Curiosity and the Cat
Solas doesn’t call your bluff. You can hardly believe your luck.
He may, in the future, but for now, he’s let your secrets lie in peace. At least, he didn’t pester you about it after you dropped that ominous line at him. In truth, it’s obvious he’s keeping his own secrets, if only because he’s terribly reticent about his past. But you have absolutely no idea what they are. You had been bluffing straight to his face.
After lunch, all seven of you mount back up. After two rather embarrassing failed attempts to climb back onto Revas, you accept Garrick’s assistance. He’s a giant of a man, and could probably simply lift you up and set you on the hart. His leg up nearly sends you flying, but you manage to get onto Revas. Your ass protests immediately, but there’s no helping it. You’ve definitely bruised. Perhaps you can ask Solas for healing if it still hurts in the mo—
A lewd image of Solas running his healing hands across your bare buttocks flashes through your mind.
Nope. Nope. Nu-uh. Noooo. Looks like you’re just going to have to deal with a sore ass.
You travel steadily all afternoon. You do your best to distract yourself from aching legs and rear by chatting, whether with the guards, Baptiste, or Solas. You continue worming your way into their hearts almost absentmindedly… Well, the guards and Baptiste, anyway. You have been largely unsuccessful with worming when it comes to Solas, not that it stops you from trying. By the time your stomach begins to growl again, it’s clear that you’ve all made excellent progress. The snow on the ground becomes spotty, and then disappears altogether, as you climb down out of the mountains. That’s right… it’s August. The rest of the world is enjoying autumn. Will the leaves be changing in Val Royeaux? You feel a pang of something… not homesickness, but a kind of longing nonetheless. You’ll be crossing through the Dales over the next two days. You always get like this in the Dales. Like something’s calling to you.
You write it off as missing Val Royeaux.
Eventually, Garrick finds a clearing a bit off the main path that seems to please him. You aren’t to the Imperial Highway just yet, and he’s likely skittish about the possibility of bandits. You’re a bit concerned about that, as well. You’re hobbled when you travel in groups like this. If you can’t use your magic to defend yourself, you’re stuck with your dagger and little else.
The seven of you dismount. Well, they dismount; you all but fall off of Revas. Your legs feel like rubber; you’re certain you’re walking funny. You’re also in no small amount of pain. You have to feign a sneeze in order to wipe off the tears that are forming in the corners of your eyes. Maybe you can ask Solas to just heal your legs…?
A glorious vision of him running his fingers up your thighs slips through your mind.
Nnnnnope.
You’ll just have to suffer.
Garrick tosses you a bundled up thing that turns out to be a tent. You stare at it with some trepidation… you’ve never actually owned a tent before. You try to watch how the guards are setting theirs up and mimic their actions, but all it really gets you is a tangled mess of rope, stakes, and cloth. Fortunately, Solas comes over before you have an opportunity to make any more of a fool out of yourself.
“Did the merchants you travel with have no tents?” Solas says, amused, as he begins to help you set it up. At least that much of his story checks out… he sets a tent as if he’s been doing it every day of his life. You try to help as much as you can, but you’re probably more of a hindrance than anything.
“They had them. I didn’t,” you say with a scowl. A piece of rope flies loose and smacks you in the face; you swear loudly in Tevene, one of the only languages you can safely speak in a party of Orlesians, Antivans, and elves. “I was lucky if I had a bedroll,” you add sourly as you catch the flapping rope and attempt to tie it down to a stake.
By the time Solas finishes essentially putting up the tent for you, everyone else has finished as well. You scan the clearing idly. The two male guards are going into one tent, the two female guards into another, and the diplomat is…
Wait, where’s Solas’ tent? You frown. “Did you help me put up my tent before you did yours, Solas?”
Solas glances around the clearing, seemingly noticing the same thing you are. Garrick hears your question and looks up from his own tent, surprised. “There are only four. I just assumed the two of you…” He flushes bright enough that you can see it from where you stand, halfway across the clearing. “Well… That is…”
Now it’s your turn to flush, humiliation and indignation both. “What?”
“They only packed four!” he protests, holding his hands up as if he expects you to storm over and slap him. “I just… um…”
You grind your teeth in frustration. Who…? Leliana? Belassan? Or just some damn grunt who figured the elves wouldn’t mind sharing a tent? Racism, or the assumption that you’re a whore. Which would be better? It hardly matters now.
“If you do not wish to share your tent with the apostate, I would offer my services as a bedwarmer,” Emilio offers cheekily.
“Oh, shut up, Emilio,” says Kelsie with a scowl. She turns to you. “I’m sorry, Emma! I’m sure we could squeeze you into our tent.”
“Inutile!” says Baptiste, shaking his head. “If Solas has no objection, he can share my tent. Why cram the women all into one and have two men with a tent to themselves?”
“Thank you,” Solas says politely. “I believe that would be best.”
“That’s not necessary!” you exclaim. “I’m used to sleeping without a tent! I can just—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Garrick says with a frown. “It may snow.”
“It’s not an inconvenience, Emma,” Solas tells you, although you don’t believe him.
Your face is bright red by now. “I’m… sorry,” you mutter, staring down towards the dirt. You’d rather bunk with the Orlesian yourself than kick Solas out of his tent, but you can’t come up with a good excuse for your irritation other than the fact Solas is a man.
“It’s not your doing,” Solas says with a shrug. “If our diplomat does not mind, neither do I.”
“I hope you don’t snore,” Baptiste chortles as Solas moves over to their now-shared tent.
Face still flaming, you duck into “yours,” as well. You have good cause not to want to sleep in a tent with Solas. Having him in that close proximity to your sleeping mind would be an utter disaster, for one. And if you didn’t sleep at all, it might bother him. And how in all of Thedas could you live with yourself, staying up all night watching him sleep? You would! You know you would, because you’re a wretched, awful little pervert! And what else would there be to do that wouldn’t disturb him?! So you know this is necessary. But you still feel humiliated and guilty. You don’t want to come out of the tent, not even to unpack Revas. In the end, however, you have to.
You pop out long enough to unload Revas and shove your bags into the tent. There’s more than enough space for them, since you have the whole damn thing to yourself. At least your books will stay dry. Then you give Revas a thorough rub down. You brush him, you clean his hooves, you even wipe down his antlers… Then, when there’s nothing more you can do for him, you turn to Ashi’lana, who’s already been unpacked, and give him the same treatment. Then the diplomat’s horse, despite the fact you’ve never really handled horses before. You’re ready to move onto the guards’ horses when Emilio announces that dinner is ready.
“Dinner” is stew, as it turns out… of course it is. What else does one eat while traveling? You share it somewhat sullenly around the campfire. You’re still bitter about the tent situation, and embarrassed to boot. You don’t want that to affect your relations with your companions, however, so you suck it up and socialize your way through dinner anyway.
Garrick has pulled up some fallen logs for the seven of you to sit on. You note that Garrick and Baptiste share a log, as do Kelsie and Elaine. Emilio is sitting alone, the poor sod. You briefly consider sitting next to him, but decide you don’t need to flirt any more than you already have. You sit on the last log, by yourself, with a bowl of stew and a chip on your shoulder that you have to ignore to ensure the five humans actually like you. Your life might depend on it later.
You’re more than a little surprised when Solas comes over with his own bowl and sits next to you. He doesn’t even sit that close, but just the fact that he’s sitting here, and not off by himself, is a shock to you. That he’s sitting next to you makes your heart leap into your throat. Don’t read anything into it, you tell yourself firmly. You’re just the only one here he knows.
You seize on the opportunity to attempt to endear him to the others. He dodges all of your attempts to pull him into conversation, answering any inquiries politely but shortly. In the end, you simply opt for comfortable body language, leaning towards him when you mention him, nudging him with your elbow gently when you make a joke. Let the others see there’s nothing to fear from him, through you.
“Is it weird, working for a mage?” Elaine asks in that deadpan, I-could-care-less-if-this-question-is-rude way of hers.
“Oh, I suppose it has its quirks,” you say, side-eyeing Solas. His expression is as neutral as ever, of course. “Sometimes I come in to work and he’s glowing, for instance. But frankly, I think the benefits outweigh any of the oddities.”
“Benefits?” Kelsie asks, skepticism clear in her voice. “What benefits could there be?”
“I can think of a few,” Emilio comments, before Kelsie’s glaring eyes shut him up.
“A large portion of my work involves writing, scribing copies, that sort of thing,” you say, a little self-deprecatingly considering what your actual work is. “Solas can work a spell on my hand and wrist that keep me writing steadily, without pain, for hours.” You give Solas a bright, winning smile, more for everyone else’s benefit than his.
“Well… I can see how that might be useful,” Kelsie says dubiously.
“Try writing twelve hours a day, every day,” you say with a chuckle. “You’d all be lining up for Solas’s magic.”
“I thought mages mostly used their magic to make things explode,” comments Garrick, a little darkly.
Your eye twitches slightly, but you don’t think anyone sees it. You force a smile, with great effort. “Not at all. I did work for Circle in Montsimmard. Honestly, sometimes I think the only reason Circle mages learn how to throw fire is because we insist on using them in wars,” you say, more pointedly than entirely necessary. As if every one of these idiots wouldn’t take advantage of Solas’s magic in a fight, only to act like brutes about it afterwards. You’re used to it, but it still irritates you. Some days you think you should never have left Rivain.
The others don’t seem to really believe your claims about the lack of violence inherent in mages, but they at least change the subject. You smile your way through dinner, quietly fuming. When Solas retires to his tent, you quickly make your own excuses and head to your own.
You can’t sleep. It’s not unexpected, but it is frustrating. Normally when you travel, at night you use your magic to create light. With Solas off in the next tent, you don’t dare risk it, even though he’s likely sound asleep. Eventually, you get sick of tossing and turning in the dark and take some of your papers out by the fire to read.
Garrick is there, up keeping watch. He’s idly poking the fire with a stick. He looks up sharply when he hears you approach, but relaxes once he sees it’s just you.
“You’re up late,” he comments.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you say with a slight smile. “I’m not used to sleeping on the ground, I suppose. I thought I’d at least come out to the light and get some reading done.”
You settle down onto one of the logs and shuffle through the stack of papers. Most of it is the manuscript Varric gave you, which you’re very much looking forward to. But your hands pause on the transcribed copy of Fenris’s letter. Just a few sentences, really. You read them, then read them again.
As for the woman, Emma, tell her that it’s pleasant to find someone else who escaped from Tevinter’s clutches. She sounds quite charming. I’d like to know more about how she escaped and what she did afterwards. Perhaps you can introduce us while I’m at Skyhold?
Chaming. Hmm. Solas had just used that same word to describe you, earlier. Perhaps you are, although it’s through hard work and concentrated effort, which seems antithetical to being truly charming. It’s not so much that you are charming as it is you charm. There’s a difference, albeit one that is only clear to you.
When will he arrive at Skyhold? How long will he stay? Varric hadn’t said. What if you miss him while you’re out traipsing through the woods with these humans? Fenris wouldn’t bother charming these humans, of that much you’re certain. He wouldn’t have to. Between his strength and the powers granted to him by the lyrium infused into his skin, he could face down any bandits or bears that might attack. Similar to how Solas needn’t bother endearing himself to anyone, it seems. You’re envious of them both.
You flip past Fenris’s letter and on to Servis’s note. Servis’s book request is, sadly enough, just that. You had kind of hoped it be an encoded message or something. This is how you know you’ve been out of Orlais for too long… You’re making mischief to get into. It seems you’re a natural schemer.
Well, being back in Val Royeaux will give you plenty of opportunities for trouble. Being in Val Royeaux with Solas will give you plenty of opportunities for fatal trouble. You’re excited in some ways, yes, but you can’t let that distract you from the truth… this is dangerous. Cole as much as said it… Solas is likely to find out your secret, with this much prolonged contact. You need to be careful.
That brings you to another piece of trouble… Vivienne’s letter. You haven’t opened it yet, because you have some serious suspicions. She certainly expects you to read it. That’s not going to stop you from doing it, mind, but you have to be careful about it. You run a hand carefully over the sealed envelope. There are wards, and she’s sending it to a fellow enchanter. They appear to be a safeguard against tampering. The letter will not be destroyed if they’re disturbed, but the other party will see the broken seal and know it had been opened. A clever little system. She’s expecting you to open it and break the wards, no doubt. But you’re confident that you can open it without breaking the wards, then reseal it. You just need time alone to work your magic. It will have to wait.
“I’d like to, um… apologize,” Garrick says, apropos nothing. You look up from your papers, surprised.
“Pardon? For what?”
“The, um… assumption everyone made about you and your, uh… master,” Garrick says, rubbing his nose to try and hide the fact he’s turning red. “I hadn’t given it much thought, but I see how that might be offensive, especially if untrue.”
“It is untrue, and offensive,” you reply, a little stiffly. “But not unexpected. You were in Skyhold, ser, and the soldiers all gossip. You’ve doubtlessly heard all sorts of interesting things about me.”
“Ah… Well… I mean…”
“I want to be clear, ser. They’re untrue. They’re mostly simply an embarrassment, but I don’t appreciate it when they affect Solas or my work.”
“Yes, I understand. Again, I’m sorry if I-”
“You didn’t do anything,” you say with a light smile. “And I appreciate the apology. Hopefully the rumors don’t follow me all the way to Orlais.”
It’s then that Emilio emerges from his tent, stretching and yawning. “Alright, capo, I’m here to relieve you… Ah! Amore mio!” he adds when he catches sight of you. “I’ll be happy to relieve you as well…”
Garrick kicks him solidly in the shin as he passes him to go into the tent. “Ow! Figlio di puttana!” You snort.
“I’ll be heading to my tent as well,” you say, not wanting to spend the next few hours flirting, even in Antivan. Emilio looks glum, so you blow him a little kiss before you leave. At least flirts understand when something is teasing… if you did that to Garrick, he would probably explode. Fereldens…
You don’t sleep a wink that night, but you make yourself stay in the tent. You come out only when you hear activity. Another conscious person—besides whichever guard is keeping watch—means you can finally leave. When you come out of your tent, however, you only see Kelsie readying breakfast by the fire. Who had you heard…? You wander around the tiny camp for a moment, curious, but quickly wish you hadn’t. You had heard Solas, who is up… vigorously up. He’s doing those same odd stretches you’d caught him at once before, or something similar. At the moment, it involves a very creative interpretation of a handstand.
You note that he’s wearing a shirt, this time, although the way it’s sliding down to show his bare stomach is almost worse than wearing nothing at all. You look away quickly, feeling heat building in your face. You’re curious about the stretches—they’re much more elaborate than anything you do with Bull—but not nearly enough to approach him. Instead, you head over to Kelsie and resolve to help her with breakfast.
You can see Solas from here, though, and your eyes keep dragging back towards him. Occasionally, effort will cause him to let out a soft grunt. It’s a beautiful sound.
“Not the sort of thing I expected a mage to get up to,” Kelsie comments, following your stares. “This must be one of those work benefits you were talking about,” she adds slyly. You clear your throat and force your eyes away from Solas.
“I’m as surprised as you are. You’re burning the oatcakes, by the way.”
“Oh, shit!”
You manage to get breakfast prepared… despite Kelsie, who is easily distracted and seemingly capable of burning anything, including her own fingers. The other guards and even Baptiste come out of their tents, no doubt smelling food. For your part, you bring a stack of oatcakes on a cloth to Solas. You try—and fail—not to stare as he pushes himself up off the ground. He’s sweating slightly, and you have to resist the urge to wipe his forehead and face off with your sleeve. Instead, you offer him breakfast.
“Bringing me breakfast?” he says, almost… coyly. He’s teasing you again, you suspect. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.” You follow him as he finds a tree to sit by. He sinks onto the ground and leans against it with a soft sigh. You sit down next to him, and reveal a hidden treasure… something from the kitchen workers’ bag. It’s soft, sweet cheese, perfect to complement the dry oatcakes. Solas smiles, and that’s all the reward you need. The two of you share the soft cheese and oatcakes under the tree, and you can almost forget the fact that you’re traveling with five humans. Your aura, wrapped tight in your gut, however, serves as a potent reminder that despite the wide open expanse around you, you’re still not free.
Riding Revas is every bit a misery for your ass as you thought it would be. The chafing, dear Maker, why? But you’ll get used to it eventually. Nothing to do but wince and bear it. You chat with Baptiste and the guards alternately as distraction as you ride. Slowly but surely, the mountains turn into rolling hills. By the time you get to the Imperial Highway, you’re beginning to get restless. As many times as you’ve ridden through the Dales, you’ve never actually used the Imperial Highway for any of it. Too many people, too many Templars. And now that you have Revas, all you really want is to tear it some random direction for an hour or two. Every time the temptation to bolt rises to nearly unbearable levels, you force yourself to ride by Solas for a time. Remind yourself of what you have to gain by staying put.
The wanderlust doesn’t go away, however, and when your group stops for lunch, you resolve to sneak off, if just for a bit. You need some privacy for Madame de Fer’s letter, anyway. You make sure Solas is thoroughly distracted when you sneak off; he’s the one most likely to follow you, and the one you least want to find you.
As soon as you’re out of sight of the camp, you set a brisk but quiet pace. You’re no Dalish, but you have some experience with moving quickly through the trees. You just enjoy the sensation of running for a while. When you finally believe you have enough space between you and the others, you settle yourself into the nook of a tree and pull out Vivienne’s letter.
You ease your aura gently out, keeping it tucked close to your skin, just in case. The few nights’ sleep you’ve gotten since you released all your energy into the frozen lake means that it’s a healthier size, but you’re still underpowered. Well, it barely matters. If you’re in a situation where you have to use your magic at this point, you’re already dead, either way.
Carefully, you work your way around the wards, gently poking and prodding until you figure them out. This is one of the few things you’re actually quite good at… You never got the hang of, say, throwing fire without setting absolutely everything including yourself on fire, but you’ve had plenty of experience fucking around with other people’s wards. Never figured out how to use them yourself, mind! But other people’s, you can get around.
After five minutes or so of mental prodding, you figure out a way to get it open without disturbing the wards. You slip the envelope open excitedly, even though you know there will be nothing of much interest.
Amusingly, amongst other things, the note is about you. No doubt she expected you to read it, and wanted to make you paranoid. But in all actuality, it makes you laugh… She doesn’t know who you are! Or at least, she’s not admitting to it within the confines of this letter. She wants her mage friend to look into you, and see if he can get you alone for some “tests.” Left ominous on purpose, no doubt. Well, you’ll nip that one right in the bud. You’ll send the letter the rest of the way with a messenger on your way out of Val Royeaux. Better safe than sorry.
You tuck the letter carefully back into the envelope, reseal the wax, and then reseal the wards. It looks as though it’s never been touched. You smirk gently to yourself… it seems you haven’t entirely lost your—
Something tingles at the edge of your aura.
Instinctively, you snap it back into you, tucking it into your stomach as you stand, hand resting on one of your throwing daggers. But there’s no one out here… and you don’t hear anything. Tentatively, you let your aura back out, the tiniest bit. It’s not Solas, is it? No… This is something else entirely. Cautious but curious, you head in the direction of the odd sensation. It feels like a… weird tingling, like a strumming. Like a rock dropped in a pond, something is sending ripples across the Veil. You track the odd sensation through the woods, aura as tight to your body as you can keep it.
Your curiosity leads you to a pile of rocks. No, strike that… Part of an old ruin. The rocks are from a wall, long since collapsed. You tuck your aura back into your gut as you kneel. The sensation is now close enough that you can feel it through your very skin. You dig through the rubble, yanking stones out as best you can, wedging others up and out of the way, until you come across… something.
It’s like an orb, almost… but there’s a weird design sticking out of the side. Is this elven? It looks vaguely Elven, pre-Halamshiral at that, but beyond that, you have no idea what this is. You run your hand across it, and it seems to purr. Should you examine it closer with your aura? Seems like it might be dangerous. You’d haul it back to camp to show it to Solas, but that would probably raise too many questions. How much longer do you have before they miss you at camp? They’ve probably already noticed you’re gone. Whatever you’re going to do, you’d better do it–
A dark, low growl emanates from behind you. You freeze, hands still on the orb, and slowly crane your neck around. There’s a wolf at the edge of the clearing, hackles raised, slowly advancing on you.
Fuck.
For all your talk of Dalish superstition, wolves are dangerous. Your hand travels quickly to a throwing dagger as more growls echo from the woods behind the wolf. Oh shit, you’ve stumbled into a whole pack. An embarrassing way to die… you should find a tree.
Before you can bolt up the nearest branch, however, there’s a crash in the woods. The wolf’s head snaps to the side, its teeth still bared in an angry growl. Then another loud snap, enough to have you concerned. The wolf snaps at you, once, then bolts as something huge crashes through the underbrush and bursts into the clearing. You yank a throwing dagger out of its sheath, ready to plant it squarely in a bear’s eye. But it’s not a bear, it’s a hart.
And on that hart is Solas.
And, oh, Maker, he’s giving you quite a look.
Shit.