
“Play the winner?” Solas interrupts smoothly. “That’s just what I was thinking.”
You stare at him, between disbelief and loathing. Meanwhile, the Commander is still talking. “The winner? Well… I suppose I may have the time,” he muses. “Most of the men have their day off today…” he glances over to you. “Is this amicable to you, Emma?”
Only then does it hit you… you can finally twist Solas’s arm into a game of chess with you. All you have to do is beat the Commander… to whom you’ve purposefully lost twice… and do so in a convincing and non-suspicious manner. Your eyes narrow as you size up Solas. What’s his intention with this? His eyes on yours betray nothing.
“…Alright,” you agree, eyes finally sliding from Solas to the Commander. “Perhaps I’ll finally beat you this time, Commander.”
Not for the first time and not for the last, your trickiness has put you into a corner, one that might not have been there if you had more of a propensity for honesty. But honesty had gotten you into far worse pickles than possibly missing out on a chess game with Solas, so you’ve no intention of changing.
The issue at hand is that you lost to Commander Rutherford twice, on purpose. You want to beat him this time, but you can’t suddenly be amazing; that would be extremely suspicious. He’s also good enough that beating him would take skill, even ordinarily. So what you have before you is a challenge to beat the Commander—but only just—without him noticing your chicanery. It will be much harder than just beating him outright would have been.
To make things even more interesting, Solas is watching the game, as well. Your… your days are really weird, lately. Breakfast with mercenaries… playing chess with an ex-Templar-slash-Commander-of-the-Inquisition and a mysterious elven apostate who is probably nearly as much of a liar as you are…
A few months ago, you think to yourself. It was just me and my mule.
All that being said, however, beating the Commander is within your capabilities. You’re very good at chess. Your master was a skilled player and you continued to play in countries across Thedas. Not to toot your own horn… but you’re damn good at the game. Still, you don’t want to look like a sudden chess master, so you distract Commander Rutherford throughout the game.
You bring up his family, get him talking about them, then his history in the order—which he seems incredibly uncomfortable talking about. He keeps making sideways glances towards Solas, who is simply watching wordlessly. That’s fine though… uncomfortable is distracted. For your part, you’re extremely focused, glancing up from the board only to occasionally gauge the Commander’s mood. Finally, a well timed line about how “women like a man in armor” has him flustered enough to not pay too much attention to the movement of your knight.
“Commander, I believe that’s checkmate,” you say cheerfully, distracting him from his fluster. He looks down at the board in surprise; he still has most of his pieces, after all, despite the game dragging on quite a long time.
“So it is,” he says. “It seems like the third time was the charm for you.”
“I suppose luck had to favor me eventually,” you say with a grin. Luck had nothing to do with it.
“As much as I’d like to stay and watch the follow up match,” the Commander says, glancing out of the gazebo and upwards. “I should really check on Jim. I don’t like leaving him in charge of paperwork this long.” Somehow, you suspect he would have made time if it was him playing Solas, but you’re actually quite pleased with this turn of events.
“Thank you for the game, Commander,” and are surprised to find yourself meaning it. You hadn’t wanted to spend your morning this way, but the Commander has helped place Solas exactly where you want him.
“No, thank you, Emma,” he says with a bit of a chuckle. “It was… a needed distraction. Do let me know who wins, won’t you? At this rate, I could start a chess tournament… The Inquisitor plays, as does Dorian, Solas, you…”
“Iron Bull too,” you comment, and both men pause to look at you.
“Oh, does he?” the Commander says. “I didn’t know.”
Of course he does; he’s Ben-Hassrath. You’re pretty sure they teach them that in training; you’ve never run into one that didn’t know the game. But you decide to keep that tidbit to yourself. “A tournament could be entertaining,” you say instead.
“It would be a fun distraction for the troops,” he muses. “Sera is always harping on about morale, and she’s not wrong… even if her definition of morale is a little… different.”
“Not just the troops,” you point out. “There’s not really much to do here in Skyhold, other than work. I’m sure the troops aren’t the only ones who get bored. There are informal groups all over; people who get together to drink, play cards, anything to pass the time after the day’s work is done. Spread the word of something like a chess tournament, put up a small prize, and I’ll bet you half the fortress will be tripping over themselves to learn the game. Those that don’t play will watch, simply for something new to do.”
Both men are looking at you. The Commander is practically staring. “That’s… Hmm.” He brings his hand to his face, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Where do you come up with these ideas, Emma?”
“A tournament was your idea, Commander. I merely extrapolated.”
“Hmm… I could…” You doubt he’s even listening, at this point. “I need to go. Work to be done. Do let me know who wins, will you?”
“Of course, Commander,” you say, with a bow of your head. He wanders off through the gardens… probably off to plan a chess tournament, which you’re totally going to enter… and then lose as soon as you play someone you have to lose to. Still, should be fun.
Solas clears his throat. “Perhaps we should get back to work as w—”
“Oh no you don’t,” you interrupt grimly, pointing at the chair in which the Commander had been sitting. “Sit.”
Solas raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize I was in such high demand.”
“You said you would play the winner,” you say simply. “I won. And I look forward to seeing how they play chess in… where did you say you were from, again?”
“Not Tevinter, at any rate,” he says, sitting down. “I didn’t think you would be so eager, given how much you tried to avoid a game with the Commander.”
“What do you want me to say?” you ask with a sigh as you reset the pieces. You give Solas white. You want him to set the tone of this one, plus you never like making the first move. “That I prefer your company to his? I do.”
Solas seems surprised to hear you say it so bluntly, but it should be obvious. You wouldn’t say you can relax around him, precisely, but…
“I was not fishing for compliments,” Solas says, and you wonder if your enjoyment of his company is a compliment. “I was simply wondering why you wished to avoid a game with the Commander, if not a concern of time.” He moves his first pawn, and the game begins.
You snort. “Just one reason will do? Very well: he’s the military commander of the fastest growing army in Thedas.”
“Do you dislike soldiers? You seemed comfortable in the company of the ones we traveled with before.”
“I’m uncomfortable around people who outrank me to the point of absurdity,” you say with a frown. “They could do anything, and they know it.”
“You seem much more skittish than your knight,” Solas comments, moving his bishop out of its attack radius.
“My knight has less at risk.” You move your knight again, advancing aggressively. You want to see what he’ll do. He moves his rook… defensively, again. …No, wait…
“You played a defensive game with the Commander,” he comments as you ponder the board, trying to see more than three moves into the future. “And not nearly so well,” he adds when you finally make your move, snatching a pawn to see if he’ll snatch back.
“He’s the Commander of the Inquisition,” you say with a sigh. “Despite my apparently lofty company, I am a remarkably average linguist who currently depends on the Inquisition to stay alive, sheltered, and fed.”
“So you’ve been throwing the games,” Solas says. It’s not a question.
“I have.”
“Until now.”
“Yep.”
He moves his rook again. What is he up to over there?
“The Commander may be many things, but he’s not a man to hold a grudge over a lost match of chess,” Solas points out. You shrug.
“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘better safe than sorry,’ Solas?”
“I have, in fact. You’re hardly playing it safe now, however,” he says as you spearhead another attack.
“Do I need to be?”
Solas is silent as he considers the board. You hope he’ll take this as a sign to stop pestering you about the Commander. Solas knows things about you that the Commander doesn’t, and you’d prefer it stay that way. You don’t have to pretend to be less intelligent around Solas; he already knows you’re a clever little sneak from your time together in Val Royeaux. Good-but-stupid people don’t break their friends into the White Spire as a favor. The Commander probably knows as much as Leliana does: that you have connections that allow you to obtain books of questionable legality.
More than that, neither of them really needs to know, and some days, you regret doing the job as well as you did. You could have half-assed it and probably still come back looking good. Although your new wages are a nice incentive for doing your best… as is the respect Solas seemed to gain for you during the trip.
You’re trying to learn something about Solas through this game, but most of what you learn is that he’s doing the same damn thing to you. He responds to the way you play; when you attack aggressively, he bats you away, only slightly less aggressively. When you set up a long play, he sees it coming and cuts you off halfway through, leaving you with pieces placed erratically across the board and no strategy.
But by about halfway through the game, you’ve stopped caring. Solas drops the subject of your compulsive lying, and instead the two of you wind up talking about a dozen different subjects. What he needs the rashvine nettle for (alchemy, as you’d suspected, specifically a modified lyrium potion), how your tome is coming along (fantastically), how the baked goods in Val Royeaux stacked up to ones he’s had elsewhere (admirably), the most alarming wildlife you’ve ever been chased by (a bear for you, a swarm of giant spiders inhabiting a ruin for him), and even an exchange of stories. You tell him about some of your antics as a newly escaped slave in Antiva, and he tells you a much, much better story about a spirit he called the “Matchmaker.”
“She reminds me of Cole,” you say with a faint smile, as you attempt to sneak a pawn through his defenses and to the back of the board.
“There are similarities,” Solas replies. “They both wish to help.”
“Still I hope she was better at setting people up than Co—oh, shit!”
“Too late,” Solas says cheerfully, as he makes the move you’d just seen.
“Fuck. Is there… damn. No, you’ve got me in two.”
“You could try to get out of it,” he suggests.
“Struggle for the sake of struggling?” you say with a snort. “Why? Just to give you the pleasure of saying checkmate? No thank you. The game is yours, serah.”
“Were you going easy on me?” he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice.
“No, but thank you for trying to give me a chance to save my pride,” you say with a laugh. “I’ll win next time.
“Next time?” he says, sounding amused.
“Are you going to tell me I’m being too assumptious?” you laugh as you reset the pieces for the next person who feels like having a game. “Maker, it’s getting late, isn’t it? I should fetch lunch.”
“It is past the time we normally eat,” Solas agrees, standing. You feel a cheap little thrill. ‘We eat.’
You stand to head to the kitchen, and Solas trails you through the garden, continuing your conversation about spirits and helping. It isn’t until you reach the doors to the kitchen that you realize Solas has followed you the entire way. You hesitate outside the doors. “I’m not sure you should come in,” you muse.
“To the kitchens?” he asks, clearly amused. “Might they be too dangerous for me?”
“Ha ha. You might cause a panic. Have you even been in the kitchens before?”
“It isn’t exactly a forbidden land,” Solas points out.
“No, just one filled with men and women who bribe me in hopes of ensuring I continue to deliver your meals so they don’t have to.”
“Your friend brings breakfast every morning,” he points out.
“Yes, and I have to p… Never mind her. Even Celia would lay an egg to see you waltz into the kitchen.”
“I have no intention of waltzing, if that’s your concern.”
“Stop being cute!” you snap.
“What would you have me do?” Solas says, still amused despite—or perhaps because of—your seriousness. “Go upstairs and wait in the rotunda for you to bring my food?”
“That will work, yes.”
Solas gives you a long, level look which you return, unblinking.
“…Very well. It wouldn’t do to upset someone so fragile as a cook.”
“If you’d met Gaston, you’d know that isn’t a joke,” you say pointedly. “Upstairs with you. I’ll be up shortly.”
Solas turns, shaking his head slightly and heads towards the stairs.
Solas is sitting at his desk, arms crossed, when you bring in his food. He doesn’t look annoyed… more like bemused. But your little stool is by his desk, and that’s all you need to see to know everything is fine.
“I suppose I’ll have to actually spend my afternoon working,” you say, eyeing your desk.
“You are the one who insisted on two chess matches in a row,” Solas points out.
“I don’t do deferred payment plans. If I hadn’t gotten it out of you then, I might never have.”
“Do you truly believe me so flighty?” Solas asks, seemingly feigning hurt.
“Absolutely. You’re like trying to pin down a live butterfly. On and off the board,” you add with a snort.
“Still, you seem in a better mood than you were this morning,” Solas points out.
“Yes… I am,” you agree with a soft sigh. You hadn’t come to any good conclusions, hadn’t steeled yourself for getting over your little crush… If anything, you were making it worse for yourself. But you did feel better. For now. “Hopefully now I can get some actual work done.”
“Perhaps the next time you have writer’s block, we can skip the gardens and simply have a game of chess?” Solas suggests. Your heart leaps into your throat and then sits there, pounding uncomfortably. You struggle to swallow your food.
“That would be… um. Yes. That would… work.” Wow. Smooth. “The, uh, the table is in the gardens, though.”
Solas waves his hand as if shooing the thought away. “I have a travel set in my room.”
His room. Your grip on your fork tightens to the point you fear you might bend it in half.
Yeah that’ll definitely help the next time you get distracted by thoughts of Solas. Going into his bedroom. How is he this clueless after you kissed him?! Either he’s extra oblivious, or you’re extra perverted. Maybe both. He had said it was a travel set, after all. He could easily bring it here, or anywhere.
Despite Solas’s unintended… whatever… you manage to get through lunch intact. Afterwards, he touches up the enchantment on your wrist—which is just a joy for you to sit through, as tightly wound as you are—and you finally get back to work on your tome.
You probably only have… maybe two weeks work left? A week and a half? Less, if you could really buckle down and focus. But you need to be honest with yourself; you don’t really see that happening. Skyhold is full of distractions. You can’t really lock your doors and bury yourself in work the way you had in the past… and moreover, you don’t really want to. You enjoy your foolish asides, be they with Solas, Sera, Fenris, the Chargers… You’re coming to enjoy being at Skyhold, in some ways.
Fortunately, your last distraction—Solas—leaves the room around mid afternoon. And doesn’t return. You notice when he leaves, and you notice a few hours later that he hasn’t come back, but you assume he’s just working on that potion of his. It’s not as though he doesn’t have his own work, and not all of it can be done in the rotunda. So you focus on work… and don’t lose focus again until Solas re-enters. You glance up upon hearing a noise, eyes straining to readjust after so long spent peering at paper on a desk.
“I thought you would still be here. Have you eaten, Emma?” he says. You blink owlishly, trying to clear your eyes and thoughts both.
“Is it dinner time already?” you ask, glancing at the candle you use to tell time, which is… oh, it’s burned out.
“In that it’s scarcely an hour before midnight, yes,” he says dryly.
Whoops.
“I, uh… lost track of time,” you mutter sheepishly.
“Yes, I awoke briefly and suspected you would have,” he says with a sigh. “Here. I’ve brought some food; no need to pester the kitchen staff this late.”
“Awoke? You were asleep already?” you ask, to cover for your embarrassment.
“Yes, I was speaking to one of my friends,” he says off-handedly. It throws you a little bit, however, how casually he says it. Yeah, just off in the Fade, talking to my friend, cause, you know, I’m a real life Somniari and don’t feel the need to be even slightly secretive about that fact. Ridiculous. How is he real?
Well, if you’re being fair, he never said it in so many words… it had taken you literally having him waltz into your dream to realize. Because those weren’t supposed to be real anymore, not really. Or so rare as to practically be fiction. Who would ever guess that he was something from a story book? So he didn’t even need to hide it, really. The few people around here who knew enough about magic to figure him out either wouldn’t go tattling on him (Dorian) or didn’t talk to him enough to bother finding out (Madame de Fer). His secret was safe in the most ludicrous way possible.
Meanwhile, Solas was setting bread and what appeared to be an entire gallon of wine on your desk. “Stop working. This is what I get for enchanting your wrist in the afternoon,” he adds with a frown. “Eat.”
“Yes, a healthy dinner of bread and an entire gallon of wine,” you say with a chuckle, and he glares slightly.
“You could have had a decent meal if you’d been paying attention.”
“Sorry, sorry, you’re right,” you say, raising your hands in surrender. “I really didn’t realize how late it had gotten normally, you… Well…”
“Normally I’m around to pester you,” he says with a sigh. “How did you function, living alone?”
“By your standards, I probably didn’t,” you admit. “But if I stayed indoors too long, Bella would headbutt the shutters in.”
“I’m pleased I can provide the same services as a mule.”
He’s cross with you, you realize, extremely belatedly. Your mind finally catches up to the situation; he’d literally woken up and left his bedroom to make sure you’d eaten… and you hadn’t. Your cheeks begin to heat and your ears begin to redden as the reality sets in. “I’m, um… I’m sorry, Solas. You didn’t need to go to all this trouble, really, I…”
“Are utterly incapable of taking care of yourself and apparently require a sitter,” he finishes for you, and your blush deepens. “Eat,” he says again, firmly. You push your work to the side and move to do so. He waits until you’ve crammed some bread into your mouth, as if needing the guarantee that you’re actually going to eat. “And then go to bed,” he adds. “If you continue to lapse in your sleep and diet, the enchantments… and the lessons… can lapse as well.”
You make a muffled, protesting noise through a mouthful of bread.
“If you don’t have time to eat, you don’t have time to learn Elven,” he says pointedly, crossing his arms.
“Ir abelas,” you manage as you choke down the bread in your mouth. Solas makes a dissatisfied sound, clearly unconvinced.
“Remember. Food, then sleep.”
“Yes, ser,” you say, opting to avoid the Elven this time.
You expect him to stick around to ensure you do just that, but he leaves, probably to return to bed, where he would have been this entire time if not for the fact that you are, apparently, twelve, and still need to be tucked into bed and fed dinner.
You glare at the loaf of bread with a profound sense of self-loathing, feeling the uncomfortable burning of tears that you refuse to shed. Losing time isn’t anything new for you, but this is the first time it came with any consequences. After years of being good at most things you attempted, the sensation of failing miserably is alien and uncomfortable. And the sensation of disappointing someone? Not nearly so alien as you wish it was.
You uncork the wine and realize, sourly, that Solas has failed to bring you a cup of any kind. Well, whatever. You take a long drink directly from the bottle to wash down the dry bread. The kind Solas had while camping, you realize… implying this was his own stock of food he’d raided for you.
The self-loathing intensifies.
You eat the bread in miserable silence, washing it down with increasingly long swigs of wine. He’d given you an entire fucking gallon, after all. Eventually, the bread lies forgotten to the side, and you just keep drinking the wine instead. You should just head to bed, you know, but you tell yourself the wine will help you sleep. Not the way he wants; nothing will help you sleep the way he wants. But at least you’ll be able to look him in the eye and honestly say you were unconscious all night.
It’s during a particularly long drink, when you’re leaning back in the chair and just sort of letting the wine pour into your mouth, that you lose your balance. You manage to get the wine bottle upright and onto the desk before the chair tips sideways and you spill, cursing, onto the floor. You realize, as you struggle to stand and the room swims around you, that you’re more of a lightweight than you thought and that is an entire gallon of wine, yes. That’s a lot.
You consider, briefly, just remaining on the floor and bringing the wine down to you. But, no… the sideways chair is something out of place in the rotunda, and it fills you with a sense of acute anxiety. With some difficulty, you manage to get the chair back upright—it’s heavier than it looks—and then, with some thought, pull yourself back into it. Right. Where were you? Drinking, that’s where.
“Drinking alone, Emma?” you hear a familiar voice come from the stairwell.
You snort. “Who else am I gonna drink it with?”
Dorian enters the room and walks over to the desk, eyeing the large bottle of wine. “My. What’s the occasion?”
“As you can see,” you say with minimal slurring. “I was given an entire gallon of wine.”
“As good of an occasion as I’ve ever heard!”
“I rather thought so, myself.”
“I have cups,” he informs you. “If you would prefer to drink your giant bottle of wine with a touch more dignity.”
“There’s a dignified way to drink a gallon of wine?” you ask with a sardonic chuckle.
“There is! Allow me to show you,” he says, pulling over the little stool on which you sometimes sit, and then setting two cups on the corner of your desk. You stare at them.
“You just had those on you?”
“I don’t drink out of bottles,” he says loftily. “But I do drink frequently. Therefore, cups in the library.”
“Brilliant. This must be the sort of thing they teach in the Circle of Minrathous,” you say dryly.
“More than you might believe.” You note, of course, that he’s got two cups and he’s filling them both, but you suppose that’s fair enough. You’re almost relieved to have someone to drink it with… when Solas asks how you managed to go through an entire gallon of wine, you can point at Dorian, who’s a bit more notorious for this sort of thing.
Even with a drinking partner, however, your mood is still dire. You’re not even beating yourself up over missing dinner anymore so much as you’re just generally reminded of what a terrible, awful, fucking inconvenience of a person you are. Maker, really. You’re practically a Blight on Solas’s life! Constantly begging favors out of him, dragging him out of bed for something as stupid as making sure you’ve eaten, as if you’re a dog that needs to be fed. Always worrying him, risking hurting him like you had on the trip back from Val Royeaux. Making him do all the things you were unwilling to. Protecting you, protecting your books, protecting your fucking hart. All things you could have done if you weren’t such a pathetic, secretive little liar, as if your life was more important than—
“Kaffas, what is this?” Dorian says, curling his nose at the cup of wine, which he’s just taken a gulp of.
“I dunno,” you admit. “Solas brought it.”
“Solas brought you a gallon of wine? Wine that tastes like it’s used to clean iron?”
“I think it was just whatever he had laying around,” you admit.
“The idea that he drinks this for fun is alarming,” Dorian says.
“No one’s forcing you to drink it,” you say with a scowl.
“No, no, I approve. I just didn’t take our Solas for much of a drinker.”
You think back to the times you’ve drunk with him. You got really drunk that one night in Val Royeaux. Drunk enough that you can’t actually remember the night clearly. Had he seemed intoxicated, particularly? You can’t remember.
“Say, is that the tome of necromancy I lent you?” Dorian says, pointing to the corner of your desk. You glance over.
“Oh, yeah. I don’t really let that one leave the rotunda. Can’t walk around with a book with a giant fucking skull on the front,” you say with a snort.
“Are you actually reading it?”
“No, I’m using it as a paperweight,” you say with a scowl. “Of course I’m reading it.”
“And you can grasp it?”
“Parts of it, with some work. My master was a big fan of the entropic school of magic. There’s a lot of overlap.”
Dorian snorts. “The four schools of magic are a distinctly southern concept.”
“Yes, well, my master wasn’t lending me Tevinter books of magic,” you say with a scowl. “It was only after I came south and began translating for Circles that I found the words to describe the horrors he inflicted upon us with his magic.”
Dorian winces, and you rush the conversation on, not wanting to drown him in Tevinter guilt at the moment. “And anyway, the general concept is the same, even if the words they use to describe it aren’t.”
“Actually, I’ve found that the practices of magic in the south are remarkably different from those back home. In fact…”
And that’s how you and Dorian wind up sitting at your desk debating schools of magic and the differences across Thedas, while getting increasingly drunk… you moreso than Dorian.
“No, see, yer lumpin’ the whole south together like that,” you huff at one point. “I’ve worked fer Circles across southern Thedas, in Rivain, Ferelden, Antiva, an’ Orlais. They all do it a bit -hic- a bit diff’rn… diff’rently.”
“But the rules are all set by the same Chantry,” Dorian protests. You firmly shake your head, enjoying and mildly distracted by the way it makes the room spin.
“They preten’ it’s all coming from th’ top but really, new rules are added at each tier,” you explain. “‘N some are taken ‘way by more lenient enf… enforce… enforcement,” you manage finally, “in places like Rivain an’ even some places in Orlais. So in Ferelden an’ Kirkwall an’ Starkhaven y’get these mages who write manifestoes on the inherent sin o’ magic, then in Rivain y’got people not-so-secretly passin’ down ancient forbidden arts… S’totally different stuff.”
And so the night goes, with Dorian explaining the politics of the northern Circles—which you’d honestly known nothing about, really—and you explaining the politics of the southern Circles. Dorian had erroneously believed that mages just went to whichever circle was geographically closest. You correct him, explaining first about the differences between apprentices and enchanters. how enchanters are sent different places depending on different factors. He seems to know about the Harrowing in the south already, which is good because you’re not going to explain it to him. You’re not even supposed to know about it, no one really is. But people talk. You explain to him how mages tend to be sent to different Circles politically more than anything else, how there are Circles in Orlais just for the well-to-do, how the Circle in Ferelden and the one in Ostwick might as well be two different worlds, how it’s so much different than just being lucky as to where you were born.
All in all, it’s a fun evening, even if you can barely walk by the end of it. It’s only over when you go to refill your glass and find, against all odds, that you and Dorian have worked your way through the entire bottle.
“When Solas asks, ‘m blamin’ you,” you inform him matter-of-factly.
“That’s fine, dear. Oh my,” he says, going to catch you as you abruptly stand and then sway rather dramatically.
“Nah, nah, I got it. I’m good.”
“Why don’t you just sleep on the couch here?” Dorian advises, and you laugh.
“Nooo way. I got a fuckin’ bed. Just gotta get to it.”
“That’s a big just,” he mutters as you swagger towards the door.
Dorian shadows you out into the courtyard, catching you multiple times as you stagger down the stairs. He winds up following you all the way to your room… the second man to do so in a week, and you’ve got precisely as much of a chance with him as you do with Solas, pfff. For the same reason, maybe? You wouldn’t know; it’s damn impossible to tell with Solas.
“There we go, safe and… that’s your room? I thought that was a closet,” he says, peering around you as you stumble in. “Is that your bed, or just a pile of blankets someone left there?”
“S’big enough fer one,” you grumble, flopping onto it dramatically and then squirming uselessly in an attempt to get under the blankets. It’s fucking cold, even if you’re too drunk to feel it properly.
“Oh, no guests in m’lady’s bedchamber?” Dorian asks, helping you get at least somewhat covered in your multitude of blankets. You glare at him from your blanket burrito sourly.
“Oh fuckin’ please, Dorian.”
He holds up his hands. “Alright, alright. I just thought that maybe you’d need someone to keep you warm in a room this cold.”
“Unless yer signin’ up, out you go!” you snap, and with a chuckle he heads to the door.
“Sweet dreams, dear.”
“Oh go fuck a nug,” you grumble as the darkness of unconsciousness finally overtakes your mind.