Passing Time

Your night is spent, ironically, staring at the ceiling. You manage to drift off a few times, but it doesn’t stick; the sleep just slides right off you. Twice, you wake with your hand between your legs, the ghost of imaginary lips on yours. The second time, you decide to just get up. It will be dawn soon enough, and that’s when Solas and the others are riding off. If you head out now, you can look for a possible way to sneak out after them, or another way to get in and out of Skyhold undetected.

You dress and exit, quickly made miserable by the cold outdoors. There’s an ungodly freezing wind whipping through Skyhold. You hope Solas is at least bundled up for his impromptu trip to the marshes. At least it’ll be warm there. You walk the ramparts, and once again you’re largely ignored by the guards. They would probably quickly spring to action if you started to scale the wall, but it’s good to know that you can at least get this far. Unfortunately, the more you look, the more it seems that the only way out of Skyhold is across the main bridge.

Discouraged, you head down to the courtyard, and mill about there for a while. Eventually, you find an out-of-the-way, out-of-the-wind corner to huddle up in, near the main portcullis. At least you’ll have a good view of the Inquisitor, savior of Thedas, as he rides to… do whatever it is he plans on doing in Fallow Mire. Save a lost patrol from Avaar, if what you overheard is correct. You know nothing but historical factoids about the Avaar, so what in the Maker’s name they’re doing kidnapping Inquisition patrols, you haven’t even the ability to hazard a guess.

You must doze off a little while waiting, although you don’t feel any more rested for it. Just stiff, sore, and frozen solid. But the sun is beginning to peek over the horizon, and the bustle of another day of work is beginning. It had been shouting that woke you, and you soon see why… Sure enough, the Inquisition is riding out. Disorganized groups line either side of the pathway as the progression heads out through the open portcullis… how did that opening not wake you up? You could have, perhaps, slipped out before them, although you sincerely doubt it. Nor can you slip out with them; everyone is on horseback. Also, there is a crowd watching.

You’re left to play the onlooker, searching the line of horses for familiar faces. You spot Varric, sitting on a mount that straddles the line between horse and pony. He doesn’t look any more pleased about the situation than his “horse” does. Against your better judgment, you wave, arms high in the air. He spots you, smiles, and waves back. He has to come back alive, you think to yourself. He still has to sign your book, and he promised that. The unhappy tension that’s been with you since the day before climaxes in an icy stab through the chest as you spot Solas. He’s mounted on a rather beautiful palomino, although you’ve not much of an eye for horses. He looks… striking. And watching him ride past is more of an agony than you’d thought it would be.

You’re shocked when his eyes glance over you, more shocked when they come back again, this time focusing on you. You see the smallest of smiles ghost his lips, and he raises a hand in a tentative, almost half-hidden acknowledgement. You raise your own, waving slightly, not the dramatic, full-bodied motion you had given to Varric.

Please, Maker, let him make it back in one piece. Let them all make it back in one piece.

When you can no longer see him from where you stand near the portcullis, you spin about, push your way through the crowds, and charge up onto the ramparts, watching from the tall walls until the progression of horses is out of sight. The stabbing in your chest intensifies, until you fear you might be overcome with it.

“Hey, kid.”

Ugh.

“I knew you’d be here,” you grumble, more to yourself.

“C’mon, let’s get some food. You know that girl of yours will be waiting there, like a lost puppy. You should see her face when you skip meals.”

You glare up at Iron Bull. You’re exhausted, sleep-deprived, worried, and reaching critical levels of sexual frustration. You’re a little concerned that if Iron Bull pushes too hard, you’ll wind up punching him before you have a chance to pretend to learn how to do it.

“Try not to worry,” he says, voice a little softer. “They know what they’re doing, all of them. They’ll come back alive.”

You’re really quite transparent, aren’t you? You let out a sigh. “Let’s get breakfast.”

---

The mess is as busy as ever, with an extra rush of people who’d been watching the progression. You do manage to spot Thea, however, and the two of you join her. She eyes the two of you, clearly wanting to say something, but also just as clearly able to read your mood. There’s a nigh-tangible wall of gloom around you.

“You’re, uh… developin’ some bags under your eyes there, Emma. Dramatic ones. Not sleepin’ well?” Thea finally asks.

“No, I’m not,” you say shortly.

“You know what’s a good cure for that? Vigorous physical exercise!” Iron Bull interjects. Thea snorts, then covers it by coughing. You glare at her, but it lacks vigor. You are rather tired, and coming to terms with the fact you’ll probably be sleeping with half of the Inquisition via rumor before you leave this place.

“Well, you know what I think ya need?” Thea says, and you cringe a little.

“Oh, Maker…”

“A day off!” You blink. That went somewhere perfectly reasonable. Had Thea been possessed, perhaps? “All the serving girls get one. Hell, even I get one, though I take it once a tenday. Why shouldn’t you? You’ve been here o’er a week now!”

“What would I do with a day off?” you ask with a frown. “Loiter?”

“I bet you ‘aven’t even seen most o’ Skyhold!” Thea says pointedly.

“So, loiter, then.”

“I think Thea’s right on this one,” Iron Bull says. He looks thoughtful, which probably isn’t a good sign. “You could use a day off. You’re looking worse every day.”

You scowl at him in lieu of a response.

“Tell you what, give me an hour. If I can’t find something to hold your interest, you can crawl back to that rotunda of yours and bury yourself in work.”

The rotunda.

The thought of moving out of that empty place sends another sharp lance through your chest. “Alright,” you agree, just to postpone the inevitable.

Both Iron Bull and Thea look a little surprised that you agreed so readily. You merely return to sullenly downing your gruel. It’s pretty good gruel, as that sort of thing goes, but you know that, by lunch, you’ll be missing the fresh meat and warm bread that proximity to Solas had been providing.

After eating, you follow Iron Bull out through the courtyard. An hour of whatever passes for entertainment in Skyhold… Too early for drinks, so perhaps some sort of card or dice game? A relaxing stroll through the gardens that you’ve yet to see, but keep hearing about, perhaps? You’re surprised and a little confused when Iron Bull brings you to a series of large barns and a large, paddocked field. Horses? He’s brought you to see horses? Well, you suppose the stereotype of women and horses is a popular one. You, however, have never ridden a horse in your life.

He takes you into one of the barns, and you have to admit to some curiosity as to what, exactly, he’s up to. Perhaps he intends to show off a mount of his own? You amuse yourself by trying to imagine the giant of a horse that would be able to carry such a mountain of a Qunari.

“Hello, Bull. Who’s your new friend?” Your eyes glance away from the stable boxes and the horses therein to fix on the source of the voice, a grizzled looking older man with a rather impressive beard. Your eyes dance over him, picking up details. He moves a little stiffly, steps forward on his right foot. Old soldier, perhaps? Then, your eyes fix onto the symbol on his shoulder.

Grey Warden.

You’re a little in awe, despite yourself. You’ve only ever met Grey Wardens in passing, unless you count knowing the Hero of Ferelden before she was a Grey Warden, which you don’t. You’d seen the Warden that recruited her from a distance, but that was as close as you’d come. The Warden follows your gaze to his shoulder as Iron Bull answers.

“This is Emma, the Inquisition’s new linguist. Emma, this is Blackwall.”

“What’s a linguist going to do in a barn?” Blackwall says with a snort. You’d be irritated, but frankly, you don’t know either.

“It’s her first day off! Thought I’d show her around a bit.” Iron Bull keeps walking, past Blackwall, and you follow him. You and the old soldier share a look as you pass him. Suspicion is plain on his features, but you’re more curious than suspicious. Grey Wardens wind up in a lot of odd places. A barn is hardly the strangest. All this crazy shit going on, it’d be weirder if a Warden wasn’t here. More likely than a Ben-Hassrath, that’s for damned sure.

You idly check out the horses as you walk. Each one seems grander than the last, and you pass both smaller horses, verging on ponies, and giant horses that must be eighteen hands high. And then, you see what you now suspect Iron Bull has brought you here for.

You have seen halla. You have even seen, in fleeting glances, harts, normally at quite a distance. This is your first time being so close. Your breath catches a little in your throat at the beauty of him. He’s a deep, reddish brown, with not a mane, but a thick coat of white fur on his head and chest. Gorgeous. Iron Bull steps close, careful not entangle their horns—wouldn’t that be a sight—and you step closer as well, marveling at the size and the strength of the creature in front of you.

“And this,” Iron Bull says, sounding smug, “is Revas. Solas named him.”

You step up, better judgment utterly forgotten. You open a soft palm under the hart’s nose, giggle slightly as he breathes in and out on you heavily, then butts his soft, warm nose against your hand.

“…Did you just giggle?” Iron Bull’s voice comes from behind you, mildly incredulous. “I didn’t know you could actually make that kind of a sound.”

You ignore him, running your other hand gently along the hart’s face, then, carefully, down his neck, not wanting to spook him. He seems content, however, and leans forward to butt against your chest, very nearly clocking you with one of his massive antlers.

“He normally prefers elves,” Iron Bull says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice. “He seems to really like you, though.”

“Why didn’t Solas take him when he left?” you manage, although you cut yourself off a bit with a laughing gasp as Revas tongues at your hand, likely searching for a treat.

“The Inquisitor prefers that they match when they ride out. If Solas rode a hart, the Inquisitor would feel compelled to as well, and none of them much care for him.” The voice that speaks is unfamiliar, and you crane your neck around as best you can to see who speaks. It’s another human man, dark skinned and very nearly bald. “He likes you,” the man observes dryly.

“Well, I like him,” you say, grinning stupidly. You run a hand through Revas’ thick fur, and the hart grunts his approval. “I had no idea the Inquisition… where did you even find him?”

“He was a gift, likely from a group of Dalish, although I’m not entirely sure. We’ve managed to procure a few others, as well.”

“Horsemaster Dennet, this is Emma, the Inquisition’s new linguist,” Iron Bull introduces, since it’s quite clear you’re too distracted to do it yourself.

“Do you have any experience with harts, Miss Emma?” Dennet asks curiously.

“Essentially none,” you manage to say as you lean backwards to avoid being struck with an antler as Revas gets a little too curious about what might be in your pockets. “I used to own a mule.”

“A mule.”

“Yes. Her name was Bella, and she was the only animal I’ve ever owned,” you say, somewhat wistfully. “I tried to bring her with me, but Templars decided they wanted her. I only they hope they kept her as a beast of burden and didn’t have her for dinner.”

“That’s…”

“So, you wanna ride him?” Iron Bull asks.

“What?” you and Dennet say in unison.

“I can count the number of times I’ve been on a horse on one hand!” you protest. Technically true, as you can count to zero using only one hand with ease. You’re uncertain if mules and ponies count.

“No better time to learn!”

“A hart is hardly a creature to learn to ride on,” points out Dennet.

“Aw, c’mon, that thing loves her!” Iron Bull points out. As if on cue, Revas attempts to stick his nose into your pocket, nearly dragging your pants down. You grasp at them desperately.

“Fine,” Dennet says grumpily. “But first, you show her how to saddle it, and if she gets trampled, you explain it to the Inquisitor.”

Somehow, you manage to secure your trousers, and Iron Bull leads you over to where the tack is. You listen intently as he explains what each piece is—if you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it correctly and without dying. Normally, this is exactly the kind of tomfoolery you prefer to avoid, but… come on, when are you next going to have a chance to ride a hart? Probably never! You’re not going to pass this one up for fear of standing out or breaking a limb. Limbs heal, and you already stand out. Falling off of a hart repeatedly will probably help you blend in.

Still, as you struggle around an uncooperative Revas, attempting to get his bridle on while he repeatedly spits out his bit, you can’t help but wish you had gone for a more cooperative fellow for your first time. You somehow manage to get him properly saddled and bridled after several tries and a lot of dodging as he attempts to “accidentally” stomp one of your feet or brain you with his antlers. You desperately bribe him with carrots until he holds still long enough for you to show him to Iron Bull for tentative approval.

When you finally get the all clear, you come to the conclusion that you have literally no idea how to mount a hart. Riding a donkey was easy. You just got on it. But you’re short, and Revas is tall, and it’s difficult to even get your foot in the stirrup from a standing position. Eventually, you lead him over to the fence, climb the fence, and use the advantage of height to crawl your way onto the hart’s back.

Fortunately, Revas is used to being ridden, and doesn’t prove to be too terribly difficult, although you suspect he can sense your uncertainty. With helpful (and not so helpful) shouted instructions from Iron Bull, you manage to successfully navigate your way around the enclosure several times. Although at one point, something causes Revas to begin to run, and you only manage to last about ten seconds before flying off.

You fall off several times before you decide that your aching back and legs are unable to keep you in the saddle at all anymore. Following Iron Bull’s instructions, you manage to get the saddle and bridle off of Revas, and even brush him down, which is something you might pay to do again.

You reluctantly say goodbye to Revas as Iron Bull drags you off, declaring it time for lunch. You’ll definitely be coming by again, although you doubt Dennet will allow you to ride the hart without supervision. It’s just as well; you’d probably kill yourself. It’s a miracle you haven’t been trampled already, and you can feel bruises forming as you waddle to the mess behind Bull.

“So,” he says as the two of you sit down with your meals. “Do I know how to show a lady a good time, or what?”

The fact that you laugh shows how much your mood has improved from that morning. “Alright, alright. I had a good time. Thanks. I never thought I’d try something like that… and I’m sore, everywhere. But it was amazing.”

“Oh, Maker, there’s no way this is as good as it sounds,” comes Thea’s voice from behind you. You roll your eyes as she sits down beside you.

“Iron Bull took me to the stables-“

“Yeeeeesss?”

You scowl at her. “And taught me to ride!”

At this, Thea explodes with laughter as you rapidly redden. “A hart! He taught me to ride a hart! Get a hold of yourself!”

“I’m sorry! Maker! I even knew what you meant, but you should have heard yourself…” She’s leaning on the table for support, nearly crying from laughing so hard.

“Must everything be perversion with you, Thea?” you say tiredly.

“Life’s more fun that way,” she says, a few giggles interrupting her as she catches her breath. “You should try it.”

“My life is plenty of fun, thank you,” you say snippily.

“Yeah, sure. What are you planning on doing this afternoon?”

“Getting some work done, of… stop giving me that look! I took the whole morning off!”

“Mmhmm.”

“Baby steps, Thea,” Iron Bull says mildly. “You should have seen her on that hart. I didn’t think she could smile that much without breaking something. She giggled.”

“Wha’, really?”

“I don’t know why I’m friends with you two…” you mutter to yourself sullenly.

It isn’t until you’ve left and are heading for the rotunda that you realize your slip. Friends? Well, it’s the kind of thing you would say on purpose, especially to Thea, but the fact that you said it without thinking worries you. You’re not the sort of person who keeps friends well.

You’re not particularly happy to be heading into the rotunda, either. You haven’t even decided on whether to head back up to the library, or go investigate the suspicious, half-hidden library you’d found down in the basement. You want to be convenient enough for Leliana to reach easily, but you also want to be left alone by essentially everyone else. It’s a difficult balance.

There is no Varric near the entrance, and no one to chide you over your hesitation. Eventually, however, you open the door and step inside. You frown at the emptiness of it, until you notice something you hadn’t before… No, it wasn’t that you hadn’t noticed it; it was that it had not been there. A desk. You walk towards it, frowning lightly. It’s an old thing, and fits poorly against the curved wall of the rotunda, but it has in front of it a comfortable, cushioned chair. And… your papers and tome have been moved from their station near the couch and placed here.

One paper in particular stands out, resting as it is on the center of the desk. Hands hesitant, you pick it up slowly. It’s written in a hand you do not recognize, and… in Elven.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you read, grasping for context at the few words you do not recognize (there is an Elven word for ‘desk’, who knew). The signed name at the bottom confirms it… a note from Solas. In beautifully written Elven script, the letter informs you that he had a desk brought in so that you would not feel tempted to use his while he was away.

You sink into the chair, legs threatening to give away at the unfamiliar sensation in your chest… stabbing, like before, but very different. He had simply assumed you’d stay in his rotunda, when good manners dictated you vacate. He’d had a desk brought in. He’d written you a note. You’re not quite sure this is something you can handle. You flip the letter over, senselessly checking for more. To your surprise, there is more. Written on the back is a…

It’s a pronunciation guide.

The butterflies die as your eye twitches slightly. You can just see the smug look on that ass’s face. Biting your lip and taking a deep breath to calm yourself, you gently set the letter to the side, not wanting to crumple or toss it despite your irritation. It’s still a very kind gesture, even if it is tinted with assholery. And it means that you can just… stay down here, doing your work where you’d grown comfortable. Without Solas, it’s likely that people will find their way down to interrupt you, but surely with less frequency than if you stayed in the library.

Since you spoiled yourself by taking the morning off, you set to work quickly, making use of the smooth, even surface of your new desk, the perfect height of your new chair. Solas has returned the entirety of your translation, so you take to that, deciding to finish the translation before scribing any new pages. Your body aches the longer you spent arched over your work, bruises developing in places you didn’t know you had from falling repeatedly from Revas. You idly imagine Solas’ warm hands and magic soothing your aches and pains as you whip through page after page of Tevene text.

You work straight through dinner and into the night, marveling at the lack of interruptions. The rotunda feels empty, without the constant presence of Solas hovering in the background, but it’s very quiet, and you get a great deal of work done. By the time your eyes are threatening to mutiny from staring at a book for so long, you feel that you will be able to complete the translation with a few more days’ solid work.

Without Solas there to chide you, you work until your body gives out from under you, eyes blurring with exhaustion until they can no longer focus on the page. Finally, you give up. You have no real recollection of crossing the cold courtyard and collapsing into your bed, but you must have, as you spend the night drifting in and out of dreamless sleep, staring blandly up at the dark ceiling above your bed.

---

You’re out before dawn again the next morning, having caught perhaps a few hours of restless sleep. It’s going to catch up with you; you know it is. But you can’t figure out how to leave Skyhold, can’t find a corner of it that isn’t filled with people at all times. If only the Inquisitor had deigned to take Dorian or Vivienne, or both, with him. They and Solas were the only mages of enough talent to have you particularly concerned. Well, that and all the bloody Templars, you suppose.

You’re heading towards the Great Hall, figuring to get an early start on your translation, when Iron Bull ambushes you.

“Falling off a hart a few dozen times not enough to put you to sleep?”

You sigh. “I’m just an early riser.”

“Well, early riser, how about we get started on punching?”

“Wh-“

“C’mon, you had a good time yesterday with the hart, right? Let me show you how to throw a punch, maybe you’ll get worn out enough to actually sleep.”

You sincerely doubt that, but you do need to start dedicating some time to “learning to fight” if you want to be able to hand him a proper beating in the future. And you had wanted to start exercising more. You sigh again, rub your brow. “Alright, fine. You don’t get to beat me up as badly as Revas did, though.”

“I’ll be gentle,” he promises teasingly, and you just roll your eyes. A week ago, such flirtation would have left you irritated, perhaps a little frightened. Now, you’re too tired to care. You’ll lose your edge the more exhausted you become… This is a problem that needs a solution, and soon.

You follow Iron Bull out into an unsurprisingly empty sparring ring. It’s a little too close to where the Templars practice for you to be very comfortable with it, however.

“Alright, let’s see what we’re working with. Make a fist,” he instructs. You can do that, at least, and curl your hand into a fist, thumb on the outside, avoiding the stupidest mistake one could make. When he asks you to throw a punch, however, you do so a little awkwardly, not shaky, but without any real force behind it. You do this a few times before he’s satisfied.

“Alright, first lesson,” he says. He catches your hand with his much larger one and your chest tightens.

Tight cell, see yourself reflected in black eyes.

You take a few deep breaths as he rearranges your fingers slightly. “You always want to punch with your middle knuckle here. It’s the strongest one. If you lead with your ring or pinky finger, you’ll find up with broken fingers.” You readjust accordingly, throw a few more weak punches at the air, waiting for the next tidbit you can add.

He corrects you a few times, teaching you how to twist your arm to avoid straining your elbow, how to throw more force into without hurting your shoulder. You spend most of the morning punching at a dummy, allegedly to get used to the sensation. A lot of people have a sort of mental block against striking others, which is why soldiers have to train. One doesn’t want to find out if they have what it takes to drive a sword through someone’s gut in the heat of the moment, if it can be avoided. You, of course, have no difficulty striking people, with a punch or otherwise. If anything, lately it’s been difficult to avoid it. But it’s better that you play the inexperienced woman with this sort of thing. There aren’t a lot of savory places where an elf can learn to fight.

You’re sweaty despite the chill by the time Iron Bull declares that you’re finished for the morning. The sun is resting low in the sky, but is definitely above the horizon, and your stomach is letting you know on no uncertain terms that it wants food, right now. You head towards the mess, and Iron Bull, of course, tags along. After you sit and begin to eat, the rest of your body begins complaining. Loudly.

“Ugh… Sweaty and sore,” you grumble to yourself. “Why did I think any of this was a good idea?”

“Ah, working up a sweat is good for you! There’s always the bath house.” You make a face. Public bath houses are not your favorite thing in the universe. People never comment on the crisscrossing scars on your hands and fingers—they look like the kind one could get from a simple house cat. But you’ve got a few other, more dramatic scars that always lead to questions, sometimes even from complete (nosy) strangers.

Iron Bull correctly reads your expression and leans in slightly. “Well, you know… I’ve got a private bath.”

“Are you two at it again?” comes Thea’s voice from behind you. “If you’re like this in the mess, I wonder what you’re like in private?”

“Lots of sweating, groaning, and swearing,” you say, your voice dripping sarcasm. “We’re probably lovers by Fereldan standards.”

“You’re actually not that bad,” Iron Bull points out. “You learn quick.”

“Okay, there’s no way this is as good as it sounds. What is it this time? More harts? Taken up nug wreslin’, maybe?”

“Punching, remember?” you say, gesturing with your fork towards Iron Bull. “Soon I’ll be able to break someone’s jaw without breaking my hand in the process.” Your mind is on that private bath as the banter continues, however. If you can figure out where it is, maybe you can sneak in when Iron Bull is out training with the Chargers? The idea of a nice, luxurious, possibly warm private bath is worth a few risks.

After breakfast, you head back to the rotunda, still thinking about baths. Does Solas have a private bath, hidden somewhere? More importantly, could you find it, break in, and use it while he was gone? You sit down at your new desk and re-read the note from Solas. Who writes a note about a desk in Elven, anyway? Who’s that fluent in an ancient language? Well, you, obviously, but even you wouldn’t leave someone a note in ancient Tevene. Well… Maybe Dorian. Alright, so you’re both kind of dorks.

You glance over the pronunciation on the back, cringing as you note that your pronunciation really is awful.

“Nuvenin,” you mutter out loud to yourself. “NUvenin. NuVENin. NuvenIN. Nuvenin.” You wrap your tongue around a few of the other words. This isn’t exactly the way you wanted to learn Elven from Solas, but if you can use these to improve your overall pronunciation, you’ll at least have something to be smug about when he comes back.

If he comes back.

You push down the throb of painful panic in your chest, set down the note, and pull your translation towards you. Time to bury yourself in work until you suffocate the anxiety. It’s not the best strategy for dealing with stress, in fact, it might actually be the worst, but it’s always worked for you in the past. That and running. You’re really fond of running, but that won’t help this burning sensation of loss. You could maybe steal enough supplies to make it out of the mountains, but where would you even go? There was a reason you’d come here, and now there are more reasons to stay.

You blast your way through the translation, stopping occasionally only to stretch your hands and fingers or rest your strained eyes. You fully intend to work through lunch, but ultimately the choice isn’t yours. Iron Bull shows up around lunch time, and you hear him enter. You finish a line of translation with a sigh, and are surprised that he actually waits for you to finish. You turn, and are even more surprised to find that he’s already brought food.

It’s not a serving girl’s platter, by any stretch of the imagination, but you can smell fresh bread and a some kind of spiced meat coming from the large, open-topped basket he’s carrying.

“Figured you were missing your fancy meals,” he says with a grin. You have been missing them, as a matter of fact, but this is starting to look dangerously like courting. Better make this clear now.

“Look, Iron Bull, I appreciate you… whatever it is you’re doing. The hart, the training, the food. But, I mean… You know, what Thea says, it’s not really…” You flounder a bit, not quite sure how one does this. Turning down suits is not something you’ve done a lot of, in your life. “I’m not…”

“Hey, it’s alright,” he says, in that softer voice you’re coming to appreciate. “I’m not going to lie and say you’re not attractive to me, or anything like that, but if you’re not interested, you’re not interested. I’m just hoping I can give you some better memories with Qunari than whatever you’ve got banging around in there. Can’t hurt, right?”

You smile, and surprise yourself with the fact that it feels slightly genuine. Not entirely; the practice of smiling when it’s socially appropriate is so ingrained into you that you’d have a hard time calling most of your expressions truly “genuine,” but… You felt like smiling, a little, before you did. That’s something.

“Alright, let’s, uh…” You look around the rotunda. Your desk is covered with work, and touching Solas’ desk feels anathema to you. “…Perhaps outside?”

Iron Bull has followed your gaze towards Solas’ desk and nods, heading out the way he came in, the courtyard entrance. You follow, and the two of you sit on the half-wall that serves to keep drunkards and the clumsy from toppling down into the courtyard. You feel like kicking off your shoes, a little, letting bare feet hang over the courtyard, but instead, you reach into Iron Bull’s basket, exploring what he’s managed to pilfer… although you suppose it’s not pilfering when he does it.

Meat between slices of bread… you’re used to the concept from Orlesian parties, but when they do it, the bread is light and fluffy, delicately cut, and, as is the case with most things Orlesian, tiny. This is something else, a large slab of meat between two equally rough cuts of bread. Well, you eat meat and bread all the time, this is just doing both at the same time.

As the two of you eat, you watch soldiers and Templars sparring and training in the rings below. Iron Bull makes some very interesting comments on Templar fighting stances that you hadn’t noticed, and could perhaps exploit in the future, if you ever found yourself fighting a Templar.

“That’s the problem with Templars,” you say absentmindedly. “They expect a mage or a skirmisher, never both. During the war, I saw one fighting a mage who could turn her mana into a blade; he got sliced to ribbons.”

“You see a lot of fighting?”

“During this war? More than I’d like. Mostly Templars really invested in killing anyone who looked at them cross. Most of the rebel mages were in Redcliffe; all the ones in Orlais were mostly hiding, trying to avoid the Templars and the civil war. But there were a few…” You take a drink of the sweet wine Iron Bull had brought, and sigh. “I stayed bundled up tight in my house, avoided strangers and gave anyone wearing a Templar uniform anything he asked for… until the Red Templars showed up. Then I ran.” You glance around at the sturdy walls, the army of armed soldiers that would, hopefully, be standing between you and any attacking force. “I could have done worse, I suppose.”

“How’d you make it through all that fightin’?” comes a familiar voice. You crane your head around Iron Bull’s bulk, and see Sera, standing where she had been previously blocked from your view.

“Poorly,” you say with a sigh. “Essentially none of my supplies… or my mule, for that matter, survived the trip.”

“Yer what?”

“Supplies?”

“Don’t be catty, I meant the donkey!” She sits down next to you, feet dangling down beside yours.

“I had a mule,” you say with a sigh. “Her name was Bella.”

“Maker, I’m imaginin’ you with a donkey…”

“She was a good companion! Until she wasn’t.” If there hadn’t been so many damn Templars… If you hadn’t been alone. Things could have been different. You really are quite unhappy about losing Bella. She had been your companion for over a year at that point.

“So, you two buddies now?” she asks, gesturing between you and Iron Bull.

“Eeeeh…” you say, waving your hand vaguely.

“Hey! Is that anyway to talk about your new trainer?” Iron Bull protests.

“Psssh. You’re teaching me how to throw a punch. You’re hardly a mentor,” you say with a snort.

“Really? But you—“

“It’s high time I learned,” you say, cutting her off with a pointed glance. “Even if I’m not entirely comfortable with Qunari, he was the first to offer.” You shove the last of your bread into your mouth, chewing as you stand. You wash it down with a last swig of sweet wine, then stretch. “Alright. Back to the grind for me… Thanks for the meal, Bull.”

Iron Bull has a more innate understanding of one’s personal boundaries than Sera, it seems, as he accepts the cue to leave, whereas Sera follows you into the rotunda. Seeing her in there jars you slightly, but you head to your desk, certain she’ll get the hint eventually. She walks the walls in a long, slow circle, much as you had when you first entered, as you begin your translation again.

“Never been in here,” she says suddenly, jarring you out of your focus. “Stupid Solas is normally here, his head so far up the past… Oh,” she adds, seeing your glare. “Guess you like ‘im.”

“I respect his knowledge,” you say darkly. You try to get back to work, but in a matter of minutes, she’s prattling again, and when you turn around, she’s sat down on the corner of Solas’ desk. You clench your jaw a little, take a deep breath.

“Between Iron Bull and Solas, you sure got yer plate full, huh?” she’s saying, but you’re barely paying attention to the actual words.

“Sera…” you begin, your patience wearing quickly as she thumbs through one of Solas (likely old, likely valuable) tomes.

“Y’know, I could train ya! I got all kinds of interestin’ knowledge.”

“Perhaps,” you say, gritting your teeth together and standing. “It helps me to have scheduled time with which to socialize, so that I can focus on my work for the Inquisition.” You cross the rotunda in quick strides, gently closing the tome and removing it from her grasp.

“Ugh, you’re even startin’ to sound like him, a little!”

You want to say something catty, like what, you mean educated, but bite your tongue. So the two elves in your life aren’t fond of each other. You won’t be getting together for any elf parties, so sad. You can still enjoy her company.

“I should get you in the evening! Bet I could teach you tons.”

You sigh. “If I agree to meet you after dinner, will you let me work?”

“Yep! Meet me in the archery field, the one where we met!” she says cheerfully, and you’re starting to suspect she was annoying you on purpose. That doesn’t stop you from watching her rear sway as she exits, though.

---

You skip dinner, focusing instead on getting as much work done as you can. As more and more people realize Solas isn’t here to be grumpy at them, more people, much like Sera, will be walking right in. You suspect your work these next few weeks won’t be your best, or your quickest. If you can at least finish the translation, you can give a progress report to Leliana. You’d like to at least prove that they’re not wasting their resources on you.

Finally, a time that is inevitably “after dinner” comes along, and you can’t put off setting down your work any longer. You’re not happy about it, however, and grumble under your breath as you trudge out to the archery range. Sera isn’t the only person there, but she does have a second bow. Maker. On top of pretending to learn things you already know, it seems you’ll also be learning genuinely new things.

“Sera. You do know I’ve never picked up a bow, right?” you ask her as you walk over.

“Like it’s hard! C’mon!” she tosses the bow to you. You at least manage to catch it.

“I can’t help noticing that you’ve brought me, literally, just a bow and arrows. No vambrace? No chest guard?”

She snorts. “Y’don’t need one!”

You glance down at your chest a little dejectedly. It’s perhaps a little flatter than hers, but that’s just cruel.

“Besides, brought you a tab! See how considerate I am?”

You take the tab with a sigh. At least the little piece of leather will keep you from shredding your fingers with this tomfoolery. She points towards the target, and you scowl at her. “Are you even going to show me how to do it?”

“You need me to? You’ve seen me do it before. Here, watch.” Effortlessly, she notches an arrow, draws back, and releases, one smooth motion that lodges the arrow in the center of the target. “See?”

“…You’ve never taught anyone before, have you?”

“Wassat supposed to mean?”

“Alright… alright…” You try to mimic her stance as best as you can, manage to grasp an arrow and notch it. It’s not as though you’ve never seen a bow work before… But she tsks you as you begin drawing the string back.

“Yer holdin’ it all wrong!”

“Show me how to hold it, then!” you snap. “One of the key parts of showing me how to do something is actually showing me.”

“Alright, grumpy. Here.” And then her hand is on yours, fingers calloused, hand small, delicate looking… much like yours. She adjusts your grip, both on the bow and on the string, then stands behind you to raise your arms up into the correct position. Your breath catches in your throat as you feel the soft swell of her breasts against your back. It’s a small miracle you don’t accidentally release the arrow right then, but you manage to hold on to the string.

“Pull back further; I know ya got more strength than that,” she says, batting at your arm. “You’re stronger than ya let on, right? Can’t throw a punch, but you can climb a wall?”

You scowl at her. “Those are two very different skill sets.” You release the arrow, and cringe as it misses the target entirely.

“Wow, you suck.”

“Thanks, Sera.”

---

You continue until it’s well into the night. When it becomes too dark for you to shoot at (and miss) targets, you show her a few tricks for throwing daggers. It’s all in the wrist, and you’re amused by her lack of talent at it.

“I’m good with my fingers, not my wrist!” she protests when you point this out, and you shut your mouth quickly, lest you say something untoward. Sera is easy to relax around, easy to flirt with. She’s a bit like Iron Bull in that regard, except with one major difference: you’re actually attracted to her. But you know better than to let your libido get away from you. Oh, sure, it’s fun when you start out, but that way lies disaster, and you know it.

“Ugh, we’re all sweaty,” Sera says, wrinkling her nose. “We should go to the bath house.”

“We?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “That’s rather forward.”

“Oh, pshaw. S’more interestin’ than private baths! C’mon!” she says, grabbing your wrist.

“Alright,” you agree, consenting to be dragged along. “But I’m wearing a towel. Got to protect my girlish virginity.”

The shared bath is warm, steam rising from the waters, and you wonder why until you see the glowing sigils of a fire rune. Brilliant… They’ve got the place crawling with Templars, but still enough mages to give them basic comforts! Bloody hypocrites…

Sera all but throws her clothes off, sinking into the water with a long, loud moan that leaves you a little distracted. There are a few other women in there, as well, both human, and both staring at the two of you like you’ve grown second heads. This also isn’t the bath house you were instructed to go to, which is rather lacking in the fire rune department. Hmph. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the situation.

You step out of your clothes, covering yourself with a towel until the very instant you sink into the warm, dark water. Maker, that feels amazing.

“Whoa! Nice scar!” Sera exclaims as you slide deeper into the water. “How’d you get that?”

You scowl at her, running a hand across your abdomen self-consciously. “It happened while I was escaping from Seheron,” you lie shortly. “I don’t like thinking about it.”

Sera nods in understanding, seeming content to let it drop, which is a little impressive, for her. Polite decorum is not exactly her strong point. But she saw your hands shake while you recounted some of your time in Seheron, including some details from your escape. Maybe even she knows when not to pry. Well. Some of the times not to pry.

You soak in silence for all of 30 seconds before she chimes in again, chattering a mile a minute about this and that. It provides somewhat soothing background noise, and all you really have to say is “mmm” and “aaah” at appropriate intervals. All in all, there are worse ways to spend an evening, helped by the occasional lingering side-glance at Sera’s naked body. You can’t get involved, but no one said anything about not looking, right? And you’re glad to know about the nicer bathhouse. If you were willing to give the Inquisition the benefit of the doubt, you’d say that this one was for the soldiers and Templars, and the one you’d been directed to, for the help, but after meeting the Inquisitor, you’re a little less likely to give the benefit of the doubt to anyone here.

You say your goodbyes to Sera, promising you’ll have another “training night” at some point, though you can’t afford to do them every day (you’re losing enough working hours as it is). You head back to your room, not even trying not to think about Sera naked. Solas shirtless, Sera naked… If nothing else, you’ll have new fantasies besides Fenris to keep you warm on cold nights after you leave this place.

5