Wrists
You’re in such a foul mood when you re-enter the rotunda. You see Solas glance up, as if he’s about to say something to you, and then immediately stop. You storm over to your desk, slam yourself onto your chair so hard that the legs skip across the stone, and fume as you begin to work again.
Is it so fucking wrong that you want to learn more about the lost elven heritage?! Is it so fucking wrong that you’d like to improve yourself in whatever ways possible, given that you’ve no possible chance of ever measuring up to what was? Is it so fucking wrong that you want to know?!
You don’t know what the hell Sera’s problem is. Maybe it really is just with Solas. They really don’t seem to like each other. But if that’s so, she needs to stop taking it out on you. You should be able to be friends with two elves without getting caught up in some kind of freaking grudge match. Solas never looked particularly cheerful when you ran off with Sera in the past, either, come to think of it, but that could be for any number of reasons.
You work out your anger on your tome for a while, just sulking and working to avoid snapping at someone who doesn’t deserve it… namely Solas, since he’s the only one in the blast radius. You’re a bit calmer by the time dinner rolls around, but your mood is still pretty sour. You had been having a really good time with Sera and Fenris. Nothing was exploding or anything. Why did she have to go and get all weird about elves again?
You fetch dinner for you and Solas but, you have to admit, you’re not feeling too talkative. It seems Solas isn’t either, however… he’s still nose-deep in the book he’s reading. So you just grab one of your own books and read while eating as well. It’s peaceful. Despite the fact you’re sitting at the desk, both of you are eating and reading without feeling the need for forced conversation. Mornings with Thea—or whomever happens to be in the mess—you’re often forced to make small talk even when you’d rather just eat your damn gruel in peace.
“I can’t decide if this is awkward or adorable,” comes Dorian’s voice from above. You glance up to see him leaning on the overhang’s railing. “Thea, darling, help me out here, what am I looking at?”
“People better suited to being in a library than you,” Thea’s voice echoes down from somewhere above.
“Not all of us feel the need to fill every waking moment with senseless prattle, Dorian,” Solas says mildly, not looking up from his reading.
“Even if we did want a constant running background of chatter, we wouldn’t need to say a word. Not with you so nearby,” you add.
“It’s true. Why listen to yourselves talk when you could listen my luxurious voice instead?” Dorian agrees.
You roll your eyes to the heavens. Then an idea strikes you. You’re not sure if Solas will play along, but it’s worth a shot. “El falon tel’dirth. El emma tu harel?1” you ask, a light smile on your lips.
Solas’s face remains completely neutral, save for a single raised eyebrow. Your answer, however, comes in the form of his words, short, simple and smooth Elven. “Ena varel.2”
Dorian, of course, reacts exactly as you knew he would. “Wait, what? What are you two saying?”
“But you know how these Tevinters are, you continue, awkwardly slipping a word of Common into the Elven, both because you don’t know the Elven word for Tevinter (was there even one? Did they differentiate between shemlen back then?) and because you want Dorian to understand. “They think everything is about them.”
“I heard Tevinter!” Dorian exclaims. “What are you saying?”
“Is the reason you wished to learn the language simply to taunt our friend?” Solas asks mildly. You’re pretty sure that’s what he said, anyway. You missed the exact verb he used, but it was probably something like taunt, given the context.
“Can’t it be a benefit?”
“I’m leaving now!” Dorian announced huffily. “I won’t be party to your petty mind games!”
“How many times have you done that to someone, and in how many different languages?” asks Solas, in Common, after Dorian storms off.
“I couldn’t even begin to count,” you reply with a smile.
Though you doubt it was his intent, Dorian’s antics cheered you up a great deal. But your enchantment has long since worn off and you’re honestly a bit fatigued, so rather than go back to work, you curl up on Solas’s couch with some of your books. You surround yourself with both the little bit of Elven he just gave you and a few work books. If he thinks you won’t spend every spare moment on Elven just because he didn’t give you much, he’s sorely mistaken. You once spent the better part of a week on a single recovered paragraph. However he obtained his knowledge, yours primarily came from hard work, dedication, and sheer, single-minded obsession.
You lie on your back, shoes carelessly discarded by the side of the couch, bare toes curling into the cushions. You will never stop appreciating and loving this couch. Some days it feels like Solas has given you a hundred things and helped you in a hundred ways. You don’t know if you should try to keep it mind or try to bury it, lest you be overwhelmed by his generosity and do something as stupid… as you had last night.
You have your new quill with you, because you can actually take it away from the ink jar and still write. The possibilities are sort of endless, actually. You tap it idly against the page, and are astounded when a bead of ink stains the paper.
“Andraste’s tits!” you exclaim, no doubt startling Solas. “This thing can write upside down?” You give an experimental scribble. It totally can. “Wow, this really is magic.”
You hear a chuckle and the scrape of a chair leg against the stone floor of the rotunda. “The ink is stored in a reservoir inside the pen. The enchantment pushes the ink out to the tip of the quill steadily.”
“But upwards? That’s incredible,” you murmur, still distracted by scribbling. It’s only when a slight shadow casts over you that you realize Solas has come to stand next to the couch and is, in fact, squatting down to be on a more even level with you.
“I hadn’t even thought to attempt to write while upside down,” he says mildly. “Clearly, my decision to give it to you was a sound one.”
“Glad to provide you with sound research particulars,” you say, and you’re not even being sarcastic. Honestly, you would be happier if you could convince yourself that was why he gave you the enchanted quill. Everything else is too confusing to think about.
Solas watches for a few moments as you scribble upside down, mostly just in awe of the quill. He explains a little more about the enchantment as you try to adjust your hand to the new writing position… it’s remarkably awkward, and your writing looks more like chicken scratch than it has in years. Solas pauses mid-explanation, however, when he realizes what you’re scribbling.
“Are you already working on the Elven I gave you?”
“Of course,” you say with a snort. “I couldn’t leave it alone for any longer if I wanted to; I get twitchy when there’s knowledge nearby. Like a Mabari near squirrels.”
“That… is an amusing yet apt description,” Solas says, with a slight shake of his head. “I wonder how likely it is that you pester me for more before your next lesson?”
“I’ll try to refrain… emphasis on try,” you reply. “I don’t want to make a nuisance of myself.”
Solas snorts, loud enough that you look over, eyebrows raised. “Forgive me, but if you’d taken that stance sooner, I doubt you would be here in the first place.”
You don’t whether to laugh or cry… especially considering that he’s right. You had essentially set out to annoy or charm him into giving you what you wanted—whatever worked. You’re still not sure which of the two you managed.
Solas goes back to his desk, and you go back to your reading. You get caught up in the Elven, very much so, time slipping by without so much as a glance upwards from you. You don’t notice the rotunda getting darker and darker, don’t even notice that the candle by your desk—the one whose light you’re writing by—is the last lit candle in the room. Not until it’s blown out as well, a sudden puff of air sending you careening into darkness and finally startling you out of your studies.
Your eyes adjust quickly, as elf eyes are wont to do, and you glance up to see what caused your sudden plunge into near pitch blackness. What you see, however, is two eyes like yours, glinting like a cat’s in the dark. Only the shape of them—narrower by far than the elven eyes you’ve grown accustomed to seeing shine in shadows—makes your mind go to Solas. Every other part of you splits off to different memories: Banal’ras in the dark alleyways and rooftops of Val Royeaux; late nights in the Alienage, where superior elven sight meant darker streets after sundown; secret lessons in hidden corners of the fortress in Seheron, a dozen wide, reflective eyes mirroring yours as you gave lessons on letters by candlelight.
“Is that the best way of getting my attention?” you ask, finally finding your voice.
“Yes, given that you were not responding to your name.” Solas’s voice ought to sound the same, you reason, but it’s different in the dark. It fills the space around you, echoing softly in the empty tower. The only other sounds—and the only other light—trickles down so softly from Leliana’s spy perch far above that it might as well not exist at all. “I believe we had a deal regarding your sleep schedule that you’re beginning to neglect.”
You sigh. He’s right, of course. “My apologies, Solas. I got caught up reading.” You stand from the couch and place your quill back in its holder on your desk… no need for light, you can see well enough for that. You’ve turned to head out of the rotunda when—to your shock—Solas’s hand on your wrist stops you.
You freeze as if your entire body has been paralyzed, his touch like a poison locking your muscles in place. You make no attempt to fight or protest when Solas’s other hand removes the papers—the ones on Elven, that he’d given you—from your grip. “Leave these here,” he says firmly.
Were it light enough for him to see the details of your expression, you would grin sheepishly to hide your fluster, as if he’d caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. But your eyesight is not good enough to see his expression, therefore his is not good enough to see yours, and you let your face show genuine emotion in that darkness, eyes wide, confused, questioning… Frustrated. Solas is not Sera: he does not let his hands casually brush against yours; he does not sit thigh-to-thigh with you on rooftops. You can never interpret his touch.
You swallow—both the lump in your throat and your confused, unreadable emotions—and when you can trust your voice, you say, “Vel, hahlin.3”
Solas’s grip tightens on your wrist, almost spasmodically, then snaps away, leaving only the ghost of warmth on your skin as proof it was ever there. You hear the padding of bare feet on stone as he takes the papers and places them on his desk, not yours. You wouldn’t dare come back for them after he told you to leave them so firmly, but doubly so with them on his desk… which he no doubt knows.
He heads for the door first, and you watch the outline of his shoulders in the dark, unwilling to drown out the gentle sounds of his feet on the floor with your own booted footsteps. He hesitates at the door frame, however, and the last works that echo through the rotunda that night are atisha’hamin4. First from his lips, then from yours.
You’re glad for morning practice with Iron Bull to brutalize the traces of Solas’s voice—which echoed from the rotunda and all the way into your dreams that night—clean out of you. And brutalize it does… with Krem still in the healing tent, fighting to recover from a wound that could have killed, a new volunteer has been drafted into service. The one beating you this morning will not be the Iron Bull, but Skinner.
It’s a clever ploy you don’t fully comprehend until it’s already happening. You could never accept Bull swinging his sledgehammer-like fists at you… the very thought is enough to send you into a panic. But Skinner, who is several inches shorter than you and with whom you have much in common? You don’t even realize he’s sneaking being punched into your education until your hands are closing around Skinner’s fists, the most basic of basic blocks.
Dalish is there as well, although she’s not participating. You rarely see her and Skinner that far apart, so you’re not particularly surprised. She mostly serves to shout encouragement to each of you in turn. Mostly at you, since you definitely need more of the encouragement. Krem was easy to fluster and never wanted to hurt you, and Bull was always extremely cautious not to deal you any serious injury with his significantly larger bulk. Skinner? Yeah, not so much. You caught one faster than average punch just because had you not, she would have creamed you right in the jaw. You scowl at her.
“Skinner, I’m sure Bull appreciates your enthusiasm, but if I come into that rotunda with a black eye, neither of us will live to see tomorrow.”
“Has our apostate gotten that protective of you?” Bull says, his voice teasing.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” you mutter under your breath, then quickly block another blow from Skinner.
“Ma mana!5” you snap at her.
“That won’t work on me,” she says dryly.
“Your accent is weird,” Dalish comments through the dried, cracker-like bread she’s chewing on.
“I don’t want to hear that from you,” you retort.
“True, you’d much rather hear it from Solas, eh?” is her response. You glare at her for a beat too long and catch a blow from Skinner on the shoulder.
“Ow, fuck!”
“Get good enough to learn counters and maybe you’ll get to hit me back.”
“I’d rather hit Dalish, right now,” you say with a scowl.
“Maybe I can have her come in here eventually,” Bull suggests. “Help you practice against—”
“Bows?” you interrupt, and Skinner snorts loudly.
“All I’m good for!” Dalish says cheerfully.
“One up on Emma here, then,” Skinner comments, and you laugh, but not for too long… despite the unintended hilarity of that statement, all things considered.
Skinner tenderizes you pretty well that morning, and you’ve already decided to swing by the healing tent, both to see Krem, and to make sure you’re not going to turn purple and blue while you’re sitting in Solas’s rotunda. But before that, all three of your would-be trainers whisk you off to the mess hall for breakfast. As luck would have it, a good number of other Chargers are there too, and before you know it, you’re sitting at a long table that appears to be more or less occupied entirely with Chargers.
Breakfast with a mercenary company. Your life has gotten really weird since coming to Skyhold. But if anything, this is just more evidence that you’re succeeding in winning over the Chargers—all of them. You’re pretty sure you’ve drunkenly come to blows with at least two of them, but if anything, that and your mug-throwing prowess has made you more liked. That’s mercenaries for you.
They’re certainly not more loyal to you than their current employers, the Inquisition… particularly not Bull, who you’re quite certain is only doing all of this for whatever mysterious reason he started in the first place. It may or may not still be on Leliana or the Inquisition’s behalf… but you doubt he has the capability for pure intentions. And you’re certainly one to judge.
But if you needed any of their help for something that didn’t run counter to the Inquisition’s goals, they would probably assist you… and there’s time yet.
The healer overseeing Krem’s recovery refuses to let all of you in to see him at once, so you volunteer to stay behind and get yourself glanced over by one of the healers while Bull, Dalish, and Skinner go in to see him. He’ll be much happier to see the three of them than he would be to see you, anyway.
You head to the rotunda before any of them have even left, determined to get some work done… enough that Solas won’t make faces at you for studying the Elven more in the evening. But though he enchants your wrist and you’re sitting at your desk and everything should be primed and working… You’re struggling. Your mind is everywhere but on your work. Despite the ass-kicking you’d received, your mind quickly recedes back to the night before. The memory of Solas’s grip on your wrist makes your heart pound even now, thanks entirely to the way your dreams had interpreted such a grip last night.
It’s more than a little ridiculous. You already know well that your hand is more adept for the situation than any man is, no matter how attractively dextrous his fingers might be. But your hand can’t kiss you, your mind traitorously reminds you. And it is the kissing you miss, if you’re being entirely honest. No matter how much your dreams might heat up, they mostly focus on that contact. Skin to skin. The most contact you get is in fighting, and that—
“Futuo,” you swear as you realize you’ve been writing despite being out of ink for half a line. You plunk your quill back in the ink, frustrated. You can’t get your head out of the fucking Fade.
“Problems?” Solas asks, completely unaware, and you want to punch him. Instead, you let out a long, weary sigh.
“I’m simply having trouble focusing this morning. I did not sleep well.”
“Moreso than usual?” he asks, concern in his voice evident.
“I just need a walk to clear my head,” you decide.
“I was in need of a few clippings from the garden,” Solas asks, and you immediately assume he’s asking you to run errands for him; Leliana certainly does so often enough. But he continues, “Would you like to accompany me?”
Oh yeah. That’s just what you need to clear Solas from your mind. More Solas. “Certainly, thank you,” your traitorous mouth replies.
You don’t know which one of you is worse at this point, as you walk beside and slightly behind him, towards the gardens. You have to go through the Great Hall to get there, and you notice a few things as you walk. One is that people don’t give Solas any real berth at all, other than the servants. Neither the soldiers, nor the diplomats, nor the visiting nobles—though that last one doesn’t surprise you at all—seem to have any idea who he is.
The other is that the group that does notice him is just as telling as the ones that don’t. You see several Templar helms shift your way as the two of you cross the Hall. Seems like at least they got the memo… You would blame the Commander if not for the fact the Inquisitor is just as likely of a culprit. Or anyone, really. They probably have Templars watching Dorian, too… Though you’d never particularly noticed them. This Inquisition is, after all, just another version of the Chantry, with an added level of chaos because there aren’t any rules or restrictions in place. Their behavior is unpredictable and they’re rapidly building a huge standing army.
And they don’t much care for mages. Or Solas, despite the fact he’s helping them. And, you’re quite certain, they’d have no spare fondness for you, either, if you had been as brave—or foolish—as Solas, to out yourself to them.
This isn’t doing much to clear your mind, really.
You shadow Solas, expecting him to go to one of the gardeners or alchemists for what he needs. You shouldn’t be as surprised as you are when he simply walks into the garden and kneels down by a small collection of rashvine nettle plants. Not rashvine proper, thank the Maker. Hopefully they don’t actually grow that where people can get into it. Still, when he reaches for it without gloves, you make a strangled noise in your throat and quickly fall to your knees beside him to catch his wrist, an unwitting mirror of what he’d done to you the night before. Solas turns his head to stare at you, eyes wide with surprise.
“Are you out of your mind?” you exclaim. “Wear gloves!”
His shocked expression dawns with understanding, and then, starting with a slight twitch of his lips, fades into amusement. “It is a simple enough spell,” he begins, and understanding dawns on you as well. You release his wrist like it’s on fire, the beginnings of humiliation coloring your cheeks.
“Do you use magic for everything?” you grumble, to cover your mortification.
“There was never a reason not to,” he explains. “I have tried to do more things mundanely, since coming here but… old habits.”
“Don’t let me stop you, serah mage,” you say, unable to keep your face from continuing to flush darker. “I’ll just be over here, admiring the…” you glance around, unsuccessfully, for a plant worth admiring.
“Elfroot?” he suggests, a slight grin still on his lips.
“You know what, yes,” you say flatly. “I’m going to go admire the elfroot.” You hope that nettle burns straight through his magic and he has to spend the rest of the day licking his hands like… Like… Fuck, now you’re stuck on that mental image. You stalk over to the royal elfroot and squat down to glare at it, cheeks and ears flaming.
Yeah. This is the cure for your fucking distraction alright. What were you thinking?
Despite your embarrassment, you find yourself turning to watch Solas as he carefully breaks off a few branches of nettle. What does he even need this for? Had there been an alchemy table in his work room? You had been slightly distracted when you’d been in there. You watch idly, either unable or unwilling to look away, as he gently wraps the cuttings in a cloth and ties the bundle together with a strip of leather. You can’t feel the magic this far away, but when the light catches on his hands in just the right way, you see a slight sheen.
What a useful spell… one more thing you wish you could learn from him. You can just imagine him off in whatever forests he called home, gathering herbs and using magic to do it, simply because there was no one to tell him not to. No one to chide him for arrogance, no Templars to decide that such behavior was the hallmark of something worse. You sigh, a twinge of regret for a life that could have been lived, had your luck mirrored his.
You have enough sense to turn your gaze back to the elfroot before he looks up.