Remember

“Hey, there you are!”

You recognize the voice as Thea’s even in your half-unconscious haze. You groggily force your mind into the waking world, blink to clear your sleep-filled eyes.

“Where’d you get off to yesterday? I was a li’l worried.”

“Nrrg,” you grumble, attempting to sit up. “Was downstairs,” you manage.

“Flirting with the apostate, were you?”

“Pff. Hardly.” You rub at your eyes, run your tongue around your mouth to get the taste of sleep out of it. “I managed to get a whole evening of work in without a single interruption.”

“I gotta ask,” she says, sitting down on the corner of your bed. “Have you talked to him? How’d you convince him to let you work down there?”

“Yes, we’ve talked, and I didn’t convince him, I just showed up and he didn’t tell me to leave.”

Thea gapes at you. Silence is a good look on her, but you know it’ll be short-lived.

“…Wow. I wish I had your bravery.”

“S’not bravery. What do you think he’d do, set me on fire? He already doesn’t care much for me, I couldn’t very well move down on his list.”

The red-headed woman shakes her head. “You’re frightened of Iron Bull, but the scary loner mage doesn’t even make you bat an eyelash. I’ll never figure you out, Emma.”

“Good. Clearly my appeal is all in the mystery,” you say sardonically. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

“Nah, I had to make sure you hadn’t died first.”

“Alright, let me dress, and I’ll join you,” you say, stifling another yawn. You stretch slowly, wincing at the stiffness in your joints. You can hardly drag a desk into Solas’ room, and you don’t want to move back up to the library, so you’ll just have to deal with it. You frown somewhat sourly to yourself; the pressure of being around so many people is becoming palpable at almost a week in. Too many mages and Templars, too many people who might just notice if you slip. You can’t do things you’re accustomed to doing. It’s annoying, although you’ve certainly been in worse situations. It just… makes you tense.

You shrug into a new day’s clothes. Fresh clothing is much akin to a bed: something you don’t miss until it’s gone. You try to keep those positive aspects in mind as you head towards the mess. Your situation here seems to be deteriorating quickly, but you certainly don’t have the supplies to pick up and leave again yet. Plus, there’s just enough that makes you want to stay. The chance to meet someone you admire, pestering Varric and Solas for more knowledge… Even the random kindness of strangers. Not a bad place, you’ve decided, but a dangerous one. Fortunately for Skyhold, it’s competing with a lot of very, very dangerous other places.

Varric joins you and Thea in the breakfast hall when you’re about halfway done with your meals. You’re a little bit surprised to see him there; staff like you and Thea tend to get up earlier than those you serve.

“Varric,” you say, surprising yourself and everyone around you by asking the first question of the meal. “What exactly is it that you ‘friends of the Inquisitor’ do exactly?”

“Well, some of us, like Madame Vivienne, have resources they’re adding to the Inquisition. The Bull’s Chargers, the last of the Circle mages, that sort of thing. Mostly, though, we’re the ones who actually join him in the field, when he runs off to kill demons and seal rifts, that sort of thing.”

That’s… damn, that’s actually kind of impressive. So, essentially, you’ve managed to catch the interest of the people you should have avoided altogether. If they’re traveling with the Inquisitor, that means they have to be pretty strong by themselves, and it means they have pull… they could ask for personal favors from the leader of the fastest growing power in Thedas.

Aaaaand you just sicced two of them on each other. Heh. Oops. Still can’t bring yourself to feel bad about it, though. Those two need to get off your back, and stay off of it.

You pepper Varric with a few questions about his life as you finish your breakfast… Was Bertrand really still alive, what had he ever done with that lyrium idol, did it REALLY turn Meredith to a statue, that sort of thing. He’s the one who turns the conversation to Fenris, and that’s the story you’ll stick to until your dying day.

“Did… did he really just… kill his sister?” you ask quietly as Thea is cleaning up her bowl.

Varric sighs. “Yeah… Yeah, he did. I thought for a second Hawke was going to stop him. But… well, he didn’t.”

It’s one of many moments in the book that have you convinced that despite your repeated fantasies to the contrary, Fenris would not actually enjoy your company very much. Forgiveness does not appear to be his strong point. Even just in escaping, you’ve done some questionable things in your life. You clean up your own bowl, say your goodbyes to Varric, and head outside with Thea. This time, there is no Iron Bull across the courtyard.

---

Thea tries to convince you to come back up the library, but you politely (repeatedly) decline, citing the peace and quiet down in Solas’s rotunda. She pouts, but doesn’t even enter as you do, instead going the long way around to go up the other set of stairs. Does Solas really scare her so much? He seems rather amiable to you, even if he does appear to have an entire tree limb lodged firmly up his ass.

He’s sitting at his desk when you walk in, leaning back at his chair and reading off of some loose leaf paper. It isn’t until you sit down at your little station under the platform that you realize he must be reading some of your paper, because a rather large chunk of your translation is missing. You glance up at him, but either he hasn’t noticed your entry, or he’s ignoring you. Either way, the first quarter of your translation is here, as is your fancier paper, so you begin outlining for the next page of the actual book.

Part of the fun is going to be duplicating some of the complicated anatomical drawings in the original tome. Thankfully, you’ve done this sort of thing before. Never with dragons, but duplicating an existing piece doesn’t exactly require having actually seen a dragon. After penciling out an outline and lightly lining the page, you reach for your ink and quills, and set to work.

You’re only halfway done with the page when Solas interrupts you. It startles you; he was so quiet, and yesterday hadn’t interrupted you at all. Fortunately, you have the iron control of your hands that only someone who regularly writes entire books can have, so you don’t muss up the page you’re working on.

“Did you translate this part correctly?”

You scowl at him. “I would hardly have translated it incorrectly, ser. Are you asking me to look at it again?”

“I’m asking you to ensure your wording is correct.” You glance at the line that has him fussing.

“Oh. Yeah, that was weird. I’m certain I got it correct, however. Unless they’re trying to say that High Dragons are resistant to cataclysm, which I sincerely doubt.”

“This is very interesting. I don’t believe this is common knowledge.”

“I’m afraid I’m the wrong person to ask about that. I have only a layman’s knowledge of dragons. It’s not been a subject of particular study for me.” You snort to yourself. “In fact, I’m probably not the best person for this project, but I suppose the Inquisition doesn’t have many contacts who are both dragon experts and fluent in ancient Tevene. Essentially all of them must live in Tevinter.”

“Are you as fluent in all the languages you profess to know as you are in ancient Tevene?”

Does he intend to be rude, or does shit just come out of his mouth that way? “With the apparent exception of ancient Elven, apparently,” you say with a frown. “Why?”

“It is impressive.”

You flush from the tips of your ears down to your bared toes. Fortunately, you’ve never been one to blush darkly. “Thank you.” To cover for your embarrassment, you grin. “I feel I would be more impressive if my Elven were improved however. But where, oh where, could a little da’len like me find a scholar in the ancient elves?”

He glances at you over the top of the paper. “Focus on your tome. I’m sure the Inquisitor is eager to get his hands on the translation.”

You try not to get your hopes up at the lack of a definitive no. “Why is he so interested in it, anyway? All I’ve heard is that there are ‘interested parties.’”

“I believe he is attempting to bribe a draconologist.”

“Wow. He doesn’t bribe poorly; this tome is a treasure.”

Solas begins to wander back to his desk, but before he can get too far, you risk an interruption of your own. “Erm… Solas?” He turns back towards you. “Ah… I know you’re doing me a favor already, letting me stay down here, but I wonder if I might ask for another?”

“You may certainly ask.”

You clear your throat delicately. “This might be rude to ask, but I presume you specialize in more… subtle magic?”

“I suppose one could say that,” he says cautiously. You might as well just get to it.

“Would that happen to include healing?”

Solas frowns. “If you are ill or injured, we have medics-“

“I have read that such magic can be used to make bones and joints stronger… more flexible, more durable. I’m attempting to finish this as fast as I can, but I fear my body isn’t used to this cold.”

He’s coming back towards you. “Do you do much reading about magic?”

“It comes up. I’ve been translating documents since I was a child. Despite what people seem to think, I don’t simply translate them and immediately forget the information I was translating.”

“Stand up,” he orders, and you find your legs are already moving. He, like Iron Bull, has a good voice for orders. He reaches out and takes your right hand into his, and your heart skips a beat. Maker, get a grip on yourself! He grasps your wrist firmly, twisting it this way and that to get a good look at it, and then you feel the deep, warm throb of unfamiliar magic. Gentle tingling fills your hand and wrist, and you shudder a little despite yourself. It feels odd, but familiar, a spell you’ve felt a thousand times cast by a new hand.

He lets go, and you flex your hand, sighing in relief. “That’s amazing,” you say, not having to try to look impressed. It’s such a relief to feel that you could have kissed the man. “This is the real reason why I wish they didn’t keep all mages locked up except for wars. They’re too damn useful.”

He raises an eyebrow, challenging your train of thought instead of letting a joke sit as just that. It frustrates you as much as it interests you. “You would see the mages freed?”

“I’m not going to see anything,” you retort sharply. “I have as much say in the matter as a rock. But… some circles let mages leave, once they’ve proven themselves stable. In Orlais and Rivain. I was surprised at first, because they don’t do it in Ferelden, but… I think more should. Every village could use the talents of a mage to help with everyday hurts and the fickleness of nature. People would be less scared if they saw magic regularly, and less fear means less demons. They could even station a Templar to watch the mage; easy post for older Templars, and it’d be nice to have someone trained in combat around. A lot of rural villages don’t have any real guard, just hunters and farmers.”

“You have… unusual thoughts on the matter.”

You suppose you do, at that. “Do me a favor and don’t tell any of the Templars about it, in case they still feel like executing any villagers with sympathies,” you say with a grin, a joke that falls very flat. You clear your throat awkwardly. “Thank you for your assistance. I will get more work done today because of it.” You feel somewhat awkward, sitting down on the ground while he’s still standing there, but he seems to take the hint, and turns back to whatever it is he does all day.

With sturdy magic reinforcing once-stiff joints, you work like lightning. Your hand flicks over paper without so much as a tremble. Now this is more like it! Reveling in your stability, you craft page after page, deciding the translation can wait until the magic wears off. You note at one point that Solas has obtained food, somehow. The spell of spiced vegetables wafts over to you, but you wave it away and focus on your work; the spell on your wrist has yet to fade, and you want to do as much as possible before it does.

---

You are awed at how every part of you except for your wrist aches when you finally stop. A headache is beginning to throb behind your eyes, your back is threatening to revolt, and your stomach is tied in knots, but your wrist… Your wrist is fine! It’s almost ridiculous. The aptitude with which he’d cast this spell was frankly awe-inspiring. Normally you have to explain what you want to mages, but maybe he already had a go-to wrist spell. Maybe he writes as much as you do, or something.

It’s the smell of food that does you in. The unmistakable smell of fresh bread and roast meat drifts over to you, and your stomach lets out a loud growl. You glance over at Solas, who is reading a tome while he eats, his plate sitting largely unguarded on the desk. A smirk on your face, you sneak towards his desk on hands and knees, staying close to the ground. It would have been very embarrassing if he’d looked up, but his unwavering focus will be his undoing. He doesn’t appear to notice you at all as you slip against the far side of the desk, out of his line of sight, and dart a hand up. Your hand lands on something warm and soft, and you pull it back to you. A biscuit! Lucky grab. You don’t even bother to savor it, stuffing it down quickly but quietly, your stomach rejoicing at even a tidbit of food.

“You know,” Solas says, the sudden voice making you jump hard enough that you bang your head on the corner of the desk. OUCH. “The Inquisition does provide food. You don’t have to resort to petty theft.”

You poke your head guiltily over the desk, then grin sheepishly. “In my defense, they don’t deliver food to the help. And what we get in the mess doesn’t smell this good.”

Solas is giving you a look that Does Not Approve. You give your best pout, but cuteness has never been your strong point. “Ir abelas, hahren?”

“Abelas,” he says, seeming to automatically correct your poor pronunciation.

“Abelas,” you correct yourself, wrapping your mouth around it. “Ir abelas, hahren.”

He sighs. “You have a knack for being troublesome.”

“It’s a talent,” you admit. “Probably comes from growing up in an Alienage. Have you finished with those?” You gesture to a stack of your papers, still on his desk. He frowns at them.

“I wanted to ask you a question about the wording of a certain phrase, but you seemed rather… absorbed in your work.”

“Oh?” Your ears perk with interest. “Alright, but this is payment for the biscuit.”

He gestures vaguely towards the plate of food. “Finish it. I can always send for more.”

You don’t need any more encouragement than that, and fall upon the food with a vengeance. The roast rabbit is sinfully delicious after weeks of porridge, stew, and little else. As you eat, he questions you on a section that you found interesting as well, a rather in-depth study of a specific high dragon that had been residing in a swamp. You answer his questions to the best of your ability.

“Well, the phrase used was ‘Draconis sub lutum,’ so I’m fairly sure that-“

“You remember the exact wording?” he interrupts.

You frown. You hate it when someone interrupts your chain of thought. “Of course I do. As I was saying-“

“Did this particular phrase stand out for some reason?”

“No, it’s actually a fairly straight-forward translation, as I was saying…” you say, the ire in your voice rising.

“This, over here,” he says, pointing to a completely different section of the book. “What was this in the original tome?”

“Propagines vescuntur—“ you begin, but he points to another part, expectantly. “Tace, spicaurisger¹!”

He snorts. “That is not what it said.”

“No, but I don’t appreciate the prodding! What’s this about?”

“I find it interesting that you seem to know the entire tome,” he says, looking amused.

“Of course I don’t. But if you point at a particular phrase, it isn’t difficult to remember how it was in the original.”

“There are a great many ways some of these could be translated.”

“Yes, therefore it’s my job to know which one is correct,” you scowl. “Which is why I remember.”

“Most people would remember the ones that gave them difficulty, or the ones that were pleasing to them.”

“Most people don’t professionally translate ancient tomes, now do they?” you say snippily. “Honestly. It’s just a combination of good memory and understanding the language. Don’t be such a…” You search for a proper word in the Common tongue, then give up. “Saputo.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Should I ask?”

“I wouldn’t tell.” You shove the last biscuit neatly into your mouth, barely bothering to chew before you swallow. “If you’re finished quizzing me, ser, I should get back to—ah, damn.”

Solas doesn’t have to ask the reason for your outburst; he simply follows your gaze over to the doorway, which is currently filled with the hulking mass that is Iron Bull.

“Hey, Solas. Think I can steal her for a minute?”

Solas makes some gesture between a shrug and a hand wave. You scowl. You’re not an item to be passed around, although being treated as such is hardly unfamiliar. Still, this isn’t a conversation you want to have in front of Solas, either, so you deign to follow Iron Bull outside onto the walkway.

“So, how far of a distance do I have to keep for you to call Dorian off?” he says once you’re both out on the walkway. He looks mildly amused, which is better than angry.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say with the blankest face you’ve ever produced.

“Uh-huh. I heard your background checked out with Leliana.”

“I think she might still be checking,” you admit. “Apparently when I disappeared off of Seheron, I did better than I thought I did.” You glare at him. “I don’t know whether to be proud of myself or worried.”

“You have a reason to be worried?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” you say with a scowl. You cross your arms and then, abruptly, “When were you in Seheron?” You don’t want to know. But you have to.

“I got moved away from Seheron about five years ago. I was there for seven years.” You look away sharply, knowing you’ve no hope of hiding your expression. Your heart pounds in your chest as you try to keep panic from overtaking you again. Tight cells, burning flesh, a fog thicker than darkness. You force yourself to breathe.

“Well, fuck,” you say out loud, trying to force a bit of joviality into your shaking voice. “I was hoping…”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”

You force a half-smile onto your face and look back at him. “Guess I should be thanking you?”

“Oh?”

“Check in with Leliana. It was a Qunari raid on my master’s base of operations that gave me the chance to bolt.” Explosions only mean one thing; bloody screams, spear through the chest of your friend, idiot, idiot, why did you grab a sword. They don’t kill slaves, look small, look small. Run, don’t let them see you run. Your legs threaten to give out; more than emotion is swirling inside of you. Get your shit together!

“I have to get to the tavern,” you manage to eke out.

“The tavern?” he sounds incredulous.

“I’m meeting Varric for drinks,” you say, trying to focus on that.

“Ah. I think I’ll run some training exercises, then hit the hay early.”

You glance up, meeting his eye. “……Thanks.”

---

The fact that you manage to walk to the tavern without falling over is a small miracle. You spot Varric at the bar, and just sort of fall onto the stool next to him, letting your bones go limp as you melt across the counter.

“Bad day, Stutter?”

“I’ve had worse,” you announce directly into the wooden countertop. You manage to lift yourself up. “What do they have that straddles the line between ‘alcohol’ and ‘amnesiac’?”

He slides you a mug. “Why don’t you just start with some mead? Tell the nice dwarf all about it.”

You scowl at him, but you down about half of the drink to calm your shakes. “There’s nothing to tell. Besides, you’re interested in my history, not my day-to-day.”

“Those things aren’t that separate.”

You snort. “They should be. Alright. This is for a letter… Andraste’s breath, I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. ‘Hey, I’m a complete stranger but a big fan of your life story.’” You snort and take another drink. “This is ridiculous.”

“Why not start with how you got… caught?”

You think back with a shaky sigh. Any place you could trip up here? …Yeah, a lot. Keep it vague. “I was in Denerim during the Blight. Loghain was selling elves in the Alienage there into slavery to Tevinter to fund that stupid civil war of his.”

“Did your family get caught, too?”

You shake your head. “Orphan. I guess I should have mentioned that. He started with the orphanage.”

“…Your life is kind of depressing, Stutter.”

You glare down at the dwarf. “I am aware,” you say acidly. “Anyway, the Vints figured out I had a knack for languages, sold me as a linguist or I guess, linguist-to-be since I was like, tiny. Got picked up by a Magister by the name of Bruchus.” So far, just stuff Leliana already knew. Wicked grin, too many hands, too many other kids. Why are there only kids? “I was a good investment. He… I don’t want to go into how I learned Qunlat,” you decide, and Varric doesn’t press. Sweet stench of blood and poison; you see yourself reflected in black eyes. You take a deep breath, try to let the words keep flowing. “Eventually, I was off to Seheron, where I’d be the most use.” You pause. “You know, I don’t actually know why his ‘Danarius’ was in Seheron. Could you ask him?”

“Sure thing. Any fun Seheron stories for the audience?”

You laugh despite your quivering nerves. “I still get jumpy when a fog rolls in. Those fog warriors were the worst… Qunari, you see those coming. Fuck, you can’t miss them! But that goddamn fog rolls in and all you hear are screams.” You shudder, then down some more of the drink. The mug is almost empty. My slaves, where are my slaves? Where’s Falon oh god where’s Falon? “Make sure you tell him how I got away; it was apparently a good one. He… what, he got freaking left behind, didn’t he?” You snort into your mug. “Lucky asshole. Oh, don’t tell him I said that.” Cover yourself in the blood, hide in the bodies.

“You alright, Stutter? You’re looking a little worse for the wear.” He gestures towards your hand, which you’ve just noticed is shaking slightly. “You wanna talk about something else for a bit?”

“You’re the one who wanted to do this, Varric,” you say with a scowl. “I’m just trying to get it all out before my brain catches up and I realize I’m selling my history for a fan letter.” Get outside, once you’re outside, get to the docks, you have a plan, stick to the plan!

“You look like you’re about to faint,” he says, worry quite clear in his voice.

Air, fresh, warm, humid, sticky. Freedom? No. Fog. You open your mouth to talk, but are jolted out of your senses by arms around your shoulders and a loud voice. “’Ey, lady!”

Your frayed nerves can barely handle it. “H-hey, Sera,” you manage.

“You look like shit! You bein’ mean to her, Varric?”

“I’ll have you know I’m buying her drinks,” Varric says, faking an exaggerated look of affront. “You know I am a perfect gentleman!”

You shake your head. Nooooo, no no no. This isn’t happening. Not nice, normal Sera. You knew, you knew she was probably from Leliana. “You… know each other?”

Varric turns back to look at you, and something in your face must betray how you’re feeling, because he looks alarmed. “Well… yes?”

“Is she one of your friends Varric? One of the Inquisitor’s friends?” Couldn’t you just have enjoyed a pretty face for a little longer? Pretend there weren’t any strings attached?

“’Ey! I’m right here!”

“It’s not like that, Stutter,” Varric is saying, but you’re already standing up, removing yourself from Sera’s arms as best as you can without shoving her. You don’t want to do something you’ll regret, but if you don’t get out of here right now you’ll make another stupid spectacle in the tavern.

“What’s wrong?” Sera is saying, but her voice sounds like it’s coming from far off. You push your way towards the door, heart fluttering, thudding, skipping beats.

“Just need some air,” you mutter. “Just some air.” You manage to get the door open, push it out, let in the cool night air, step out, but when you open your eyes…

A fog’s rolled in.

1. “Shut up, elf!” ↩︎

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