Regrets
You’re growing too accustomed to waking confused and hungover. As if sensing your complacency, the world decided to throw a curve into your traditional morning-after regrets. You open your eyes slowly, light stabbing into your dried-out eyes like red-hot knives. A large, brown, furry face looms into your vision. A gentle whuff covers your face in hot breath
You blink slowly.
That’s Revas.
Why is Revas in your bedroom?
You shift, and realize that Revas in not in your bedroom. Rather the contrary; you appear to be in his. Somehow, you’ve come to rest in his stable in the barn.
“Emma?”
As if the morning weren’t confusing enough, you see Belassan leaning over the stable’s gate. Your dazed mind seems to fix upon his pointed ears and little else.
“Iras ma?1” you say bewilderedly, tongue sticking to your mouth like sandpaper. “Falon, ma isala min.2”
“I, um… I don’t…” Belassan begins, looking slightly embarrassed. You belatedly realize you weren’t speaking Common, and that you look like a racist asshole.
“How did I get here?” you manage, actually speaking the proper language this time.
“You were dragged,” Belassan replies promptly. “After a night of reveling, I suspect.”
You groan, you move to run a hand over your head, only to realize you’re wrapped up in a saddle blanket. You shift out from under it. “Don’t tell me… Sera?”
“You are correct.”
You cover your eyes with your hand to try and block out the light. Revas lips at the back of your hand questioningly. “I can’t even be cross with her. I’ve woken up worse places.” Like Iron Bull’s bed. Maker, why do you always do this on Friday and not on Saturday when you have a morning off the next day?
That thought energizes you as surely as a bolt of lightning. “Merde! What time is it?”
“Don’t worry, it’s still an hour before dawn—” Belassan attempts to comfort you. You shoot up and nearly fall over. The only reason you don’t is because Revas moves into the way and you collapse against his side. The world spins around you. “Be careful!” Belassan exclaims.
“I have to get to training, or being hungover will be the least of my worries!” you explain. You swear a few times in a few different languages as you untangle yourself from the saddle blanket. You pause to give Revas—who looks as concerned as Belassan—a few loving strokes and a quick kiss on his soft, warm nose, then simply vault over the stable door. Another day of waking up hungover but with all your clothes on… at this rate, you’ll set a new personal record.
You manage not to fall over when you land, although you stumble a bit before Belassan grabs your arm to steady you. “Are you sure you should—”
“The training is with the Iron Bull, Belassan,” you say dryly.
“Ah,” he chuckles. “Say no more. May Mythal bless you… you’ll need it.”
You grumble something vague about Elven deities as you wobble out of the stables. You need Mythal’s blessing even less than you need the Maker’s. The sound of one, at least, can protect you from the mortal implements of the Chantry. What can Mythal’s name protect you from? Irritable Dalish?
Iron Bull is already in the practice yard when you arrive. He grins when you clumsily climb over the fence. You’ll probably puke once your body actually catches up and realizes you’re running around and jumping.
“That’s what I like to see!” he says as you double over momentarily to try and get the world to stop spinning. “Dedication!”
“How are you not sick?” you groan towards the ground. “You were already drunk when I started.”
“I can handle my drink better than you,” Iron Bull says pointedly. “Well, that and the fact Qunari just process faster,” he adds offhandedly. “How much you remember?”
“Too much. But at least I have the memory of the Inquisitor falling down… Maker, so many times,” you chuckle weakly. “Totally worth it.”
“If his suffering makes you feel better, you should know he has a meeting with his advisors in… oh, an hour or so.”
Your chuckling turns into full blown laughter as you’re overcome with beautiful schadenfreude. You couldn’t say the Inquisitor had a worse night than you, and sitting in a meeting was nothing like being beaten by a Qunari, but the thought of his suffering brings a genuine smile to your face.
“We gonna need another bucket?” Iron Bull wants to know.
“Oh, probably,” you say as you stretch slightly. Your tunic is going to have to come off again… another day of practicing in your undershirt. It’s your own fault for constantly falling asleep with your clothes on. You yank the tunic off over your head.
“Whoa! What happened to you? Finally decide to give in and go to a healer?”
You glance down at your bared arms, pale in their unmarred perfection. Your collarbone as well, free of bruising. You begin to flush, and then as the memory of the morning before fills you, keep flushing until you feel you’re producing enough heat to warm all of Skyhold.
“Alright, now I’ve got to know,” Iron Bull says firmly, an amused smirk on his face.
“It was, um… Solas,” you mutter under your breath.
“What was that? Didn’t quite hear you. Did you say that our own grumpy elven mage did that?”
You could smack the grin off of Iron Bull’s face. In a few minutes, you’ll definitely be trying. “Yes. Don’t look so cheerful, Bull; I don’t think he’s particularly happy with you, either.”
“Fortunately, unlike you, I don’t actually care,” Bull says with a laugh, starting to stretch. You join in. “Why’d he do it, anyway? You cover ‘em up pretty thoroughly during the day.”
Now there’s a subject you really, really don’t want to get into. You don’t want to admit that Solas saw you in your undershirt. You don’t want to admit he’d seen you in just your breastband while he was healing you. Didn’t want to remember the way his hand had slipped gently underneath said breastband during the course of healing. And most importantly, you didn’t want Iron Bull to know how badly you’d been injured. He might feel responsible, when it was really you and your own ignorance that had put you at risk.
“He saw the bruising in the process of enchanting my wrist,” you lie, finally. “Occasionally I have him strengthen my arm with magic to speed along the scribing process. As for why, I have no idea.”
Iron Bull grunts in acknowledgement as the two of you stretch. What a talented little liar you are… How many lies have you told this Hissrad? And they’re experts at lying, being one of the only agents of the Qun to actually do so. You’re a little bit proud, past all your nervousness. …Okay, you’re a lot proud. But you’re smart enough now to know not to revel in it.
“When did all this happen?” Bull wants to know, though you’re not certain as to why.
“Yesterday morning, when I brought him his breakfast,” you say, seeing no reason to lie. Iron Bull makes a vague humming sound, but says nothing more on the matter.
You strain your way through stretching, stomach churning and head spinning. It only gets worse when time for actual sparring comes. Bull isn’t going easy on you at all. You’ll have all sorts of new bruises for Solas to frown at in a few hours, of that you’re certain. You don’t really know what to do about it… regular trips to the healing tent are out of the question, and you would sooner throw yourself from the battlements than ask Solas to do it. You’ll just have to try to keep as much of hidden from Solas as possible. If you can sneak out of the walls, you might try to fix it yourself, but your skills with healing have always been… questionable to nonexistent. You’re as likely to make it worse as you are to make it better.
Fortunately, Krem appears to save you from getting even more of an ass-kicking then you already are, only perhaps fifteen minutes into sparring. You’re dry heaving over a fence when he appears, which is probably the one thing you want him to see you doing least. From what you remember of last night, you nearly made a rather dramatic mistake. You should be thanking the loud-mouthed asshole of a Charger. You hadn’t thanked him, though. You had, in fact, punched a mercenary directly in the face. You don’t remember much of what happened after that, but the fact that you hadn’t been given a mercenary beat-down is a bit curious. Bull and a few of the other Chargers have your back, certainly, but not against another Charger. Maybe they’d all decided the guy deserved it, but you hadn’t exactly punched him gently. Unlike a lot of drunkards, you tend to get stronger when you’re in your drink and have forgotten proper decorum like how hard an elven servant should be able to punch.
Either way, Krem is the last person you want to be seeing right now. …Well, maybe not the absolute last. That would be the Inquisitor. But Krem is a close second.
“H-hey, Emma,” he says as he gets closer, and you note that he’s carrying something. Something that smells.
You glance around, only to find that Bull has apparently made himself sparse and is pretending to examine the sturdiness of Skyhold’s walls, some distance away. You’ve never been so cross with someone for being polite before.
“Um… Hey, Krem,” you say awkwardly, trying to stand up straight and not puke on him.
“I, uh… got these from the kitchen…” He holds up the wooden bowl he’s carrying, and you realize that’s what the stench is… Krem’s brought you pickled herring. “I didn’t know how to make that stuff you made for me, but I definitely remembered this was in it.”
You can’t help smiling. You’re not sure if eating straight pickled fish will be good for you, but you’re sure as hell going to try. You pull yourself up to sit on the fence around the practice ring, and Krem hops up to sit next to you. You sit in slightly uncomfortable silence for a moment as Krem watches you eat the pickled herring with something akin to awe in his eyes.
“So, I, uh… Seem to recall you nearly kissed me, last night,” he says awkwardly, staring down at his intertwined hands.
“…Yeah,” you say. “And I seem to remember you objecting rather strongly to the notion of my being ‘Bull’s sloppy seconds.’ By dumping me onto the ground.”
Krem winces. “…Yeah.”
“What are the chances we can both just say we were drunk, eat some shitty pickled fish together, and forget it happened?”
Krem grins sheepishly at you. “I think I’d like that. But…” He points down at the bowl. “There’s no way I’m eating one of those.”
You burst out laughing, then shove him gently on the shoulder. “Don’t make fun of my fish. I’m the one who has to get pummeled by Bull while hungover.”
“I’ve had my fair share of that,” Krem says with a snort. “Once he starts, he doesn’t let up. Might as well give in and sign up with the Chargers now.”
Bull must see the two of you joking and laughing, because he’s sauntering towards you. “Hey, does this mean you’re getting married?” he bellows over. “Because Dalish will want to be a bridesmaid—”
It’s Krem who throws the first pickled herring at Iron Bull. You’ll go to your grave with that story. But both of you wind up hurling the tiny, malodorous fish at Bull, laughing and shouting as he dodges out of the way. Krem, in his eagerness to please you, had grabbed way more than you could ever eat, so the two of you have plenty of ammunition. The Battle of Herring ceases abruptly when Bull—who now smells rather unpleasantly of vinegar and fish—gets close enough to tackle the two of you off the fence. All of you go sprawling into the training ring, and all of you wind up covered in pickled herring.
Of course, that turns into an impromptu threeway wrestling match, complete with alliances (as you and Krem each try to pin one of Bull’s arms) and betrayals (as Krem abruptly switches sides while you’re trying to throw your entire body weight onto Bull’s leg). By the end, all three of you are filthy messes, covered in dirt and tiny fish. Krem even pulls one of the herrings out of your hair, which has long since come loose.
“Maker’s breath,” you wheeze, out of breath from laughter and exertion. “You’re both children with the strength of adult men.”
“I’m not the one who threw fish!” Bull points out.
“I’m blaming Krem for that one,” you say.
“You’re the one with the penchant for throwing things,” Krem protests.
“Mugs, not fish,” you say, turning your nose up as if offended by the comparison. “I have standards.”
It isn’t until Bull mentions breakfast that a horrible realization strikes you… You never actually confirmed with Celia that she’d be bringing Solas’s breakfast in the morning. You’d like to be able to make the assumption, since she was at work yesterday, but… The thought of a misunderstanding on your part ending in Solas going hungry is beyond consideration. You make your excuses and quickly leave, tying back your hair and brushing yourself off as you go. That’s how you wind up in the kitchen, disheveled and smelling vaguely of fish.
Fortunately, Celia is there and has already brought Solas his breakfast, leaving you free to head to the baths. You march pointedly straight into the human baths. You’re greeted by an extra potent series of glares and horrified stares given how dirty and… fishy you are. You sink proudly into the water as human women scoot away from you. You almost don’t care if they see the scar across your stomach, at this point, although you still do your best to keep it covered.
After soaking for longer than is entirely necessary and changing into fresh clothes, you head up to Solas’s rotunda.
“My breakfast was dull without a conversation partner,” Solas comments over the top of the rather large tome he’s reading as you enter.”Meaning no offense to your friend, but she acts as if my room were actively on fire.”
His second comment makes you snort enough to hide the rush of heat the his first one brings on. Maker, you know he’s just being nice, but the way he talks sometimes… He’s so blunt most of the time and yet so damn smooth at other times… It’s unfair, and it’s part of what makes him so hard to read.
“I was busy tumbling around with several men,” you say sarcastically. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about my antics by now.”
Solas’s eyebrows raise, making you wonder if he hadn’t, in fact, heard the rumors. “I wasn’t fool enough to believe the majority,” he says, and you breathe an inner sigh of relief. Thank the Maker. “Although I can’t help but wonder if the hart keeper was involved,” he adds slyly. “He is often seen shirtless, after all, and you have been smelling of hay lately.”
“I see you shirtless more often,” your smart mouth says before you can stop it. You slap a hand over your mouth, horrified, but Solas laughs.
“And the Iron Bull, I suppose. You must be desensitized to it.” Not even a little bit, Solas… Not even a little bit. “Perhaps it’s simply a love of the outdoors that drives you to the barn so often,” he continues.
“A love of Revas, more like,” you say, privately enjoying the double-meaning to your words. “At this point I suspect I’m just making excuses to ride him.”
“I’m surprised you’ve taken to each other so well,” Solas says. “There are other harts with gentler natures in that stable.”
“I’ve never had a problem with his temper, although he occasionally tries to headbutt people. He’s a softie with me.” You move towards your desk to sit and begin your day’s work. You’d not really gotten any work done yesterday, having been utterly sidetracked by Leliana’s missive. Speaking of which… She hadn’t asked you to burn the papers, but you probably should.
“No wonder Belassan has taken such a shine to you,” Solas comments. “He adores anyone whom the harts adore, and Revas is fickle with his affections.”
“Are you and Belassan acquainted?” you ask hopefully. It would be nice to have two elven friends who didn’t actively deplore each other.
“Only insomuch as he is often the one who handles my mounts. I can’t say we’re familiar.” Solas’ mouth twitches downwards into a frown… Anyone else might have missed it, but to you, it reads as disapproval or annoyance.
Damnit.
“He seems friendly… We went on a ride yesterday, into the woods,” you say cautiously, watching him carefully for a reaction.
There it is, just a flash, but enough. Irritation, definitely. You need to be careful; you don’t want Solas to be cross with you. “Oh?” he says, and his voice sounds a bit sour. “I suppose even elves who grew up in the cities are rather enamored of the Dalish.”
You manage not to snap at that, but it takes a great deal of self-control. “That has nothing to do with it,” you say, trying to hide the irritation in your own voice. As if you’re one of those pathetic elves who worships the Dalish as if they’re the Elvhen of old reborn!
“You’re enamored with him for other reasons?”
“I enjoy riding!” you say with more force than entirely necessary. “He’s skilled at it. I can learn from him. That’s all.”
Solas eyes you as if he’s not entirely convinced. The thought of him thinking you little more than a promiscuous little strumpet, off to ride the stable-elf, stings more than it should. “Who else is going to ride out with me?” you insist. “You?”
“Why not me?” Solas asks, and it stuns you.
“I… you… well…” As always, your words dazzle when you need them the most. “You’re… so busy.”
“As are you,” Solas points out. “I can certainly afford a morning off if you can.”
“Would… would you like to go riding?” you ask, hesitantly. He’s all but said as much, yet you still feel presumptuous asking.
Solas eyes the large tome he was reading for a moment, then sets it down on the desk. A strip of soft cloth serves to mark his place as he closes it. “I suppose so,” he says, as if he hadn’t all but suggested it himself. “It’s a nice enough day out.”
You stand, somewhat dazed, your own work utterly forgotten on the desk. It can fucking wait. If Leliana can put you off your work with stupid tasks, you can take your own time off for this.
You lead Solas down to the stables. Your mind feels hazy, and you find yourself checking for the telltale markers of the Fade. But this is no dream. How had you come to this point, exactly?
Belassan’s visage visibly brightens when he sees you enter the barn. “Emma!” His smile falters somewhat when he sees Solas directly behind you. “And… Ser. What brings you both to the stables?”
You open your mouth to deliver as polite an explanation as you can, but Solas speaks first. “We wish to take advantage of the good weather while it lasts.”
Belassan’s eyes dart between you and Solas for a moment, and then he smiles. You don’t know him well enough to say, but you’d be willing to suspect there’s a difference between the smile he’s giving you now, and the smiles he gave you yesterday. Why do all of the elves in Skyhold seem to hate each other?
“I’ll get your mounts ready,” Belassan offers, but you’re already shaking your head.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say with a glance back at Solas. You don’t know about him, but you’re not about to stand around like some noble prick while Belassan enjoys Revas’s company for you. “I can ready Revas myself.”
Belassan turns politely to Solas. “Will you be requiring a saddle and bags today, ser?”
“Not necessary, thank you,” Solas replies. So damn polite; you could punch the both of them. You almost prefer Sera’s in-your-face rudeness. You want to shout at the two elves to just lay them on the table and compare, but you doubt their bristled posturing has anything to do with that. As with Sera and Solas, you suspect there’s some sort of history here that you just don’t know about. Solas seemed disdainful of the city elves’ hero-worship of the Dalish. You can’t say that you disagree, but you didn’t come to that conclusion overnight. Perhaps he had some similarly unpleasant encounters with the Dalish. Perhaps even some that mirrored yours? It wouldn’t surprise you; in fact, it feels almost inevitable. If there’s any truth to his backstory, he would have run into them far more than Templars.
Solas follows you as you approach Revas’s stall. Revas bangs on the wall with a horn impatiently as you approach. He thuds his head against your chest as soon as you’re close enough, pushing up against the stall door hard enough that it creaks slightly. He whuffs hot breath in your ear; you giggle delightedly, rubbing your face into his rough fur.
You pull back enough to see Revas giving Solas the stink eye over your shoulder.
“You know,” Solas comments dryly. “He used to like me.”
Revas blows a snort of hot air at Solas, but when the older elf approaches, Revas allows him to run a gentle hand down the hart’s forelock.
“See? He still likes you,” you say with a grin. “He just has a new favorite.”
Revas rubs his face against you firmly, nearly knocking you off balance, and Solas grins. “He’s marking you. I suppose we should both be grateful he hasn’t decided to urinate on your shoes.”
“He’d better not!” you exclaim. “These are my favorite boots!”
Just then, Revas nuzzles at your ear, enveloping it between his furry lips. You make a rather undignified noise, and whatever face you make has Solas covering his mouth in a failed attempt to hide his obvious mirth. You carefully, carefully remove your ear from Revas mouth. You glare at Solas, whose shoulders are trembling with suppressed laughter.
“He likes you,” Belassan quips, and you shoot a glare in his direction as well. “You’ll have to forgive him; there aren’t any more… eligible females nearby for him to flatter.”
“Oh good, I’m the last option of a desperate man,” you say dryly. “That’s what a lady likes to hear.” You run a hand fondly over Revas’s neck. “It would never work out between us, ma lath3.” Revas blows a hot breath into your face, then proceeds to nose at your pockets for treats.
Belassan has brought the same white hart that he rode yesterday. “Your second favorite, ser,” he says to Solas. “Since our Revas seems to have a new mistress.”
“So it would seem,” Solas says with a smile, and you thank the Maker that the three of you seem to have something in common. Perhaps it’s not a lost cause after all. “Thank you.” It’s then you realize that the hart has no bridle or lead, Belassan is simply guiding him with a single hand on his neck.
Ugh. If that isn’t the elfiest thing you’ve ever seen, you don’t know what is. Damn Dalish and their weirdly specific skill sets.
You hop over the gate into the stable with Revas, and Belassan hands you his tack. You’re able to set him up fairly quickly, and before long, you and Solas are leading both of your mounts out of the stable. You can’t help but notice that Solas guides the white hart without the use of a lead, either. You wonder if Revas would follow you without a lead… you rather doubt it.
You mount Revas in your normal half-clumsy manner, and watch as Solas pulls himself up onto the white hart with graceful ease. Is everyone better at this than you? Where had Solas even learned to ride a hart? You were under the impression they were somewhat rare.
The two of you ride out over the long bridge out of Skyhold, and as you admire the way Solas’ larger-than-elven-average frame compliments the musculature of the white hart, you’re struck with a powerful wanderlust. You want to take these harts and run. Just the two of you, and just… off. It’s a very stupid thought, and you chastise yourself immediately. Solas barely knows the first thing about you, and if you think about it, you barely know the first thing about him. The two of you have no reason to run off, particularly not together.
He urges his hart into a gallop, and Revas follows suit. You have to fight the yearning sensation that rises in your chest, threatening to overcome you. Fortunately, Revas provides you with ample distraction. He seems to take poorly to being behind someone, and you have to pull him away from prodding the white hart’s rump several times.
Solas leads you into the woods, and you’re reminded that your clothing is poor protection from the cold. You’d had your cloak when you’d snuck out before, and even that hadn’t really provided sufficient insulation. Even with the trees blocking the worst of the wind, you’re quickly chilled. Perhaps this is why Solas wears so many layers.
The path widens slightly, and you bring Revas up to trot cheerfully alongside Solas’s white hart. “Does he have a name?” you ask, gesturing towards the hart.
“Not particularly, no,” Solas says, running a hand along the hart’s neck. Once more you marvel at how he steers the hart with no bridle or bit, stays on with no help from stirrups. You’re glad Sera is around for you to compare yourself to, or you’d feel like an utter failure of an elf next to Solas and Belassan. “Belassan does not appear to name them, and I named Revas on a whim.”
“I’ve been thinking of him as Ashi’lana4,” you say with a chuckle. “Although that might make Revas jealous.”
“Ashi’lana,” Solas echoes with a faint smile. “It suits him. He’s a prideful beast.”
“Belassan mentioned yesterday that he fusses if he doesn’t get regular baths.” You can’t help laughing. “Prideful. He suits you.”
Solas sends you a sidelong glance.
“Emma revas?5” Solas suggests. “Your names go well together, as well.”
“My name goes well with nearly everything when you say it like that,” you point out. “Emma revas. Emma mahvir. Emma solas.6”
“Mahvir,” Solas corrects you, as if automatically.
You start. “What, really? But, Mahvir in the library…”
“Mispronounces it, yes,” Solas says dryly. “It’s actually quite common amongst modern elves… Elven words mangled into names in an attempt to invoke old glory. It’s this way even amongst the Dalish.”
“That’s one of the reasons I never did seek out a Keeper to assist with my Elven,” you say with a sigh. “Every Dalish I’ve met speaks with a slightly different dialect, if they speak it at all. I had no way of knowing which was correct, if any. In the end I simply assumed I was the correct one. Ma solas.7”
Solas stiffens slightly, and you quickly flush as you realize the multiple ways what you said could be translated. You clear your throat awkwardly. “In any case… It sounds… right, when you say it. I will get you to teach me,” you say firmly.
“Do you not yet have enough teachers?”
“Until I have you, I will always need at least one more,” you say in no doubt mangled Elven. Solas laughs aloud… not quite the emotion you were hoping to elicit.
“I cannot even begin to count the number of things wrong in that sentence,” Solas says between chuckles.
You pout. “You are a cruel man,” you protest.
“I never claimed to be otherwise,” Solas responds, his smooth, perfect Elven making you shiver for reasons unrelated to the frozen air.
The two of you ride in silence after that, your mind full of spiraling, tumultuous thoughts. It feels hard to keep yourself in the real world. Despite the fact you know this is reality, you find yourself repeatedly checking for signs of the Fade. It feels dreamlike. The thick snow on the ground muffles all sounds; the chill makes you numb, as if your body isn’t quite your own.
After a long while of silence, Solas slows his hart. He reaches out and places hand on Revas’s neck; to your shock, the hart slows. Great. Solas can even control your mount better than you can.
“The Iron Bull came to talk to me yesterday,” Solas begins, and your eyes widen. Do those two talk often? Was… Maker, it wasn’t about you, was it? Why else would he bring it up? “He tells me you suffer from a chronic inability to sleep. He is concerned, and wanted to know if I could assist you.”
Fuck.
You say nothing, and Solas continues.
“I was surprised, to say the least. You certainly know that I could help with such a thing. The existence of the enchanted blanket you used alone would confirm that. So why would you not seek my aid? Embarrassment? Perhaps the same misplaced sense of pride that left you wincing around Skyhold rather than see a healer?”
Solas pauses, but you keep your mouth firmly shut, mind racing for an appropriate series of lies.
“And yet, you would confide in the Iron Bull, who could do nothing for you, but not someone who could help with the matter. I find myself wondering… why?”
There’s an obvious lie… That you’re closer to the Iron Bull, that you trust him more. But it turns to ash in your mouth. There are some lies in this world so brutally false, so hurtful, that even you can’t speak them.
“I… “ your throat is dry. You’re suddenly aware of how the wind has chapped your lips and face. “It was because I knew you could help,” you say, confirming his obvious suspicions. “I… Please understand, Solas. I was in Tevinter for a good number of my formative years. Magic there was… was a tool used to terrify. An incomprehensible power that only served to cement how much… how much higher our masters were. When I escaped, I… sought to understand it, to own my fear. Curiosity, and the desire not to be a fool led me away from my initial terror, but… Magic that… that touches the mind, I… I still…” You clear your throat, as if this is difficult for you. It is, but not for the reason you need Solas to think. Tears are in your eyes, yes, but tears of regret for the bitter lie you’re concocting. He will think less of you for this.
You let out as long, shuddering breath. “Emma ir abelas8, but it scares me, Solas. I didn’t tell you because I thought you could help… and would try.”
You risk a glance over at him, and your heart aches bitterly as you read sorrow and disappointment on his features, clear as the sun in the sky.
“You are correct. I could almost certainly assist in this,” Solas replies slowly. “But I won’t force it upon you.”
The two of you ride in silence for a moment longer as you struggle to blink the tears back from your eyes without looking the fool.
“Emma…” Solas says finally. “The… healing, the other day. If I… frightened you, I…”
You sit bolt upright on Revas. “Banal! Ir banal!9” you exclaim with so much force that it almost startles you. It certainly startles Solas. He stares at you with widened eyes. On him, the expression of shock almost shouts. “Don’t… “ you clear your throat to keep your voice from breaking. “Don’t think that your past assistance has ever been anything other than a blessing, Solas. Please.
“This is… superstition, and nothing else,” you say, not having to fake the self-loathing in your voice. “The thought of magic touching my mind chills me. But that does not mean I am some Chant-screeching fool, clutching the symbol of Andraste and cowering before magic.” Your grip on the reins is too tight; Revas knickers in concern, prancing slightly and jarring you in the saddle.
Solas doesn’t comfort you. He doesn’t say that he doesn’t think less of you, because he almost certainly does. But he looks slightly less like a kicked dog, and that will just have to be enough. This sort of thing happens often. Your lies mean you absolutely must keep people at an arm’s length.
But Maker, it hurts. This time, it hurts.