Misery Loves Company
The rest of your journey down the Imperial Highway is mercifully uneventful. Garrick sets a brisk pace, and all six of you are alert as you travel along the Highway. Kelsie seems to have recovered slightly thanks to a night’s sleep; Garrick had given her only a single shift of watch despite the need for extra security. She’s still not as talkative as she once was, but she’s smiling more. You find yourself relieved despite your general annoyance with the girl. She’s overly friendly and far too handsy, yes, but… That doesn’t mean you would wish her sunny naivete bashed away by cruel reality. It may be inevitable if she’s going to be a soldier, though.
Emilio is actually the one who eeks most of those smiles out of her, to your intense amusement. He seems to understand that Solas is providing comfort to you, and he’s attempting to do the same with Kelsie. Frankly, he’s better at it than Solas, objectively, but you still wouldn’t trade Solas’s gentle attentions for anything.
You really have to get a handle on this little crush of yours if you’re to be keeping him safe in Val Royeaux. You can’t afford the distractions of your throbbing libido. As you ride, you do your best to read some of Baptiste’s papers, although it’s difficult to read and ride at the same time. Twice, you look up only to see Revas inching towards one of the horse’s asses, no doubt wanting to poke them with his horns.
The day only gets cloudier as you ride, with dramatic, dark storm clouds coming in from the north off of the Waking Sea. And you have to get onto a boat? This will be miserable. By the time you reach the port town where you’ll be boarding the ship to Val Royeaux, it’s begun to rain. A slow, cold drizzle turns into a dramatic thunderstorm as you ride, and you’re forced to thoroughly pack all of Baptiste’s papers. Fortunately, the man had very well-waterproofed bags.
Garrick stops you at a dockside inn. Normally, Baptiste would go over the itinerary here, but you and Garrick both pick up the slack.
“We’ll see you to the inn, at least,” he says, still sounding dubious about the two of you handling this on your own. You can’t blame him, really. You’re a bit dubious about it. But it has to be done.
“All four of you are needed for another task?” you ask with a slight frown.
“Yes. We’ll meet back up with you on the 26th and travel back to Skyhold together,” he says. The 26th. Essentially, you have seven days in Val Royeaux. Seven days to fill as many of these requisitions as possible while avoiding ruffling too many feathers. And in Val Royeaux, there are a lot of feathers and a lot of ways in which they may be ruffled. You try to imagine Solas strolling into the University on his own.
You shudder.
Well, you’ll just stick to him for seven days. Not necessarily the safest thing you’ve ever decided to do, but again, you once decided you could totally spend a month in a Circle, and you didn’t get caught then. He’s one mage. You can handle this. Actually, the worst part of this trip is probably going to be the ship ride across the Waking Sea. In this weather, it’s going to be a nightmare. You focus on your work while the others eat, nibbling on Kelsie’s bread crusts, which she refuses to eat.
Baptiste kept very good records. By the time the others are finished eating and discussing their plans—sounds like they’re meeting up with another, larger group in the area—you have… if not a plan, at least half of a plan.
Revas is not happy to be loaded up into the hold of the ship that will be taking you to Val Royeaux. He steps on three feet until you go over to help calm him. You would stay in the hold with him, but you simply can’t abide by it. You loathe sea travel in general, and holds even more so. This will be a miserable trip on the deck in a storm, but you’re willing to tough it out.
The six of you load up onto the ship. You’re on edge from the second it sets out from the dock. It’s clear Kelsie has never been on a ship before; she has nothing resembling sea legs. Frankly, Emilio seems to be the only one at all comfortable with the situation. You cling to the railing of the ship, knuckles turning white from your grip. You’ve been sticking close to Solas ever since Baptiste’s death; now is no different. If anything, you stick even closer. If he so much as steps away, you move to follow, paranoid that you’ll lose him. He seems to notice. At the very least, he’s staying on the deck with you while most everyone else heads for cover. Every time a sailor so much as brushes against you, you’re flinching, and after every flinch you’re closer to Solas, until you’re practically his shadow.
If possible, things rapidly get worse after you lose sight of land. As the ship gets further out into the Waking Sea, the storm only worsens, and the water turns from choppy to hazardous. Most passengers duck below deck. Those who aren’t below are on deck solely so they can vomit over the side of the ship. You have little difficulty staying on your feet, having spent your fair share of time aboard ships, but it seems everyone else is falling over, sick, or both. Even Solas doesn’t appear to be immune, and looks more and more peaked as the weather turns worse and worse.
It appears to be the sight of another person vomiting nearby that sets him the rest of the way off. He moves towards the hold, but you catch his sleeve. You don’t want to go down there; you really don’t want to go down there.
“I’ll be back shortly, Emma,” he says, looking positively ill. You feel guilty for having automatically moved to stop him. As if you have any say in where he goes. You quickly release him and he heads for the hold again… but you follow him. Your panic levels go through the roof as you step under cover, although it’s somewhat of a relief to be out of the rain, physically. You stop just short of following him into the latrines… because he stops you, hand firm on your chest. “Wait here.”
He says it in a voice firm enough that you can obey despite the steadily growing screaming in your mind. You sit with your back pushed against the door. The walls feel like they’re pushing in on you, and the violent rocking of the ship makes you feel unstable.
Whatever he does in there, it doesn’t seem to help. He comes out looking even worse, but he tolerates the way you shadow him as he moves through the massed bodies in the hold. You want to go back up, but it doesn’t look like Solas does. In the end, you’d rather be here with him than outside without him. The sailors make you nervous, and the ship tosses no matter where you stand.
Solas, for his part, doesn’t push you off of him. Someone grabs your shoulder from behind and you nearly jump out of your skin, launching yourself forward to grab Solas’s shirt.
“Oh, sorry,” the man who grabbed you says. “Thought you were someone else.”
He may well have, but your nerves are officially shot. You don’t let go of Solas’s shirt, clutching it like a child clings to their mother’s skirt. He pushes his way through the crowd until you both come out the other side. Then, to your horror, he goes even further, deeper into the bowels of the ship. But you don’t say anything; he looks ill and irritated. Eventually, he finds what he was looking for… beds. They’re the narrow, uncomfortable beds of a ship, and over half of them are occupied by the particularly seasick. It’s only in comparing them to Solas that you realize he really does look very ill. Solas sits down on one of the beds, finally necessitating your release of his shirt. He lays down with a groan, and you shift from foot to foot, nervously standing by the bed.
An exceptionally dramatic wave hits the ship; the wood creaks and most of those still standing fall. You don’t, but when someone with worse balance than you bumps into you, you clamber into the bed with a whimper. Solas is tall; his feet reach the foot of the bunk. You crawl onto the back corner, finding a place to sit by his legs. Fortunately, again, he doesn’t complain about the liberties you’re taking.
The two of you are intensely miserable the entire time, but somehow, you manage to get through the long trip across the Waking Sea. You’re simply relieved it’s only going to take six to eight hours, rather than being a multi-day journey. There’s no way you could have gathered the courage to leave the bed.
You don’t think Solas sleeps at all. For your part, you intend fully to spend the entire trip curled up a ball by Solas’s legs. At one point he asks if you wouldn’t be more comfortable with your own bunk. You just vigorously shake your head and hope he doesn’t insist. He doesn’t, just goes back to looking miserable. At least you’re both in hell together.
You can tell when the ship makes it through the storm, because the violent shaking gradually turns to a slow, steady rocking. Solas looks only slightly less ill, but as the sea calms, he sits up on the bed. He barely can without hitting his head on the bunk above, so tightly packed are the beds. You’re glad he’s feeling better, because you’re not. If anything, the familiar rocking of a ship on seas is worse than the violence of the storm tossed waters.
“Would you like to go back above deck?” Solas asks, and you nod vigorously, still unwilling, or perhaps unable, to speak. You’re so cramped from curling yourself into a tight ball that Solas has to help you stand; both your legs have fallen asleep and hang like dead weights. Walking on them as sensation returns is an agony, but you still do it, moving quickly to stay caught up to Solas.
Relief crashes over you the second you’re out of the cramped quarters of the ship’s hold. There are still few people on the deck despite the fact that it’s no longer raining. But you don’t let go of the back of Solas’s vest until he glances over his shoulder at you. Then you realize what you’re doing and release it like it’s on fire. You won’t be back in your right mind until you’re off of this Maker forsaken boat, but being out of the hold helps to clear your mind of the screaming panic. One more thing you’ll have to explain to Solas. But hopefully he was too ill to notice just how out of your head you were… and still are, to a point.
Solas takes a place near the guardrail of the ship, and you stay steadfastly by his side. Back on the deck means back near the sailors. You can feel them leering at you, but you suspect it’s all in your head. There are people on the ship much more attractive than you for them to leer at, and these men are professionals, not pirates.
“Not fond of ships?” Solas says finally, breaking the uneasy silence. The sea seems quiet now, although you can still see the clouds of the storm off to the south.
“No, I’m not,” you admit, the words coming stiffly and unnaturally. “Although you don’t seem overly charmed by them yourself.”
Solas runs a tired hand over his head. “I rarely travel by sea. The dreams are never worth it.”
You can’t say your dreams change much, one way or another, but his connection to the Fade is obviously infinitely better than yours. “We’ll be in Val Royeaux soon,” you assure him. “I promise not to take you onto the Miroir de la Mère,” you add as a joke. “You won’t have to so much as look as a ship for a week.”
“And then we load right back onto one,” Solas says, sounding amused.
“I’m trying not to think about that.”
Solad’s idle chatter soothes you for the last hour of the trip to Val Royeaux. You become excited when you see the dazzling shine of the city on the horizon, despite your uneasiness with the ship. You run to the bow of the ship, and this time, Solas trails you, although much less closely than you had shadowed him.
“Look!” you exclaim, pointing excitedly forward. “There it is! We won’t be able to see the Sun Gates from this angle, but the whole city shines. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Solas doesn’t reply, but you don’t really care. You’re too excited about being back. Val Royeaux is the closest thing to a “hometown” you ever really had. You have old contacts to touch base with, a lot of shopping to do, and a lot of sweets to eat. Oh, and work for the Inquisition, of course, but that goes without saying.
You’re fully cheered by the time your feet hit the ground of the docks. Val Royeaux is so familiar. You often lurked by the docks, enjoying the sounds and smells of the sea, if not the actual ships. It always reminded you of Antiva. You meet back up with the four guards, who escort you to the inn as promised, before going their own way. You wouldn’t have minded keeping one, but in some ways, this will be easier. It grants you additional freedoms; all you have to worry about is keeping up appearances with Solas, who knows more about you than most already. You don’t have to pretend to be innocent around him, nor clumsy, nor sweet. You can’t quite be yourself, but you can be someone whose shoes you fit slightly better.
“Well, now that we’ve gotten rid of the luggage,” you say jokingly to Solas as the guards wander out of sight. “We can relax and enjoy the city! We only have to worry about that teensy matter of getting into the University and filling a few hundred requisitions.”
“Relieved to be rid of your friends?” Solas asks, sounding amused. “You spent the last three days charming them.”
“And in return, they kept me from getting run through by bandits,” you say gamely. “I’m just as glad not to be rooming with either of the women. They’re entirely too hands-on for me.”
“Oh?” Solas says slyly. “And what about the Antivan? Will you not miss his charming words?”
“Jealous?” you ask with a grin. “It’s the language, isn’t it? Don’t be envious, I can speak to you in Antivan as well, cacasenno1.”
“Cacasenno? Do I want to know?”
“It’s a term of endearment!” you protest. “Far be it from this din’samahlen2 to say something unkind about another in a foreign language.”
“Mmhmm, certainly,” Solas hums, clearly amused. “Now let’s see how you intend to get us into our rooms, din’samahlen.”
That’s probably going to be the second hardest task of the week, easier only than talking your way into the University. Thankfully, you have documentation on your side. The inn is only moderate, thank the Maker. The Inquisition could likely have afforded better, but you’re just as glad they didn’t bother. The less grand a place, the less they care about having rabbits scrambling about the hallways.
“Just let me do the talking,” you assure Solas, then straighten yourself out a little. Your posture changes as you walk through the door, and Solas doubtlessly notices, but you’re hardly going to get through this week pretending like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. You stroll casually to the man behind the front desk, glancing over the hangings on the walls as if you’ve seen better—which you have.
“May I help you?” the man sounds uncertain. You’re an elf, but you’re walking like you own the place. He likely expects you a servant for someone important.
“Yes, I’m here for the Bellerose rooms,” you say, only glancing at the man you’re speaking with. You pull out a few of the papers Baptiste was wise enough to bring, including identification papers.
“Oh, the Inquisition group,” the innkeeper says with a nod. “But I was told it would be a Bellerose and two elven servants. I see the elven servants, but no Bellerose.”
You bristle, and don’t bother hiding it. Let him guess why. In reality, it’s the cover the Inquisition used that upsets you. Two elven servants? Just to get Baptiste a decent room rather than putting you up in one of the less aesthetically pleasing inns near the alienage. Far be it from you to speak ill of the dead, but the thought does leave you bitter.
“Monsieur Baptiste Felicien Bellerose was detained on other business,” you say coldly. “But we are still here, and we still require use of the rooms. The rooms were paid for in advance, I believe? As well as a stipend.” You point rather firmly at the receipts and contracts. Nothing is done in Orlais without a contract.
“And you are?” the innkeeper asks, clearly not appreciating your tone.
“Alix Gagnon,” you say sharply. “Do you require my pedigree, as well? A written note from the Inquisitor, perhaps?”
The man stiffens, as if realizing he may be dealing with someone not accustomed to the second-class citizenry of elves in Orlais, although you have a very Orlesian name. “Of course… Miss,” he says stiffly. With a shuffle of papers and a clink of metal, he hands you a single key. “Room 32. It’s the fourth room on the left, on the third floor.” A single room? But you say nothing, as there’s nothing in the papers to contradict the man.
“Thank you, ser. Please send someone up with two dinners, in perhaps half an hour,” you say with a thin smile, taking the key from his hand. You turn, and Solas follows you up the stairs. You march all the way to the room before relaxing your posture slightly. “I’ll be damned; it worked,” you mutter to yourself.
Solas snorts, and the sound startles you. He’d looked very neutral downstairs, but now he looks as though he might burst out laughing. “You certainly know how to handle Orlesians,” he says, lips twitching as he fights not to laugh. “He turned so red that I thought he might burst.”
Solas’s mirth coaxes a grin out of you. “It’s a fun way to deal with Orlesian commoners, particularly in a city like this. If you come in like you own the place, it throws them off,” you say with a laugh. “Now come on, let’s see how they intended to squeeze the three of us into a single room. Perhaps they’re adjoined?” You turn the key in the lock, but you’re not prepared for what you find. The room is quite splendid, probably one of the nicer ones in the inn. It has a fireplace, glorious, soft carpeting, a rather delightful mahogany desk… and a single large, grand bed. You frown. It could fit both you and Solas, effortlessly, but you doubt that was the intent.
“Well, that was intended for Baptiste, no doubt. Let’s see what these doors hold for us.” You drop your bags onto the floor; Solas follows suit. The first door leads to a bathroom with a rather grand looking bathtub that you cannot wait to use. The second leads to, as you suspected, an adjoining room. It’s much less splendid than the main one, clearly for servants. There are two beds, a small dresser, a table, and little else.
Your face must be a storm of indignation, although Solas’s expression is unreadable.
“Maker, I’m going to have words with Lady Montiliyet,” you say darkly. “First the tent, and now… They meant to cram us both into this room for a week!”
“I’m sure it was simply for the sake of appearances,” Solas says, but you’re still irritated. You can’t even be relieved that you won’t have to share a room, because that’s tantamount to being relieved that Baptiste is dead. So you just fume as you go get your bags to drag them into the smaller room. Perhaps you shouldn’t be surprised when Solas moves to do the same, but you are.
“What are you doing?” you say, confused. “I’ll take the smaller room, Solas. I already kicked you out of your tent once.”
“That was a convenience for both our sakes,” Solas informs you. Ouch, he hadn’t wanted to share a tent with you, either? Well, y’know, fair enough, but still… ouch. “It was your clever tongue that got us this room, you should enjoy the nicer amenities.”
“Oh, enough about my clever tongue!” you snap, flushing. He has to know how that sounds, damnit! “I couldn’t sleep in a bed like that.”
“Do you suppose I’m any more used to luxuries?” he asks, sounding amused. “Apostates do not often stay in high-end inns.”
You want to point out that this is hardly high-end for Val Royeaux, but that doesn’t help prove your point any. Nor would pointing out how little playing the “humble elven apostate” card works on you. “I’d be much more comfortable in the smaller room, Solas. And besides, you’ll want a desk before our business in Val Royeaux is over, of that I’m sure.”
It takes a bit more haggling, but you do, eventually, get Solas to take the larger bed. You weren’t lying; you’ll be more comfortable in a small room. You may not like the cramped feeling of a ship’s hold, but generally speaking, you prefer small, tight spaces where you can see every corner at once.
Solas insists you share the main room’s amenities with him, however, so you unload Baptiste’s papers onto the mahogany desk after you’ve dropped most of your things into the servant’s room. When a serving girl—an elf, you note sourly—brings dinner, you tell her to bring hot water as well. The bath is nice, but it’s hardly going to be enchanted.
The dinner is pleasant enough, no clear signs of spit or any other bodily fluids. This is Val Royeaux; the cleaning and cooking staffs are probably entirely elves. Even if the innkeeper wanted them to take some good old fashioned revenge on you, he’d likely be unable to get the elves to play along. You give the serving girl a hefty tip out of the Inquisition’s money, just for good measure.
Ah… That’s the other thing. The bandits were wise to attack you, because as it turns out, Baptiste was carrying what could be charitably called a fuckload of royals. According to his notes, the money was from the Inquisition, and he had his finances for the trip very well planned out. You intend to ignore his planned spending altogether, however, and simply come up with your own. You may not be an Orlesian diplomat, but you have connections that he didn’t. You can get better prices. You will get better prices. Your pride couldn’t take it if you paid as much as he was planning to pay for some of these things.
You muse over his papers as you eat. Solas alternates between exploring the room, looking out the window, and reading over your shoulder, which makes you twitch every time. You can’t really blame him, however. He probably wants to be out seeing the city.
“We’ll meet with the University representative tomorrow,” you tell him as you go over Baptiste’s extremely detailed itinerary. You’re grateful he was so particular, even if reading the notes in his precise handwriting makes your chest ache. You’ll be glad when this trip is over. You can no longer picture his face without seeing the arrow that killed him.
Baptiste was not the first man you watched die any more than the nameless bandit was the first man you killed. The shock will wear off quickly, but not while you’re reading his handwritten notes, in a room that was meant for him.
“I take it you will want to do ‘the talking’ there as well?” Solas asks, fortunately sounding more amused than offended.
“I don’t mean any harm by it, Solas,” you assure him. “But you said it yourself… I know how to handle Orlesians. I can get us in, I think… Probably. Maybe. I can try. I’ve got the papers, but if they call the chevaliers, we’re getting the hell out and trying again later, alright?” You frown, tapping your chin with your quill. “That reminds me… I need to get a message to Lady Montiliyet. The Inquisition should know what’s happened. I might wait until I see how things go at the university, however… No point in paying for two messages when one will do.”
“Do remember to sleep,” Solas quips. “You tend to forget.”
“Sleep?” you ask with mock horror. “In Val Royeaux?”
Solas gives you a very un-amused look, and you grin sheepishly. “Vel, mamae.3”
“You’re not half as amusing as you think you are,” Solas says dryly.
“But still amusing!” you say cheerfully, pulling another stack of papers out of Bapsite’s bags. “Maker, here are the requisitions. There are hundreds. Remind me to get a present for Helisma.”
“The Tranquil?” Solas says, sounding surprised. “I doubt she would even know to appreciate it.”
You sigh. “You’re probably right. But it’ll make me feel better. She’s the one who showed me how to do these stupid requisitions. Solas, would you mind helping me organize these?”
“Better than spending the evening pacing the room,” he says with a faint smile, and pulls up a chair to the desk.
“Alright, anything magic related, put in a stack here. If it’s a technical tome, put it here—”
You and Solas work relatively late into the night, but the requisitions get sorted. You’ll still have to look through them in more detail, but you know which ones are going to be harder to find. Baptiste had readied a list of bookstores, all upscale and legitimate. Not a bad list to start with, but you append it with some less… savory sources.
After the two of you finish sorting the papers, you take a short break to bathe. You bring clothes in with you, just so that you can change in the bathroom and not risk even the slightest bit of incidental nudity around Solas. You seem to be the only one taking such care, however. When you come out of the bathroom, Solas is preparing for bed… by removing his shirt. You wind up going to your room with a handful of paperwork just so the man can dress (or undress, as the case may be) in peace. You suspect he may have done it on purpose in an attempt to force you to get some sleep. You try, but after an hour of tossing and turning on the unfamiliar bed, you simply light a candle and continue to work. The tiny room affords you some privacy, at the very least.
You stay in your room until you hear movement from the adjoining one. Solas must be up, signaling that it’s safe for you to come out and pretend to have slept. You change into fresh clothes, wishing again and again that you had something nicer to wear. You’re just pulling your hair out of its ridiculous braid and into a responsible bun when you open the door to Solas room and…
Oh Maker!
You came in a little too early, it seems. Solas is standing by the bed, pulling his pants up. You get quite the view of the curve of the top of his ass before he notices you. You turn around quickly, staring at the wall and turning bright red.
“Ir abelas! The door doesn’t have a lock, does it? Ahahaha… Ir abelas!” you stammer, fumbling with the doorknob. Why had you even shut it behind you? Why can’t you get this stupid fucking door open?!
“Perhaps in the future, you could knock?” Solas says mildly. Your cheeks and ears are a flaming red; you could cry from embarrassment.
“Of course! Yes! I’m sorry! I…” you finally manage to get the door open.
“You may as well stay. I’m decent now,” Solas comments, although you want to dive under your bed and hide for a few hours. “I’m uncertain as to how to request breakfast here.”
“I’ll take care of it,” you squeak, still facing the wall. Maker, and they wanted you to share a room? Did they think elves simply never changed clothing? Or did everyone in the Inquisition just assume you’d be spending most of your time naked, in any case? Ugh. You could die of shame.
By the time you gather the courage to turn around, Solas has a shirt on, and is beginning to wrap his feet. You frown, although your embarrassment is not completely forgotten.
“Ah… Solas?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have… perhaps… shoes?” you ask as delicately as possible. Personally, you’re fond of the way he dresses. You wish you had the courage to run about all but barefoot. But you are about to attempt to talk your way into the University of Orlais.
“Contrary to popular belief, yes,” Solas replies. “Do you believe I should wear them?”
“If… you don’t mind, yes,” you request nervously. “We don’t have anything in the way of Orlesian clothing, but we might as well look as…”
“Non-elven?”
“…Yes,” you say with a sigh. “As non-elven as possible. I’m sorry. If we get what we need, we can spend the last day running through the library barefoot, if you wish.”
Solas chuckles. “I’m not offended. I trust your judgment in this.”
You breathe a sigh of relief. He has no reason to trust your judgment, but you’re glad he does. Your task is grand enough without stacking the odds against you. You spend some time adjusting yourself in the mirror, then ring the bell to call for help. The same serving girl appears, and you request two breakfasts. Might as well… you have a sizeable stipend to work through before you have to start paying for meals and services at the inn out of pocket. And by “out of pocket,” you mean still out of the Inquisition’s pocket. You really need to hide that money. You’re not at all confident about carrying it around Val Royeaux.
In the end, you wind up asking Solas to do “something magical” with it. You could be more specific, but you’re confident the man knows how to lay protective wards. You’ll just bring enough to get you through anything the first day might throw at you. You might wind up having to bribe your way into the library, although it’s not your first choice, and then there are meals…
You cram a bag with all the papers you might possibly need, and nervously set out onto the streets of Val Royeaux with Solas on your heels. Whatever the day will bring, it’s bound to be interesting.