Worth
WHAM
You scream as you’re hit from behind, though not hard enough to knock you over. You spin around, stumbling away, and sure enough, there’s a fucking Mabari attacking you. You need to learn to trust your fucking instincts! You back away, hands up as if you could convince the slobbering beast not to attack. It charges again, of course, and this time, knocks you right onto your ass. Everything is fur and fangs and you scream again, your arms flying up to protect your face, your knees curling in to protect your core, an automatic reaction.
You’re not being torn apart, but the dog is on you for what feels like a very long time, shoving at you with its nose and covering you with slobber. You’re barely aware of that fact, however.
Baying of the hounds, only means one thing. Get to the orphanage, get to a building, any building.
She locked her door, oh god, why, why would you do that, no please, please, let me in. Baying gets louder; you hear a child’s scream.
Something is kicking you. You twitch, curl up tighter. Your arms are locked in front of you in deathlike rigidity. They can shred your arms, you’ll heal, gotta protect your vitals, gotta…
“Emma… Emma?” your name, coming from a long way away. But that’s not your name, your name is—
“Emma?”
Your eyes snap open and fix onto the nearest person.
Varric?
Fog clears slightly in your mind, but only slightly. You untwist yourself. Your eyes slide off of Varric and onto the hound, being held by its collar by—
Hawke.
You’re not even a little surprised. Ferelden men are all alike. You suspect your disgust shows on your face; you’ve lost your ability to hide your expressions at the moment.
“Emma, are you alright? You were screaming,” Varric says, causing your gaze to fix back on him in a snap. He actually flinches a bit when it does; your face must be a fright.
“I’m… fine,” you force out, cracked throat straining. “For someone who was just knocked down by a dog who probably weighs more than me.”
The dog, as if knowing that you’re talking about it, lunges forward. Despite the fact Hawke has a grip on its collar, you scramble backwards, kicking up grass as you do.
“Oh, she’s harmless,” Hawke says with a snort. “She was just playing.”
Playing.
He used to let his dogs “play” with the elven children, too.
“Slaughtered like dogs, she said.”
Leah wasn’t here to slaughter this man. You’d like to do it yourself.
It’s a good thing your aura is a pittance of its normal self, or you’d find it even more difficult to stop yourself.
“Hawke…” Varric says, shaking his head.
“What?” Hawke protests. “It was cute!”
Cute.
The grass around your hand is wilting, too slight to be noticeable by anyone but you.
It’s time to leave, lest you do something regrettable.
You shove yourself onto shaky legs.
“Emma, are you sure you’re—”
“I’m fine, Varric,” your voice is cold, flat, not betraying the screaming in your head. “I simply need to get to work. You know how Solas gets.”
“I think I left a bad impression,” you hear Hawke decide as you stalk off.
“You think?” Varric snaps. You don’t hear whatever comes next. You need to find someplace quiet to hide. Ride it out. That’s what you do. But your instincts are screaming. If you stay outside, the dog will be able to find you. A building, you need to go in a building. Four walls and a door that closes and you’ll be safe.
Objectively speaking, the rotunda is not necessarily the best place for you, in your current condition, but you thought “safe room,” and your body took you there. You can’t complain, in the end; the second you walk through the door, Cole is beside you.
“Inside, walls and roof and doors. Solas, close the doors,” the spirit instructs, taking you by one hand and leading you towards the couch. You’re all bristles and tension right now; just the sight of Solas moving out of the corner of your eye makes you physically jump. Then a bird caws and you nearly scream. You need to, you need to—
“He’s gone now, long gone. A decade dead, he can’t hurt you. He can’t hurt anyone. Like dogs, she said, butchered like dogs, and you prayed she butchered the dogs, too. She did.”
“How can you know that?” you say hoarsely as Cole pushes you gently down onto the couch.
“I can see them, a little, through you. Emma, look. The doors are shut.” You glance around the room. “You’re safe.” Your eyes almost slide over Solas entirely. He’s standing perfectly still. But your eyes latch onto him briefly. “Ara ma’desen melar.” The voice is Cole’s, but in your memory it belongs to Solas. “You’re safe.”
You stare at Solas for a moment longer, then let your eyes slide shut. You focus on the steady, relaxing waves of Cole’s words. Whatever method he uses to calm you works; Cole’s voice is like a spell. You feel the panic grasping at your chest and sliding off, as if it can’t get a grip on you. Bit by bit, you relax, leaning more and more against Cole and the back of the couch. You can feel the Fade tugging at the corners of your mind. It wouldn’t hurt. You just… just emptied. You could just slip away, and—
“Is she alright, Cole?” Solas’ voice is quiet, soft. Not enough to rouse you completely, but enough to keep you from slipping further. Your eyes can’t quite focus; Solas is a vague, tan blur.
“Yes. She’s scared of dogs.” An apt explanation.
“Is she going to sleep?”
“She might. She does sometimes.”
You let your eyes slide the rest of the way shut even as your mind pulls back more from the tenuous grasp of the Fade. If you pretend to sleep, might they talk further?
“No,” says Cole. “We can both tell.”
You open your eyes.
“Sorry we woke you,” says Cole, and he does sound sorrowful.
“It’s fine,” you say, slowly taking in your bearings. Solas is kneeling by the couch. You’re lying against Cole’s chest, feet tucked up on the couch. Ugh, you’ve got your dirty shoes on Solas’s furniture. You shift and sit up, irritably kicking your shoes off. They feel like a prison for your feet at the moment.
“It’s fine,” you say again. “I shouldn’t sleep through the day, anyway.”
Cole and Solas share a look.
“You should,” says Solas.
“You really should,” says Cole, almost at the same time.
You roll your eyes at the both of them, then point to your desk. “Is that a missive I spy, Solas?” Solas hesitates, then nods. “Then it seems my day starts now.” You force your body into motion, ignore the way your legs shake slightly under your weight. Your bare feet on the stone feels reassuring, so for now you just leave your shoes off. No one here is going to judge you for it. No one here cares.
“You should sleep with Solas,” Cole says, and the honest concern in his voice does nothing to keep your whole body from freezing mid-step. You swing around to stare at him. “You would both sleep a lot better,” he adds, frowning.
He means it literally, of course. You close your eyes and take a deep breath to keep from losing your temper at the poor spirit; he’s done nothing to deserve it. “Cole,” you say as you open your eyes.
Aaaaaand he’s gone.
You rub an incredibly tired hand over your eyes, massaging the bridge of your nose.
“He’s very literal,” Solas comments, voice perfectly neutral.
“He’s a brat,” you grumble, though there’s no real irritation in your voice. “Spirits can be brats, who knew? Have you ever met a spirit of brattiness, oh wise Fade mage?”
“I? None, other than than you,” he replies snippily, and despite your still-strained nerves, you laugh. “If you intend to begin your work, let me look at your hands and enchant your wrist,” he says with a light sigh.
“Alright,” you reply, handing your hand over to him without a second thought. It’s as he unwraps the bandages on your hand that you remember the healer’s confusion the day before.
“Solas, when I was being healed before, the mage said there were two spells there. One seemed to be the strengthening spell you use, but what was the other one?”
“Long term healing,” Solas replies, frowning with concentration. You feel his mana begin to seep into you. “Which the healer made a mess of, I might add.”
“Long term…?”
“The damage to your hands was substantial… and if I’m correct, not the first of similar injuries. I could have simply healed the recent mutilation in a single day, perhaps two. I took my time so that I could repair some of the older damage as well… tendons torn and torn again, healing poorly each time.”
You stare at him blankly, not even paying attention to the sensation of his magic within you for once.
“You said before that the cold gives you pain in your hands. That should no longer be an issue.”
…What?
“In the future, you should be more careful,” he chides. “Your hands are your livelihood.”
It’s not very often you’re speechless. But your words fail you utterly. He… healed damage that old? How much effort did that take? So that was why he kept your hands bandaged long after the damaged seemed to have healed. And part of why he offered to enchant your wrist every day, no doubt… it allowed him easy access to continually heal you.
He hadn’t even mentioned it… Wasn’t he going to ask for anything in return? That kind of healing would cost a fortune, if you could even find a mage who could do it and then get clearance from the Circle to allow it… Normally only nobles…
Solas seems to notice that you’re staring at him with wide eyes and a slightly slack jaw. He blinks. “Are you alright?”
“Y… you…” you stammer hoarsely.
“Emma?” He looks concerned now. He looks concerned. Like something might be wrong.
S’proly not even a thing to him. You don’t think about it; you just do it. Guarantee yer the only one dwellin’.
You shake your head slowly. “You have absolutely no idea what you’re worth, do you?” The awe-filled words slip out of your mouth without you thinking, but they seem to give Solas quite the start. His eyes widen slightly, his eyebrows raise. Then he looks… confused. “Ma serannas, Solas.” It’s all you can really say.
“It… it is nothing,” he replies, his face returning to its normal, neutral expression.
“It’s not,” you disagree. It’s so much. “But I can see why you might think that.” You chuckle softly. Living outside the Circle, you suppose he wouldn’t have any idea about the imposed limitations of such magic. Or rather, he might know about it objectively, but having never lived that reality…
One of these days, you’re going to have to figure out a way to repay him. For now, though, you’ve made it awkward enough. You head to your desk to start the day, only about a half-hour late, all told.
The missive is interesting enough that you don’t even get annoyed with the Spymaster for sending it to you. It’s Qunlat. And it has to do with magic. Those two things don’t overlap very often, and it’s certainly an area of particular interest to you. Qunari don’t do a lot of research into magic, generally speaking. They’re worse than the Chantry with their fear of magic, so this must be something special. You take extra care while translating it—any nuance could have meaning you don’t understand. You’ll want to deliver this one yourself. You’ll need to explain it to the people involved, to make sure they grasp the intricacies and possible variations of the translation.
You glance idly at the list. No Commander Rutherford for once. No, this piece of arcane knowledge is going to three people who can actually do something with it. Dorian Pavus, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast and… Dagna? The name seems Dwarven. And familiar. Dagna, Dagna… Ah! That’s right, you know it from request forms… and Dorian. He’d mentioned a dwarf who studied magic. Dagna, that had been her name. She’d been all over those requisition forms, and her requests had been esoteric and vague. They’d been a delight to fill. Her requests had given you several hours of sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Solas in that inn room.
So the only one you need to dread is Seeker Pentaghast, then. After your last run-in with her, you can’t say you’re looking forward to meeting her again. She seemed nice enough for a Seeker. But the fact she even knows you exist is utterly horrifying. In its own way, it’s worse than Cullen Rutherford knowing about you. The Commander is a “retired” Templar. He might well have no particular interest in the execution of apostates (ha, sure), but a Seeker?
There is no way for that to end well. You’ve already utterly failed at making yourself uninteresting thanks to Cole. You’ll have to just shoot for “utterly harmless” instead. Either way, you’ll put dealing with her off for as long as possible. You go up to the library first, ensuring you have your little bag of gifts, which is getting lighter every day, thank the Maker.
You don’t see Dorian right away, so you sidetrack over to Mahvir, who seems surprised to see you.
“How are the new books settling in?” you ask him.
“Wonderfully! I can’t believe how many you got!” he says, and you’re satisfied at how pleased he sounds. Technically, you suppose, he’s not really your boss or anything, not anymore, but he’s doing good work with this library. “It’s taking us awhile to get them all organized and shelved, but once we’re done, I expect the foot traffic here to really rise!”
“That’s wonderful,” you lie. More Templars and noise upstairs is not your idea of a victory, but whatever. “Have you seen Dorian anywhere?”
“He stepped out for something. I expect he’ll be back momentarily,” Mahvir replies.
Well… while you’re here… “That reminds me, Mahvir, I got you something in Val Royeaux,” you begin, slipping a hand into your bag. He blinks in surprise.
“Not a ribbon, I hope?” he jokes, and you snort.
“Something a bit more useful to you, I think, though I’m sure those luxurious locks deserve silk,” you tease right back. “Here.” You slip the package into his hand and glance around idly for Dorian while he opens it.
“A bookmark!” he exclaims. “And so well crafted… is this halla leather?”
“I’m not going to lie and say it’s Val Royeaux’s finest,” you say with a chuckle. “I’m not even sure if it’s real halla leather; I bought it from a shop near the Alienage. I thought you might like it.”
“Buttering up your boss? Shame you got a promotion,” he laughs, running a thumb across the fine leather.
“That was the intent,” you agree. “But you should have it anyway. With all these new books, I’m sure you’ll need it.”
“Yes, thank you,” he says, tucking it away into a pocket.
“Oh, also.. could you get this to a Miss Helisma Derington?” you ask, pulling one more package out of your bag.
“The Tranquil?” he says, frowning at the wrapped gift. “You know, whatever it is, she won’t… she can’t really…”
“I think it will be useful to her.” The package contains a single dragonling claw. Not much, but… a present she might actually… well, not enjoy but…
Whatever.
It is what it is.
Fortunately, Dorian walks in right then, saving you from further awkwardness.
“Ah, Dorian,” you say, flitting over to him the moment he walks through the door.
“Oh dear. You never come visit me. What do you need?” he asks teasingly.
“Well, I have a missive for you. And a present, but if you’d prefer I keep it strictly business, I suppose I can give it to someone else,” you reply, tapping your chin thoughtfully.
“Shush. Give me both, then.”
“Missive first,” you say, and then launch into an explanation of the document, your translations, and what they could mean. Dorian doesn’t just passively listen. He interjects, he bickers. You don’t mind at all; he knows far more about magic—and far more about Qunari magic specifically—than you. His interjections are actually quite helpful and between the two of you, you manage to nail down the meaning a bit more. You knew coming to him first was a good idea.
You wind up on that ridiculously plush chair of his again, him sitting in it and you resting delicately on one of the large armrests. It’s as easy to work with him as it is to work with Solas in some ways. In other ways, it’s easier, since you’re not being constantly distracted by your screaming libido. Plus, you spent a good portion of your formative years around Tevinter mages—one in particular. You’re familiar with how their minds work.
You do eventually remember that you have two more people to deliver this to, however. You can’t spend all day discussing the intricacies of Qunari enchantment with Dorian. Even if you kind of want to.
“Before I go,” you say, reaching once again into the Pack of I Bought Too Many Fucking Presents. At least it’s getting lighter, and you don’t have to hunt too much before finding his. It comes in a little box and everything. You stand as Dorian unwraps and then opens it, curious. His eyes narrow as he pulls it out.
“Loud and ostentatious,” you say cheerfully. “Just like you.”
“Ha ha,” he says dryly as he runs a finger along the blade of the letter opener. It’s quite nice, and the handle is styled beautifully after a bright blue peacock. “I suppose I should have expected this from someone who speaks Tevene.”
“Pavus, Pavus. It’s a good name. Flamboyant, just like you,” you tease. “Actually, I just saw it and thought of you.”
“Do random words in other languages normally pop into your mind when you look at something?” he asks, voice still a bit drier than you’d expect from someone who just got a gift.
“Yes, actually. I hadn’t given much thought to the Pavus/peacock thing before that. Most of the old houses have names that translate curiously in ancient Tevene. You’re quite lucky, actually. My old master’s name translated to ‘locust.’ Accurate, but not flattering.”
Dorian seems momentarily distracted from his curious examination of the letter opener. “Wait, Bruchus? I know—”
“We’re having a moment, Dorian,” you say sourly. “Don’t ruin it by telling me your father went to grade school with the man who purchased me, or something similar.”
“Noted,” Dorian replies. “Thank you for the gift, Emma. I’ll have to pick out something similarly… suited for you, in the future. When’s your naming day?”
“Never telling!” you say cheerfully. “Now, I really must deliver the rest of these. Which reminds me, where can I find this ‘Dagna’?”
“Dagna? She’s in the Undercroft, almost always. Take the door directly to the right of the throne and follow the stairs all the way down. Might wear an extra layer… Gets chilly down there.”
Chilly? Undercroft? “I’m surprised you’re not lurking down there, Ser Necromancer.”
“Are you kidding? It’s wretchedly cold in the south enough without seeking it out.”
You do manage to find your way to the Undercroft, and without bumping into anyone unpleasant, at that. It’s down quite a lot of stairs, which get rougher and slightly… damp, or perhaps dewy, as you go. You realize why upon reaching the place in question. It’s a giant cavern, open to the cold mountain air, with what must be a giant, fuck-off waterfall roaring loudly, though you can’t see it. Damn! What a place to work!
You see a grumpy looking man working at a forge, but that’s obviously not Dagna, so you leave him alone. You do see some interesting looking devices, however—probably for enchantment—so you head towards those. You’re curiously leaning over one when you hear a voice.
“Hi! You lost?”
You turn to look, and… yes, that’s a dwarf. “You must be Dagna. I’m here to deliver a missive.”
“I haven’t seen you before. Are you new?” she asks curiously as you hand her copy over.
“I’m not a messenger. Well, I am in that I’m delivering this, but that’s not my normal job,” you explain. “There are a few details I should go over—”
“Multiple possible translations huh? Oh, did you go over this with Dorian? I’d recognize his thought patterns anywhere.” Okay, that’s kind of weird.
“I did, yes. I managed to narrow down the meaning some, but it’s still kind of—”
“This one’s right, I think” she says, pointing. “This is what I’m looking for. Here, here and here. I’ve got it, thanks!”
Huh. Well. Okay, whatever, your job was just to translate it and bring it to her. If she’s some kind of eccentric genius, that’s fine. You should probably just leave well enough alone for once and exit, no matter how curious you are. But you can’t help sending one last, lingering glance over the strange equipment. You can taste the sting of lyrium in the back of your mouth. Bitter and biting, not smooth and tempting like the stuff embedded in Fenris’s skin. This is more raw. More rough.
“It’s for enchantment,” she explains, and you can’t help rolling your eyes.
“Nooo, I thought it was for styling hair,” you say before you can stop yourself. She blinks, then laughs.
“What gave it away? The glowy blue bits?”
“That was a hint,” you agree, grinning. “I also operate under the general assumption that the weirder something looks, the more likely it is to be used for magic.”
“That’s a… pretty safe assumption, actually,” she admits. And then she launches into a very complicated and very fast explanation of the device. You don’t follow everything she says, not even close. But you probably grasp more than she expects you to. You eye her thoughtfully as she babbles energetically. How much should you let on? Her knowledge is tempting in its own way. But if she’s this eager to explain, you can probably get it out of her even if you pretend to be simple. Like with Dorian.
The truth is, you’ve studied enchantment at some length. Enchantment isn’t as “questionable” as magic. A non-mage studying it could be seen as eccentric, or a tinkerer, or even just a merchant who wishes to understand his wares so as to better sell them. You can’t enchant—as a mage, the lyrium would drive you insane remarkably quickly. But more of the theory crosses over than conventional Circle wisdom would have you believe. You don’t know how the device in front of you functions exactly, but you know the basics. The way the runed grooves serve to steer liquid lyrium, the little claws that hold raw or roughly refined lyrium in place to minimize contact.
Still.
Dumber is always better in these situations.
However, you no more than reveal that you know one doesn’t just use liquid lyrium in enchantment before Dagna is eyeing you.
“You said you’re not a messenger, and you’re delivering this missive about magic… are you a mage?”
Why do people keep asking you that? You laugh, a comfortable, light sound that bounces against the stone walls. “Me? No, I’m just a linguist.”
“Oh… Oh! Elven linguist!” she says, snapping her fingers. “You’re the one who got me my books! Ella… Anna…?”
“Emma,” you correct. Nice that someone around here doesn’t know your name off the top of their head. “Yes, that was me.”
“I was hoping to meet you!” she says, bouncing up onto the balls of her feet and then back onto the heels. She’s jittery… kind of like Sera, but where Sera’s constant fidgeting seems to be out of some subconscious nerves or inability to relax, Dagna’s feels like sheer energy being contained in too small of a package. Like an overcharged rune, ironically. “You did a great job with my requests! I didn’t even know what I needed for some of them!”
“I remember yours,” you say with a smile. “Solas and I spent some long afternoons in the library figuring out how to best fill them. You should be thanking him.”
“I already did!” she says, and you blink. Someone else actually talks to Solas? Thank the Maker. “He said to thank you. You two are kind of alike, huh?”
“A flattering comparison,” you say politely.
“You study magic, like me! That’s what Solas said. Another non-mage who studies magic… we must have so much in common!”
Maker damnit, Solas! Come on! Ugh. You’d rather the whole fortress not realize that; you’re having enough damn trouble with Templars just working with a mage.
“I… yes, though not to the extent that you do, obviously,” you say graciously. It’s probably even true. She has the luxury of openly and honestly devoting her life to magical study. There’s no one to suspect she’s secretly a mage. She’s a dwarf! Lucky. “It’s simply a side-effect of doing so much work for the Circles.”
“I’m impressed you know this stuff as well as you do,” she says, tapping the missive. “Did you feel a calling? I kind of did, when I was down in Orzammar. I knew I just had to study magic. Nothing else made me feel so…” She pauses, giggles slightly. “Alive!”
Maker’s breath, she’s adorable. Dorian wasn’t wrong when he’d said the two of you would get along. But this kind of disarming personality is a known weakness of yours. You still have to be on guard. “No, nothing like that,” you say with a chuckle. “I suppose it started back when I was learning Ancient Tevene, or Elvhen. Most tomes and scrolls you can find in those languages have to do with magic. To understand the language, I needed to have at least a rudimentary understanding of magic and how it worked. When I was in Tevinter—”
“Oh! You’re Tevinter, like Dorian?” she says, her voice chipper despite the quick way the pleasant smile fades from your face. But you recover your polite mask quickly; it had simply been yet another unpleasant reminder, like with Dorian earlier. “That makes sense. You don’t look Tevinter, though. Oh, is that racist? I don’t mean because you’re an elf; you’re just so pale.”
“No, I was…” You clear your throat. “Imported.”
“Oh, so you studied…?”
“I was a slave. I was sold into slavery to the Tevinter Empire,” you say bluntly. “I was born in Ferelden.”
“Oh. Oh! Awkward, sorry!”
“It’s nothing, I—”
“Say, did anyone experiment on you while you were there?” Your whole body goes rigid as she continues on babbling. What kind of a fucking question… “It’s just, you look a little strange out of the corner of my eye, like—”
“No, nothing like that,” you say bluntly. You don’t feel bad interrupting; it seems the only way to get a word in edgewise once she gets going.
“Are you sure? Maybe you didn’t notice…”
“I think I would have noticed that!” you say with a forced chuckle. “No, no magical experiments were performed on me in Tevinter.”
“Hmm…” she says, peering at you.
“And I intend to keep it that way!” you add pointedly.
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t… well, not without permission, anyway. Although, if you want—”
“I need to deliver this missive to Seeker Pentaghast. I’m afraid I’ve already dallied for longer than I should have,” you say politely. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Enchanter Dagna.”
“Oh, that sounds so official. You can just call me Dagna! I’ll just call you Emma. You should come back when you have some more free time! I bet you know all sorts of fun things!”
You have to say goodbye twice more before you manage to leave, and you do so feeling slightly exhausted, like you’d just run a marathon. What a strange woman. Interesting, if a bit scary. What in the Maker’s name did she mean by “you looked weird”? There’s no way she’s picking up on your magic. That’s literally impossible; she’s not even a mage, and frankly if you can hide from a somniari poking into your mind, there is quite possibly nothing you can’t hide from. It had to have been something else. You just can’t imagine what.