A Wasted Opportunity
The real question, you admit to yourself while actually fetching lunch, is whether or not you can get your hands on Solas’s notes to compare to Servis’s admittedly familiar script, and whether it will be useful to you. Servis’s classical Minrathous shorthand is far from the pre-Blight Tevinter scrawls you remember, and Solas’s is removed from even that. But you have nothing else to use. It’s better than nothing. It’s not as if the library has any old Tevinter magical tomes… though, come to think of it, Dorian might. You should hit him up, as well, after lunch. Between everything you can get from Servis and Dorian… Yes. The hard part will be getting your hands back on Solas’s notes.
You don’t actually know what you stand to learn, but something is nagging at the back of your head about it, and… well, your work on the tome right now is satisfying, but hardly intellectually engaging. You have this problem with curiosity, especially when you’re bored.
It’s not as if you have anything better to do.
Still, it’s not worth breaking and entering. Snooping, yes, but just in the rotunda, you decide. You won’t risk getting in real trouble over this hunch. If you can’t get your hands on his notes, you’ll just have to go from memory. Better than nothing.
Feeling sufficiently entertained for the moment, you try to keep your mind off of your suspicions while sharing lunch with Solas. Though you do give his desk a once-or-twice-over for the notebook he was writing in before. You don’t see it… if he’s taken it to his magical workspace, you’re out of luck, at least for the time being. There is nothing that could get you to break in there. Even his room is probably warded now.
Lunch is filled with pleasant conversation; the afternoon is filled with uninterrupted work. It feels like a miracle, honestly. Is this what it’s like to work without being bothered? You’d forgotten the sensation. You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never does… And thanks to Solas’s enchantment, you barely even need to take a break to stretch. Everything is going extremely well until about four hours in, when you shift slightly and your body reminds you that your hand may be enchanted, but the rest of you isn’t. Your back protests with a shooting pain that has your hand clenching around your quill in an effort not to splotch the ink.
Alright, time to stretch.
You cover your ink and clean your quill and then stand with all the speed and agility of an 80 year old woman. Your hand even goes to your back as you wince. You need a cushion for this chair, ow.
“Have you managed to injure yourself while sitting perfectly still in one place?” asks Solas mildly, no doubt taking note of your exaggeratedly slow straightening.
“No,” you say with a strained grunt. “Just getting old… can’t bounce back like I used to. I’m sure you understand, hahren.”
Solas looks remarkably unimpressed. “Strange. I am so much older than you, and yet I can sit at a desk for a few hours without pain. Perhaps you need to spend your mornings stretching instead of being tenderized by a Qunari.”
“Ouch. That hurt, Solas. That hurt worse than my back.”
“Then you can’t be in all that much pain.”
“Alright, I’m going upstairs where you can’t sass me,” you say with a snort. “I need to dig up one of my dragon books, anyway.”
“Your books are in the library?” Solas says, sounding surprised.
“Where else would I put them?” you ask as you make your way to the stairs. “They don’t give all of us entire rooms to fill with stacks of books, Solas.”
Unsurprisingly, Dorian is in the library—though you don’t see Thea. Also unsurprisingly, he comes to pester you almost immediately. Out of the sass-frying-pan, into the sass-fire. Sigh.
“Walking funny, I see!” the Tevinter mage says loftily. “Who should we blame that on? Your elven paramour? Or your other elven paramour?”
“You hadn’t heard?” you reply dryly. “Your hero, Bull, is back from the war. Shouldn’t you have swooned into his arms by now?”
“No, no, I leave the swooning to you. We nobles have to know how to delegate, after all.”
“Well, if there’s one thing you Vints know how to do, it’s to let an elf do all the work then take the credit afterwards.”
“What do you sharpen that tongue on? Diamonds?” Dorian asks with a faux-shocked gasp.
“As if I could afford diamonds. Fortunately, Tevinter egos are just as solid.”
“And just as sparkling,” Dorian agrees. “Just as expensive to maintain, just as beautiful to behold—”
“Ah, good, you’re talking about yourself. I can sneak out while you’re distracted.”
“Works every time. That’s how I lost my last three lovers, in fact.”
You snort, breaking the back and forth by turning back to the bookshelf. “…Did someone actually check out Dragons of the Free Marches?” you say, frowning. “Or am I once again flummoxed by the library’s seeming lack of any real organizational system?”
“Oh, Helisma took that,” comes Mahvir’s voice from a few shelves over. “I’m sure she’ll return it if you need—”
“No, no,” you say quickly, moving your hand a few books over to another of the tomes you fetched in Val Royeaux. “This one will do fine, let her keep it until she’s finished. I’m just surprised anyone else is reading the things. But I suppose, with her research… I’m glad these books will be useful to more than just me, considering I used the Inquisition’s money on them.”
“So,” drawls Dorian. “If Bull is back, I take it that means you’re back to wrestling him every morning?”
“Yes, though our hearts were hardly in it this morning,” you say, your eyes sliding back to Dorian. “You did hear, yes? His second in command, Cremisius Aclassi, was injured in a fight with Venatori.”
“Oh?”
“Rather gravely. Perhaps you should steer clear; neither one of them are particularly happy with Vints at the moment.”
“But Cremisius is Tevinter!” Dorian protests.
“Yes, and who hates the place more than the lower class?” you snort. “You’d be feeling sour if you had Venatori stick a stave halfway through your lung.”
Dorian winces. “My. Perhaps I should get the poor man something…”
It’s an effort not to smile as an idea quickly forms in your head. “That’s not a bad idea, actually. I’m sure he could use the reminder not everyone from the Tevinter upper class is a shit,” you say, with the air of someone considering something. “Maybe… Oh, I know! You could bring him his favorite food. The crap they give you in the healing tent is awful.”
“You know his favorite food?” Dorian says, eyebrows raising. “You really get around, don’t you?”
“If you’re going to be like that, I won’t tell you,” you say with a scowl.
“Oh, go on. What is it?”
“Pickled fish.” Dorian’s expression says everything—he clearly thinks you’re having him on (you are). “No, seriously,” you insist. “I know it sounds weird, but he really likes them. Apparently he got a taste for them while his previous mercenary company was working out of the Anderfels. The kitchen has pickled herring in stock. I got them for him when he was feeling under the weather; ask the kitchen staff if you don’t believe me.”
“I just might,” Dorian says, eyeing you. “Pickled… herring?”
“Mmhmm. I was thinking of bringing them to him myself, but I’ll let you take this one. I’ve got lessons tomorrow, anyway.” You finish grabbing the last book you want, then turn to head back down the stairs. “If you don’t bother, just let me know, and I’ll do it some other time.”
Dorian is looking thoughtful when you head back down the stairs. You don’t let yourself snicker until you’re most of the way down the stairwell. Ah, to be a fly on that wall…
You alternate between reading—sprawled comfortably out on Solas’ couch, stockinged feet in the air—and working at your desk, until it’s time to pick up Solas’s dinner. All in all, you get a mind-boggling amount of work done. You could have gotten even more accomplished had you been interested in running yourself ragged, but thanks to Solas’s enchantment, that’s hardly necessary. Plus, the enchantment is wearing off already, probably due to so much heavy use, and there’s no way you’re going to ask Solas to refresh it. All in all, it’s a fantastic day, and you’re in excellent humor when you sit down to share your dinner with Solas.
“I believe this is the first day since we returned that I’ve seen you spend an entire day working here,” Solas comments as you set to devouring your well-earned dinner.
“I know! I’ve been waiting for Sera or Fenris to charge in, or for a missive to come, or something. I’ve gotten so used to constant interruptions, even down here in your rotunda.”
“You seem to get busier every day. Do you even have time for your constant lessons?” he asks dryly.
If he’s going to start sassing you again, you’re going to win this time. You may have difficulties out-bratting Dorian, but Solas just doesn’t have the capacity for being annoying that you do. “I’ll have you know I had a lesson with Bull just this morning,” you say loftily. “And tomorrow is Sunday, which means lessons with Belassan.”
Solas raises an eyebrow at your affected attitude. “Your schedule must be quite hectic. Do you finally have your fill of teachers?”
Pff… asshole. He already knows the answer to that. You’ve never stopped chasing after him to teach you. The only thing that’s changed is the number of things you want him to show you, which seems to grow by the day. He’s teasing you, like dangling a steak near a starving animal.
“Very nearly,” you say casually, popping a bite of food in your mouth. “The only thing I would clear my schedule for now is someone very interesting.”
“Is that so?”
“Mmhmm,” you say, with an air of forced indifference. “The only one I’m particularly interested in, well, they keep turning me down, so…” You shrug.
“Well, their loss is my gain, then,” he says, and you lose control of your casual air as you focus in on him sharply. “Assuming you’d be willing to clear your schedule, of course.”
Now it’s his turn to sit casually eating while you attempt to figure out what he means. Is he taunting you? “Oh?” you say cautiously.
“Assuming you’re still interested in improving your Elven, of course…”
You’re nearly knocked stone cold on your ass by the sudden flood of emotions that wash through you. No way. No way! Is he serious? There’s no way it would be this easy! You’ve been trying for months now! You’re staring, aren’t you? You’re probably staring. Pull it together!
“Whu… What?” Fucking eloquent. Good job.
“Elven. The language? Although if you’re not interested…”
“No! I mean yes! I mean, I am!” Get your shit together. You clear your throat. “But… what changed your mind?”
“Before, you had nothing to offer me,” Solas says matter-of-factly, with a light shrug.
“Oh?” you ask cautiously. “What changed?”
“Now,” Solas says, his voice a bit lower than normally—or is it just your imagination? “You have something I want.”
Your throat goes tight and dry, your thinly held hold on yourself shatters. “O…oh?” you say, your own voice jumping up an octave. “What might that be?”
“Your company,” Solas replies, and you fear your hammering heart may burst from your chest. It’s all you can do to keep from checking your surroundings. Is this the Fade? Are you dreaming again? What’s happening here? “I seem to have grown accustomed to it in Val Royeaux. Now that we are back in Skyhold, you have so many hangers-on… So, I will steal your Sunday afternoons for myself.”
You feel as though you might very well faint.
“Besides,” Solas adds casually. “Your Elven needs to be corrected now, before you teach any more unfortunate bakers.”
Your brain has officially stopped functioning altogether. You should be thinking rationally about this. There is almost certainly more to his sudden offer than just wanting your company; that’s fucking ridiculous. But you have no capacity to analyze right now. Your mind is filled with a blissful buzzing that pushes out everything else.
“Y-yeah…” you say dazedly. Your brain attempts to form something vaguely similar to suspicion, but fails spectacularly, and all you get is, “All you want are my Sunday afternoons?”
Fucking Void. You need to go roll in a snowbank until your faculties come back; this is absurd. Worse still, that sounds like you’re coming on to him more than inquiring after his intentions. But all he does is smile slightly—hell, it’s almost a smirk, though that might be your hormone-flooded mind.
“Perhaps the evenings, as well.”
You’re gone. You’re done. You give up. He could tell you to your face, ‘oh and also I’m doing this so that I can learn all your dangerous secrets and expose you to the world’ and you’d probably still just be like ‘oh, well, okay then, sure.’ Fuck. You need to lie down. And a cold bath. Seven cold baths.
Solas continues to eat and talk, and you, eventually, at some point, remaster the ability of putting food in your face, though words continue to fail you. You listen to Solas intone about what things you’ll need to be taught and supplies you’ll require—all of which you already have because duh, you literally do language for a living.
“The rotunda should work well enough for our purposes,” he decides, glancing around the room as if considering it. “People do bother you here, but few enough. It will be on you to turn them away if an interruption presents itself.” He eyes you pointedly. “I take my commitments seriously; so should you. You may run about Skyhold every other minute of every other day if you wish, but there will be no interruptions while you are learning.”
You nod along, somewhere between dazed and eager. You can’t believe this is actually happening. But you’re not waking up, so it must be. He’s not even asking for much; your dedication is hardly much of a fee. You suspect he’ll get around to what he really wants eventually, but frankly, you don’t care. There’s nothing he could ask for that you wouldn’t give for proper instruction in Elven, or at least nothing you wouldn’t lie about giving.
By the time you actually clean up after dinner and get back to work, you realize Solas’s enchantment is pretty much entirely gone. You glare at your work for a while—would it be worth working at a slower pace, or should you do some of your non-writing work? After some hemming and hawing, you just curl back up on Solas’s couch with your dragon books and do some reading. You’ve written enough today anyway, surely. Better to do some reading and then focus on writing when you have the benefit of magic on your side.
You’d like very much to study Servis’s notes, but Solas is right there and with your luck, he would definitely notice and wonder what you were looking at. You’re still planning on snooping as soon as you get the chance, so you should probably avoid studying Tevinter runecraft directly in front of him. And so, dragons it is.
The tome is unfortunately dry. Your Free Marches book would have been more interesting and more along what you actually need; it details a real, modern High Dragon that was found in the Bone Pit outside of Kirkwall three years ago. It was slain by Hawke and company—Fenris had been with him, according to the reports, so you can always ask him additional questions if you need to—but there had been an autopsy, and Hawke had answered a lot of interview questions about it. It was one of the most well-recorded cases of modern High Dragon behavior and biology.
Instead of that book, however, you’re reading a rather dull piece, translated from Tevene from someone who did not quite have a knack for the subtleties of the language.
It’s extremely boring, but you only set it down—on your face, to block the light—for just a moment to rest your eyes. So you’re quite surprised when you open them back up again and, upon moving the book, realize the entire rotunda is pitch black.
You must have fallen asleep. You have a brief moment of panic when you feel weight on you, thinking that Solas had once again covered you in his enchanted blanket while you slept. But no, you realize quickly, this isn’t the same blanket. You would like to say you checked it for magic, but in truth, you simply recognized it was made of a different material. A quick sniff confirms that it is one of Solas’s blankets, however. Not that you will be informing anyone you can recognize him by scent now, apparently.
You try to think through the blind panic, force yourself to calm. You had fallen asleep? Maker, how? Had Solas done something? No, no, you hadn’t dreamed. It wasn’t sleeping so much as falling unconscious, the blackout of the severely intoxicated or ill. Sleep without connection to the Fade… rest for your body, but not much else. Embarrassing, though, that you had fallen asleep right in front of Solas. He could have done anything to your sleeping mind while you laid, helpless. You need to be more careful around him, damnit! Just because he hasn’t been able to figure you out yet doesn’t mean he can’t. He could probably sniff your aura out if you were unconscious. He would have time, and you wouldn’t be awake to realize you needed to take extra precautions to hide.
Not that you have any real way to keep yourself from passing out. Your exhaustion mounts with every passing day, and there’s no end in sight.
You glance around the rotunda. It must be very late… it’s completely dark, though the slightest glow from the top of the tower informs you there are still spies hard at work, as always. But everyone in the library has gone to bed, and all the candles have been put out. Fortunately, you’re an elf, so you can still see outlines. Not well enough to read, but well enough to make your way over to your desk and light a single candle. This isn’t how you had planned on snooping through Solas’s things, but you don’t intend to look a gift horse in the mouth.
You keep the candle covered as best you can. There’s probably only a handful of people all the way up in the spy quarters, but all it would take is one of them happening to glance over the edge to see that there was someone snooping. You’ll have a great deal of explaining to do if anyone catches you at this. So you keep the light as covered and dim as you can and rely on your elven sight to help you find what you’re looking for. Fortunately, Solas keeps his desk relatively organized.
Unfortunately, the notebook he was writing in before doesn’t seem to be here. You rummage quickly through his papers and notes, looking for anything of use, and you do find some sort of… notebook, or journal. Curiously, you flip it open and angle it towards the candle.
…This is written in Elven.
Who the fuck writes notes in Elven?
Other than you, anyway, although you tend to use ancient Tevene instead. Less suspicious. You do it all the time, a lazy way of coding your own thoughts against the nosy. The nosy like you, apparently; given that, you wouldn’t be surprised if Solas does it for the exact same reason. Well, too bad for him that this nosy woman is semi-fluent. You close the book and tuck it under your arm, then continue to quickly dig around for anything interesting or useful.
Nothing else really jumps out at you, though, and the longer you spend at his desk, the more likely you are to be spotted. So you take your little prize back over to the couch. After a few moments consideration, you sit down and pull your feet up onto it, then pull the blanket over your head like a cloak. You tuck the candle carefully between your thighs, and then open Solas’s notebook. The blanket should block pretty much all of the light from the candle, and you’re under the overhang of the library to boot. Plus, you’re just reading. Nothing suspicious going on here, nope.
…Either this is coded, or you’re more stupid than you thought. You can only understand about a quarter of the words, and you can’t make heads or tails of it. At least not right away. You can do this, you tell yourself. You’re one of the forefront experts on ancient Elven in Orlais! Not that there’s a great deal of competition, but… You have done some very questionable things in the pursuit of this exact knowledge. Your pronunciation may be questionable, but your knowledge of the written word, surely, is considerable.
But after half an hour of pouring over page after page of flowing, foreign script, it’s getting… depressing. Coded it may be, but it’s also just increasingly clear how superior Solas’s mastery of the language is. It’s clearly Elven words, not a cipher using the alphabet. You recognize enough to know that. But you flat out don’t know enough of it to translate it. You would need days, weeks. Resources. For a fucking notebook. A fucking stupid notebook, written by an asshole somniari who makes you look like a fucking idiot. You’ve dedicated your life to this! But apparently that’s nothing compared to—
No, no. Be fair. Solas is easily twice your age (apparently). He’s had longer. Plus a possible Tevinter education or a deal with a demon, or both. When you’re his age, you’ll be just as knowledgeable… maybe more, since you intend to pry every ounce of knowledge out of him if you can.
You’re not a failure. Not a waste, not an embarrassment.
But you have no chance of figuring this crap out right now. However… if Solas is really serious about instructing you in Elven, you may be able to in the future. But you can’t exactly steal his journal… Good thing you’re a linguist sitting in a room full of quill, inks, and paper.
Obviously you can’t transcribe the whole thing in a few rushed hours, hiding under a blanket. You would use magic if you dared—there’s no one here—but the risk of there being some residue on Solas’s journal keeps you from risking it. You do it the old fashioned way, and get as much of it down as you can before blowing out the candle and returning Solas’s notebook to its spot on his desk. You fold the blanket before you leave; you’re sure Solas will be in the rotunda before you return.
It’s a little less than an hour before dawn when you creep into your room. You have no intention of sleeping, or even resting; you had apparently done that in Solas’s rotunda, and so soundly that he had covered you with a freaking blanket. No, you’re simply here to change clothing. You’ve been looking forward to this day off for a while now, and you want to take your time and actually enjoy yourself for once.
You strip down and take some time to apply the bruise balm you’d been given. It’s a bit awkward in places, and you wind up laying completely nude on your bed for a while as you wait for it to soak in completely. But it is extremely soothing, easing the aches and pains where you had repeatedly smacked into the ground, or been yanked by Bull.
Once you’re sufficiently dry, you rise and stretch a little bit, working out kinks in your back and neck from the day before. Then you pull on a breast band and, after a moment’s hesitation, some of the cuter underwear that you’d purchased in Val Royeaux. If today is going to be about self-indulgence, you’re going all-out.
You can’t help smiling to yourself as you pull on clothing you actually like for once. Tight, brown leggings—tighter than they should be, you realize with a frown. You’ve gained weight… That’s to be expected, but you’ll be sour if you have to let your pants out to make allowance for your own ass. Good thing you’ll be wearing a tunic, because the leggings’ grip on your rear and hips would probably get you thrown out of a Chantry… or at least lectured by one of the Revered Mothers.
You pull on a red tunic to help “cover your shame,” so to speak. It’s not quite as long as you’re used to, but the style for servants in Val Royeaux this year is a shorter hem. It goes down to almost mid-thigh and hey, you are wearing leggings. Then comes the real self-indulgence: you pull your legs up on your bed, open the drawer in your bedstand, and pull out Lady Montiliyet’s gift.
You—obviously—haven’t painted your nails since disaster struck your home, but you used to do it with some regularity. It’s stylish in Orlais, and while you never really got involved in some of the more intricate paints and patterns used by the nobles—Madame de Fer’s nails are often something to see, even here—you did enjoy it. It was both a tool and a pleasure, like your masks or jewelry or more posh outfits. Now, however, you’re painting your toenails for pure enjoyment, and, because, well… it would be a shame to let the paint go to waste. It was a gift.
Sitting back and waiting for them to dry reminds you fondly of more pleasant times in Orlais. How many times had you and Banal’ras done just this, decorating yourself like a baker’s tarts before sneaking into one ball or another as servants? Casually discussing your plans for theft and ruin while blowing lightly on your nails… The memory is bittersweet nostalgia, but it does serve to put you in a good mood.
As they dry, you take the time to thoroughly comb your hair. Nothing else to do while you’re just sitting there, and you enjoy the sensation. Banal’ras used to comb it for you while you worked, and vice versa. He had the most ridiculously thick hair you’d ever handled, and he’d swear at you while you carefully hacked away at knots that formed because he didn’t brush it frequently enough.
You admire your reflection in the mirror you purchased as you work through your hair. It’s been awhile since you got to admire your hair down like this. It was a conscious decision to always wear it in the same style; people get used to it, associate you with hair pulled back in a bun, don’t know how it frames your face when it’s down. The severe, pulled back style makes you look several years older, as well. But you’re just prideful enough to admire how nice it looks down.
Once your nails are dry enough not to risk smudging, you wrap your feet in the foot wraps Solas had given you, winding them up over your ankle and shin, over the tight leggings around your calf. That gives you warm, fuzzy memories that have absolutely nothing to do with Banal’ras. You wonder if anyone will even notice you’re not wearing shoes? How many people really look at feet? Sera probably would. If she sees you today, she’ll probably yell at Solas for rubbing his elfiness off on you.
Ew. That sounds weird.
Sounds like something she’d say, though. Then she’d wonder why everyone was making a face…
You run your hands idly through your hair. You’d like to leave it down, or braid it, but that’s a step too far. You’re already playing it risky by dressing up the way you like to today. You wouldn’t do it at all if not for the fact you’ll be spending the entire day with Belassan and then Solas, locked up away from sight. Then… maybe you can let your hair down with…?
No, no. You’re being silly. With a sigh, you pull it back into the same bun you always wear, then stand. You curl your bare tones into the cold stone and smile. It’s a rare day where you can say you feel a bit more like yourself.