Lull
You take a few more moments to compose yourself and attempt to process. You’re not quite sure what to think at first. You walk in a daze towards the door to the Great Hall. Solas had been irritated, that much was clear. But it was at… your lack of concern in regards to your health? That was… confusing, to say the least. Of course, the idea that mere bruising, when repeated enough, could turn into something so serious was also confusing. You’d genuinely had no idea. You’ve bruised easily your whole life, and no one’s ever mentioned any potential danger to you. You will have to figure something out about that, because you definitely don’t want a repeat of this.
You’re fairly certain that if you stop long enough to process the fact you’d been sitting half-naked on his bed—half-naked on his bed—you’ll stop functioning entirely. You stumble past Madame de Fer without really seeing her until she speaks up.
“My goodness, dear, you look wretched!”
You turn to stare at her, unable to comprehend this on top of everything else that’s happened.
“Dear, you know you don’t have to put up with that sort of thing,” she says with a properly Orlesian pout. “The Commander has been very firm on the subject of men taking… liberties… with the staff.”
You’re not a master of self-control on the best of days. You can admit this about yourself. And right now, your nerves are absolutely fried. Between the Inquisitor and Solas, you have absolutely put up with your maximum amount of shit for one day. That’s your excuse for the red that flashes in front of your eyes, as well as for the words that fly unbidden from your mouth.
“Liberties?” you say slowly, your voice low and dangerous. The corner of Madame de Fer’s lips curl upwards; she knows she’s touched a nerve. “Ah… yes. Well, Madame de Fer, as you know, I worked in Orlais for some time. I’m quite accustomed to men taking liberties.” Her smile flickers somewhat, and you press on. “I even worked for Duke Bastien for a time. He was quite fond of liberties, as I recall. But then… you know all about his liberties, I’m sure.”
Her smile is gone now, and the steely look in her eyes reminds you of why she was nicknamed the Iron Lady. But you have fire in your own eyes, and you know when iron melts. You smile thinly. “Thank you for your concern, Madame de Fer.”
You stalk off, and this time, the enchantress doesn’t move to stop you.
You steal a quick breakfast from the mess, utterly unwilling to disobey Solas’s orders after the little show he’d put on. Afterward, you head out into the courtyard. You aren’t going to the rotunda. That much is obvious. You were stressed and strained by the Inquisitor, driven slightly mad by Solas’s… whatever the fuck that was, and Vivienne de Fer had put you in a frightfully foul mood. You decide that now is the perfect time to take Belassan up on his offer for a ride outside of the walls. You need to clear your head, and Belassan is nothing if not an excellent Dalish punching bag. If you need to sharpen your tongue on someone, he’ll likely tolerate it.
He seems surprised to see you when you storm into the barn. “Emma! It’s not Sunday!” You note immediately that he’s shirtless, because today is just your fucking day for half-naked elven men, apparently. He’s shorter, and slighter than Solas in build and shoulders, although he has a thicker layer of muscles. His dark skin would make a phenomenal contrast to Solas’s pale white; you get distracted for a moment imagining them standing next to each other, both shirtless. Maker, you’re such a mess. What had Solas called you? Wretched. Yes, that sounds about right.
“Forgotten about your promise already?” you say. You attempt to make your voice light and playful, but it comes out strained. You’re feeling the effects of all that healing magic now; your limbs are heavy and you desperately want to crawl into bed. But you can’t actually sleep it off, so you might as well try to ride a hart. That’s technically sitting down.
“Oh!” says Belassan, looking shocked. “You actually… Well, um… If you don’t mind waiting me to finish up my morning chores…”
“I’ll help,” you say, in a tone that brokers no argument. Belassan, being Belassan, tries anyway.
“Oh, that’s really not—”
“I’ll. Help.”
“Yes, um… serah?” Your sudden voice of authority no doubt confused him, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Your cover isn’t going to be blown by speaking authoritatively to one stable elf. Besides, thanks to your various stunts with Madame de Fer, amongst others, that ship has long sailed.
You pick up a pitchfork and immediately begin going to town on the barn. Your entire body screams in protest, and if Solas caught you, he’d probably tan your hide (now there’s a mental image), but the movement feels almost as good as the thrill of rebellion.
Belassan doesn’t seem to know quite what to do with you. You throw off your tunic within the first few minutes of working, almost as if defying the world with the bared flesh that had terrified you not an hour earlier. You attack the dirtied hay as if each individual straw has insulted your mother.
“…Needing a day off?” he asks after a while, somewhat hesitantly.
“Maker, yes,” you say emphatically. Something about the way you say it makes him laugh.
“Well, I’m happy to assist. With two of us, we’ll be done in no time, and then we can ride out. You’ll feel better once you’re on Revas.”
You can’t help but think he’s right. It’s hard to feel caged in with freedom between your knees.
The two of you finish the chores quickly and saddle up just as fast. You’re riding Revas; there’s no question about that. Belassan mounts—bareback, of course—a beautiful white hart with dark grey fur on its head and down its chest. You have to admit that the two of them are very striking together, and as you ride out into the mountains, you can’t help but notice Belassan moves as if the hart were simply an extension of his body. You really shouldn’t be staring, even if you have the excuse of studying the way he rides. Ugh, that sounds just as bad. Well, at least he put on a shirt.
“Keep your balance with the hart,” he advises as the two of you ride. You’re clumsily attempting to mimic the natural way he holds himself. “Always keep your body upright, no matter whether he’s climbing up or down.” You shift awkwardly; he makes it look so damn easy. Still, just in mimicking him you feel like you’re quickly picking up tricks he might not think to actually tell you.
The two of you ride out decently far into the woods, and the conversation inevitably turns to the druffalo in the room, so to speak… the Dalish.
“You’re so natural on a hart,” Belassan compliments you, despite the fact that next to him, you feel about as natural as a hurlock with four knees. “You said you grew up in Denerim… but did you ever consider running away to join the Dalish?”
“Oh, not really… By the time I was old enough to think about running away, I’d already done it once, from Tevinter,” you lie with a thin smile. “And there aren’t a lot of Dalish in Antiva.”
“Tevinter?” Belassan says, sounding shocked. You’re just as surprised.
“I just assumed everyone knew… I’m too used to being friends with nosy people. Yes, I was a slave. Loghain sold half the alienage to Tevinter in order to fund his civil war. I escaped when I was still young and caught a ship to Antiva.”
Belassan whistles. “You’ve had an interesting life.”
“I’m not the one with face tattoos,” you say with a snort. “I think I’m probably fairly average, by elven standards.”
“You seem far from average to me,” Belassan comments slyly, and you grin.
“Keep complimenting me; it’s working,” you say with a laugh. “I feel better already.”
“That’s thanks to Revas, not me,” Belassan says with a chuckle of his own. “Still, I’m glad I could help.”
By the time the two of you arrive back to Skyhold, you’re feeling a great deal more relaxed. Belassan is a pleasant person, once you get past the whole “Dalish” thing. He brings it up a bit too much for your comfort, admittedly, but what Dalish doesn’t? He doesn’t act like it’s some great tragedy you never ran away to live in the woods, therefore he’s not so obnoxious about it that you wind up wanting to deck him. That’s your standard reaction to the Dalish, honestly. The fact that you can tolerate him is impressive; the fact that you’re beginning to enjoy his company is flat-out incredible.
You still have trouble climbing back up to the rotunda, however. Will Solas be able to tell you haven’t rested? Will he scold you again? You try to look suitably chipper and un-injured as you walk through the doors.
Solas does give you a once-over as you walk in, but you seem to pass inspection. “One of Leliana’s messengers left something on your desk,” he informs you.
Ah. It’s going to just be one of those days.
You head to your desk and unfold the note and missive from Leliana. This one isn’t as dire, it seems, but she still wants it translated and delivered by the end of the day. You grind your teeth in frustration; you are not a messenger. But apparently you are, because you’re certainly not telling Leliana you won’t do it. You eye the missive idly. Qunlat and a cipher you recognize. Time consuming, but not impossible. You would love to know how she’s getting her hands on these. Ben-Hassrath reports are notoriously hard to intercept, largely because traitors to the Qun are such a rarity. If a Qunari goes rogue, they run into the hills and become Tal-Vashoth. They don’t stick around as an aid to the enemy.
And, of course, if she didn’t have you, chances are all her efforts on intercepting the messages would be in vain. You’re a very specific resource for someone who wants to spy on the Qunari… something Tevinter and your master knew very well. You saw his dead and mangled body with your own eyes, and even then you sometimes still have trouble believing that he isn’t still after you.
You hear the sound of shuffling from behind you, which brings your mind back to the present.
“You smell of hay,” Solas says, and you’re immediately mortified. You had bathed before breakfast, so the idea of bathing again after going riding hadn’t even occurred to you. You turn to look at Solas so that you can judge whether he’s offended by your stench. But, of course, his expression is neutral. Why couldn’t Dorian be the one with all the secret knowledge? He couldn’t hide an expression if his life depended on it.
“I… went to the barn…” you say hesitantly. “After breakfast,” you add quickly.
Solas sighs. “So much for resting. I suppose if you started actually obeying, I’d have even more cause to wonder about your health.”
Your mouth twitches into a half-smile. Is he cracking jokes? Please, Maker, let him be cracking jokes. You can’t take another lecture just now. “I just had so much boundless energy after eating such a large, hearty breakfast,” you say sarcastically. “I simply had no other option.”
Solas snorts. “Mouthy brat. I suppose that means you’re feeling better. Best get to work, then.”
You flash him a grateful smile and turn back to your desk. His humor does wonders to calm you down. He’s no longer cross with you, and you can practice a bit of civil disobedience without getting another lecture. What a relief, on both counts… You turn your focus to the missive and the attached instructions. The list of names on it has you quite sour. Cullen Rutherford isn’t a surprise, but Cassandra Pentaghast? You could go your whole life without ever meeting a Seeker. You’re not even entirely certain as to what they are. Pentaghast may be an “ex” Seeker, but in the same vein as Cullen is an “ex” Templar. You’re not convinced there’s a such thing.
Nonetheless, you work on deciphering and then translating the missive. It’s a multi-step process, and you half-expect you’ll be required to burn your notes afterwards, so you simply write down as little as you can. Unfortunately, Solas hadn’t been joking about your tendency to take on a lot of responsibilities, and you’d flitted about most of the morning riding with Belassan. It’s lunch time before you finish the translation.
You jot down a few notes so that you don’t forget what you were in the middle of, and then rise to get Solas’s lunch.
“Is that not important?” Solas asks as you rise, clearly aware of where you’re going.
“It says ‘by the end of the day,’” you explain. Plus, you have priorities. As much as you want to endear yourself to the Spymaster, you want to endear yourself to Solas more, especially after the fright you’d had that morning. You feel terrible, in retrospect. Honestly, how could you have thought he’d be one to take advantage of you? And in the end, all he’d been trying to do is help. You’d be actively beating yourself up over it if he seemed at all cross. Fortunately, it seems he got out all his irritation in the morning’s lecture.
Won’t hurt to make sure you get him a good lunch, though…
At the kitchens, you snatch and steal bits and pieces of delicacies for his plate. There aren’t any confectionery chocolates for you to steal today, but you snatch some candied fruit. You make sure all of Solas’s food is piping hot and fresh, and grab a loaf of bread so fresh from the oven it burns your fingers. For some reason, you’re ravenous… must be the healing magic, like Solas said. You’ll need to try not to overdo it though. You don’t want to make yourself sick.
Nonetheless, between the food for you and Solas, the tray is extremely heavy, and you have no small amount of difficulty with it. Hadn’t you only begun doing this because you’d seen Celia struggling under the weight of two meals? You are, above all else, a massive hypocrite.
Fortunately for you, Celia is seemingly just as much of a stubborn workaholic as you are… You see her as you’re leaving the kitchen. She seems to note the way your arms are shaking under the weight of the tray, and grabs a few of the plates off of it.
“Let me help,” she says. Perhaps she’s feeling better, but her body language is demure once more. “It’s the least I can do, honestly…”
“I won’t say no, if you’re willing to brave the drake den,” you say with a chuckle. “Maybe after seeing Solas shirtless so often, you’re willing to overlook him being an apostate?”
She flushes bright red, not the slight pink tinge your cheeks get when you’re embarrassed. “I’m not… I never… It’s not my fault the man doesn’t believe in shirts!”
That makes you laugh aloud, your shoulders trembling from both mirth and the heavy tray. “Maker, don’t I know it! Alright, let’s get Messere Solas his food before he becomes cross with us!”
Solas looks quite surprised when Celia walks in the door with you. She’s half-hiding behind you, and her bravado seems to stall out quickly as you approach his desk. She stands firmly by the door, as if she can’t force herself any closer to Solas’s desk. Ah well, she’s done you a great favor just in helping you get everything up the stairs. You unload the plates on your tray, and then retrieve the plates she’s carrying and place them on Solas’s desk as well. As you’re doing so, Solas strikes up light conversation… poor Celia.
“I see your friend is feeling better,” he comments, his eyes flicking over Celia. She looks like she’s about to jump out of her skin. How difficult breakfast must be for her! At least you’re paying her well.
“Much to my infinite relief,” you say, your lips curling into a smirk. “If you scold me again, I can simply run upstairs and cry to Dorian.”
Celia is staring down at the ground, but you get the sense she’s listening carefully. That sobers you slightly; anything you say in front of her may well be part of Skyhold’s newest rumor. “Thank you for your help, Celia,” you say to her, unwilling to sit at Solas’s desk while she’s still there. Not that there’s anyone else here for him to be sharing this meal with, and the stool at his desk is… telling.
“Not at all, serah,” she murmurs, and quickly flits out the door to the Great Hall, shutting it gently behind her.
“If Dorian saw the state of you, he’d scold as well,” Solas says, sounding amused, and you realize he’s probably right… Dorian had been cross with you when you’d been limping up the stairs to Leliana. Iron Bull had practically forced you to heal that same sprain, and Sera had been in a panic when you’d been injured. Cole always showed up whenever you needed him most.
You have… people who care about you here. It’s kind of annoying, and they arguably wouldn’t if they knew anything at all about you. But still… the thought is both heartening and terrifying. You’ve had people who cared about you before, and it never ended very well for them.
“I’ll endeavor to give you all less to fret about in the future,” you say finally. You sit down on the stool to enjoy a leisurely meal with Solas. The damn missive can wait.
You manage to avoid gorging yourself at lunch, but only out of a sense of dignity… you’re starving. Solas must notice you eyeing his leftovers, because after a moment he simply dumps them onto your plate. You want to protest or be embarrassed, but instead, you just eat. Perhaps if you give your body enough fuel, you won’t suffer any ill effects of being unable to rest after so much healing.
After you’re done eating every scrap of food available to you—in between talking to Solas about herbs in general and your garden back home in specific—you gather up all the dishes and cart them back to the kitchen. That was a wonderful little break, but now you really do need to finish translating that missive for Leliana. You get right back to it as soon as you return to the rotunda, and don’t stop until you have a viable translation in front of you. Leliana requested an oral report again, so at least you don’t have to scribe off a bunch of copies.
Normally, you would save Commander Rutherford for last, but you’re dreading meeting Cassandra Pentaghast even more than seeing him again. The Commander is, at least, a known quantity.
However, your trip to his office proves fruitless… to your surprise, he’s not there. You ask a nearby guard where you might find him, and they direct you back towards the gardens. Is he perhaps giving Leliana that rematch she requested? Seems odd he’d be doing it in the middle of the afternoon, though…
Your questions are quickly answered when you get to the gardens. He is indeed at the chess table… But not with Leliana. Your stomach seems to drop to your feet when you see the Inquisitor sitting across from the Commander. You immediately step backwards away from the Inquisitor’s line of sight. The Inquisitor wasn’t on the list of people you needed to deliver the report to, so you have every reason to wait until he’s gone. Perhaps you should try to seek out Pentaghast first, after all?
The Commander and his sharp senses get the best of you once again, however. “Ah, Emma! Excellent timing once again. I believe that,” the Commander says, and you hear the clink of stone on marble. “Is checkmate, Inquisitor.”
Oh, goodie, you arrived just in time to see the Inquisitor bested at chess. You’re certain he won’t hold that against you at all.
“I’ll win next time,” the Inquisitor says, and to your relief, his voice is relaxed, not angry. “The Trevelyans will have their revenge!”
The Commander waves you over and you reluctantly approach the gazebo. The Inquisitor eyes you quite sourly. You’ve never seen a face so plainly say “you again?” before.
“Somehow, I’m not surprised to see Skyhold’s favorite pet,” the Inquisitor says lightly. You keep your face neutral as you bow, but note that the Commander seems surprised by the Inquisitor’s words.
“I’m here to deliver a missive to the Commander, your holiness,” you say as politely as you possibly can.
“Far be it from me to stand in the way of the working man!” the Inquisitor says gaily, rising from the chess table. “I hope to see you tonight, Commander.”
You try not to be visibly relieved as the Inquisitor leaves. You also try not to be visibly scared when he swoops by you. He passes so close to you that his cloak momentarily batters against your leg before sliding off. You take a quick second to compose yourself before stepping up onto the gazebo.
“Good afternoon, Commander. I have a missive from Leliana. She requested I deliver it to you orally,” you say to him as neutrally as possible.
“Of course,” the Commander says with a nod, gesturing for you to sit across from him. You would prefer to remain standing, but you fear that would be taken as rude, so you sit. You deliver the report in a quiet voice, uncertain if you should be doing this in such a public place. The Commander seems to be fine with it, however, so you just recite the whole thing. It’s about Templar movements, although you’re honestly uncertain whether they mean Templars or red Templars, and say as much to the Commander.
“Red,” he says, resting his chin onto his hand, clearly thinking. “It doesn’t match the movements of any of ours, and we have nearly all the Templars united with us now.”
They do?
Great.
You neatly fold the missive and tuck it back away, but of course, it’s never so easy as simply standing and walking away.
“Do you have time for another game?” Cullen gestures to the chess board.
“I… I should deliver this to Serah Pentaghast,” you say hesitantly. It’s getting close enough to dinner as it is. You won’t be late with one of Solas’ meals.
“You won’t have much luck,” the Commander says. “She’s out on training exercises with the men. She won’t be back until the evening.”
Goddamnit, Spymaster, get your shit together. Had she meant to send you on a wild goose chase? And now you have no convenient excuse to turn down the Commander, who’s looking at you expectantly.
“Al… alright then,” you say, trying not to look like you regret it. You want to appease Solas. The Commander is someone you must appease. You set the board quickly. You’ll have to try to lose quickly, but not look like you’re attempting to lose. It’ll be an entertaining enough challenge, at least.
“Are you getting used to delivering these reports?” Cullen asks as you move your first pawn forward. He moves his own pawn out directly in front of it.
“I’m just glad this one wasn’t delivered to the entire war room,” you say with a chuckle, as you move another pawn up in position to be taken by his. The Commander takes it almost without a second thought.
“Oh? Not fond of public speaking?”
“Not when it’s to a room full of some of the most powerful people in Thedas, no.” You move another pawn up to be taken; he takes it, paying more attention to what you’re saying than the board.
“I suppose it must seem like that, to most people,” he says with a rueful laugh.
“To us normal folks down on the ground, yes.” You move your bishop out; he takes another pawn. “I was honestly expecting to be digging ditches when I arrived here. I certainly did not expect to be playing chess with the Commander of the Inquisition.”
“Ditches would have been a waste of your skills,” the Commander says, eyeing the board as you finally stop his pawn’s rampage with your other bishop. “Starkhaven gambit?”
“Is that what they call it?” you say mildly.
The Commander makes small talk while you bounce around the board, playing an aggressive game. You capture his queen early in a daring raid with your knight, but he shows himself willing to play hard and fast with his king, using it in surprising ways to capture pieces. You sacrifice just enough, and at the end of the day, he has you… he sacrifices his last rook to finally capture your queen, and then, with two bishops left, handily chases your king into a checkmate. At the end of the game, he seems quite pleased with himself; you played well enough to amuse him.
“I should let you get back to work,” he says with some chagrin as you reset the board. “And I should return to my own, as well. Thank you for another pleasant diversion, Emma.”
It will never stop chilling you when he says your name. He won’t forget you, even after you leave Skyhold. Here is a Templar who will never forget your face. Is that sacrifice really worth what you gain by being here in Skyhold? You should take the next merchant cart out of here, and you know it. But where would you go? There’s nowhere else safe enough in this war. Orlais is an absolute mess; Ferelden is full of rebelling mages. There’s no way out for you.
And that means smiling at a Templar and praying to any gods who might be listening that he remembers you only for your charm and skill at chess, and that after you leave Skyhold, you never cross paths with Commander Cullen Rutherford again.
By the time you manage to escape the Commander, it’s a little past time to deliver Solas’s dinner. You rush down to the kitchens and find Celia is already halfway through constructing Solas’s meal. You throw together something for yourself and allow her to put together Solas’s. You’re trusting her to put together his breakfasts every day, after all. You do give it a once over before cramming both meals onto a tray. Celia offers to help you again, but you wave her off. This isn’t the small feast you’d carted upstairs for yourself at lunch time. Besides, it’s good arm exercise.
It’s just as well… As you’re carrying the tray towards the stairs up to the Great Hall, you catch sight of a pair of eyes watching you from a shadowed corner. You keep yourself from visibly double-taking, but note that it’s almost certainly Crassius Servis. Well, you can’t honestly say you’re surprised. By bowing to him in the Tevinter style, you practically dangled yourself in front him like a cut of meat before a cougar. A bored Vint is very similar to a starving wildcat in a lot of ways, really. With that Templar leash, however, you doubt there’s much he can do. Everyone knows taunting a caged animal is stupid; they all do it anyway because it’s fun.
You manage to make it back up the stairs and into Solas rotunda, although you damn near drop the tray when you balance it on one hand to get the door open. Your body is still weak from the healing. Still, you’re happy to struggle with it. Solas’s newfound concern for your well-being doesn’t extend far enough to actually open doors for you. There’s something comforting in that.
You place Solas’s food onto his desk and sit down on what you have now officially decided is “your” stool. You’re the only one who ever seems to use it.
“You seem… distracted,” Solas comments, around the third time that you absentmindedly leave your bread sitting in your soup.
“My mind’s in a hundred places,” you confess. “It’s been a very strange day… I’ve just come from playing chess with the Commander of the Inquisition.”
Solas chuckles. “I’m not surprised. Cullen will challenge anyone who holds still long enough. I didn’t know you played, however.”
“Mm? Oh, yes. I learned in Seheron,” you say, mind miles away. “One of the few good things I can say about the place.” The note Leliana had given you didn’t say anything about where to find Seeker Pentaghast. Perhaps you can catch her as she’s returning with the men? You don’t really want to spend your evening running around Skyhold, hunting for a single woman. This sort of thing is exactly why there are people whose entire job title is “messenger.” Of whom you are not one, you might add.
Solas is talking. No matter how distracted you might be, his voice cuts through the fog and demands your attention. “You learned in Seheron?” he sounds amused, perhaps surprised. You turn to look at him, and he’s wearing a faint smile.
“Yes, my master taught me.” His smile disappears as if it had never been there at all. You can see the question ghosting behind his lips, the question everyone wants to answer. “I hated him. But my intelligence was an asset, the reason I was in Seheron and not back in Minrathous as yet another young elven pleasure slave,” you say bluntly. “He taught me many things. Chess was one of them.”
“You don’t find much pleasure in playing then?” Solas says. Is that… sorrow? Disappointment? You wish he weren’t so difficult to read.
“Actually, I enjoy it,” you admit. “Even in Seheron, it was one of the few things I could take honest pleasure in.” You smile. “The Commander was worried, too. Thought he might have brought up some long-dead trauma. In honesty, I was overjoyed to see a chess set in the gardens. Now, if I can only manage to go to it when the Commander isn’t there.”
“You know, I have my own set,” Solas says, and you light up like the White Spire itself.
“You do?” You’re utterly unable to keep the excitement from your voice. Solas plays? Not only does he play, he has his own set? Maker, is that an invitation?
“I do. A travel set, one I don’t get much use out of,” Solas says, looking well and truly amused at your elation. You might as well be a small, yappy dog at the moment.
“I’m envious! I’ve never owned my own set. No one to play with, and no spare money with which to purchase something I might never use. Just as well; most of my possessions are ash now.” Even that thought can’t damper your enthusiasm.
Solas never does get around to out-and-out inviting you to play a game or examine his chess set, unfortunately, but the two of you do have a fantastic conversation about chess strategies over dinner. You mention your earlier usage of the Starkhaven gambit; he speaks of his fondness for the Verison attack, and everything just sort of spirals out from there.
The two of you talk long after both your plates are cleared. The conversation moves from chess to reading when you mention a chess book you once owned, and from there you find yourself discussing Ines Arancia once again. Solas has already finished volume one; you can’t say you’re surprised. But it does give you an interesting idea. It also reminds you that you have an actual job to do.
“Ah, merde,” you swear. “I still have another missive to deliver. Ir abelas, Solas.” You stand and begin gathering the plates to take back to the kitchen. No matter how much of a hurry you might be, you can’t very well leave Solas with dirty dishes cluttering his rotunda.
An idea strikes you as you’re dropping off the dishes, however. You don’t see Celia, but you grab one of the kitchen workers at random. “Excuse me, but do you know where Seeker Pentaghast might be?” No one knows where to find someone like the one responsible for delivering their meals.
“Seeker Pentaghast? I think Lilah just dropped off her meal not a quarter hour ago. Lilah! Hey, Lilah!” The worker calls over another woman, and you repeat your question to her.
“Oh, Miss Pentaghast? Yes, she spends most of her free time in the loft above the smithy. She’ll be there if she’s not in the training yard or with the Inquisitor,” Lilah informs you matter-of-factly. “I just brought her meal to the smithy not long ago.”
You thank the both of them, allow yourself to pointed towards the smithy, and head out. Fetching Solas’s meals from the kitchen was the greatest idea you had since arriving at Skyhold, honestly.
You head out of the kitchen and down across the courtyard until you find the building that could only be the smithy. Nothing else generates that kind of heat, or that kind of clanging. You walk in cautiously, but fortunately, everyone there is too busy working to pay you any mind.
You climb up the stairs, feeling distinctly like you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be. But there is a woman in the loft, sitting in a chair and avidly reading a book with a cover you recognize. Swords and Shields? Well, what a woman reads in her alone time is none of your business. You have an old copy of the Randy Dowager in your own quarters for similar reasons.
She notices you as you crest the stairs and immediately slams the book down behind a crate. You keep your face perfectly neutral. To your surprise, now that you can see her face, you recognize the woman. She was the companion with the Inquisitor that you didn’t recognize, the day Solas had returned to Skyhold.
Her eyes widen in recognition as well. “It’s you!” she exclaims. Her voice has a heavy Nevarran accent. You freeze with your foot on the last step.
“P…pardon me?” you stammer. That kind of reaction from a Seeker makes you want to leap out the nearest window; it’s all you can do not to bolt.
“You’re the woman whom Cole embraced!” she says, standing. “I had been wondering who you were. When I asked the Inquisitor, he… Well, it doesn’t matter what he said.”
Oh, you can just imagine what he must have said. “Ah… yes, my lady, that was me,” you admit.
“Why did he do that? Do you know what he is?” the Seeker demands, stepping forward. Unbidden, you take a step backwards down the steps.
“U…um… Yes, I know what he is, or at least, I think I do,” you say nervously. This is going very, very badly. “I’m… I’m just here to deliver a message, my lady.”
“Of course,” she says, gesturing you upwards, although she doesn’t back away. You step up onto the landing nervously. “How did you and Cole become acquainted? Has he done anything… odd?”
“I’m sure he has a different standard for odd than I do, my lady. I… This is to be an oral report, my lady, from the Spymaster?” you say, desperately trying to turn the conversation back to your job, so that you can deliver your report and run.
“You work for Leliana? Odd that the Inquisitor wouldn’t mention—”
“I work in the library, my lady. The Spymaster occasionally has me translate things for her.”
Cassandra eyes you. It’s a look of appraisal. She eyes you up and down quickly, taking you in. You bite your lip and try to keep your knees from knocking; it’s about all you can do.
“Very well then. What’s this about?”
“Qunari, my lady,” you explain, and then launch into the same report you’d given the Commander. She listens along, nodding.
“The Commander will want to speak to me about this,” she mutters, seemingly to herself. “Thank you. Now, about Cole.”
“Well, my lady, I really need to be—”
“Sit,” she says. You drop down onto the ground where you stand, legs tucked underneath you. She has a very commanding voice. “On a chair,” she says, sounding amused. You scoot backwards and climb onto a chair nervously. “Don’t look so frightened. I’m only curious. You’re not in trouble.”
“Yes, my lady. Thank you. Cole and I met shortly after I arrived in Skyhold.”
“Which was?”
“Nearly a month ago, my lady. Solas informed me of his nature.”
“Solas?” Seeker Pentaghast says, her eyebrows rising.
“Yes, my lady,” you say. This is one subject on which you do not want to go into more detail on, although the fact that you work with Solas is certainly common knowledge among most of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle.
“Why did he embrace you?”
“I, uh… I was relieved to see the Inquisitor and his party’s safe return,” you admit. “Particularly Master Tethras’s.” Cassandra Pentaghast has a somewhat expressive face, and at the mention of Varric, her visage darkens noticeably. Her eyes dart back to the crate that hides Swords and Shields. You decide not to mention that you’re a fan.
“And?”
“Well, I… I suppose I wanted a hug, my lady,” you say, flushing slightly. “And, Cole, well, he has that way of knowing what you need.”
“I see,” she says, tapping her chin with a long, scarred finger. “Do you know why you can remember him? Most cannot.”
“No, my lady. Solas said it was unusual as well. I don’t even know if I remember every encounter I have with him… But I see him, now and then.”
“Are you a mage?”
The question chills you to your very core, but you actually manage a realistic laugh. “Me, my lady? Maker, no! I’m simply a scribe.”
“Hmm… Well, thank you for the missive, and your time, in any case,” the Seeker says, nodding.
You don’t even say goodbye; the second she dismisses you, you scramble up, bow, and dart down the stairs. You don’t even breathe again until you’re outside the smithy.
Maker! You could kill Leliana for that! Templars and Seekers, Seekers and Templars! What a fucking day!
You head back towards the rotunda, but you never even get across the damn courtyard. There’s some sort of hubbub at the tavern, and you find yourself accosted the instant you walk by.
“‘Ey! Emma! S’Emma!” a familiar voice slurs. You turn in alarm just in time to see a rather inebriated Dalish wrap her arms around your shoulder. “C’mon, someone get her a mug, maybe she’ll throw it at the Inquisitor!” Maker damn it all to hell.
She drags you towards the tavern as you struggle to break her grip. “Really, Dalish, I have work…”
“Don’t gimme that! Boss! Boss, come gitcher girl, she’s misb.. misbeh… bein’ bad!” Dalish shouts out, and you see a familiar face poke out of the door.
“You go for a piss and bring back a lady! Now that’s being a Charger!” Bull says with a laugh. Dalish shoves you towards him, and he drags you the rest of the way into the tavern. Fucking fuckers fuck! When is this day going to end? Drunk mercenaries… When has there ever been any arguing with drunk mercenaries?
When Bull drags you into the tavern, however, you’re greeted with a sight that melts your irritation away and makes everything worth it: the Inquisitor is standing on the bar, mug in hand. There’s cheering and dancing and the Inquisitor is standing on the fucking bar trying to dance and clearly drunk to the point of damn near falling over.
“Oh, Maker, this is beautiful,” you say out loud, grinning. Too bad the whole tavern is seeing this, or it would make for the funniest blackmail ever. “Bull, what in the Void is happening here?”
“Boss’s soldiers made it home okay!” Bull hollers over the din of the tavern. “We thought we should celebrate, and once the Inquisitor joined in, it turned into a real party.”
“S’not a party til the elf throws a mug” Shouts someone that you, embarrassingly, don’t even recognize. Someone thrusts a drink into your hand. Has this… has this sort of thing ever ended well for you? You should really just…
And then you see the Inquisitor topple backwards off the bar.
“Fuck it, I’m not missing this,” you say out loud, and then down the drink in your hand.
Things spiral out of control from there, of course. At some point between your fourth and fifth drinks, someone makes a derogatory comment about the comparative anatomy of Qunari and elves. You throw your mug at him. This probably would have been more humorous if Dalish hadn’t been handing you mugs with cast iron rings the entire night. As it is, the healers can probably fix that guy’s face in the morning.
You stay to the edges of the tavern, avoiding the Inquisitor while still putting yourself in a position to watch his antics. It’s probably good for morale, to see the Herald of Andraste goofing off and celebrating the survival of his troops. It’s certainly doing wonders for your morale, although maybe not for the intended reason. If he’d just fall off one more chair, you wouldn’t even mind taking a pay cut.
That doesn’t mean you get to stay to yourself, however. There are more than a few people attempting to get you to throw a mug at the Inquisitor, often by reminding you that he is a Templar, sort of. As if you only throw things at Templars. And you certainly won’t be throwing anything at the Inquisitor. You keep that in mind as you get drunker and drunker, until when Krem stumbles up to you—just a deep in the drink as you are, by the looks of him. About all you manage to mumble is “not throwin’ a mug.”
Krem laughs and throws a jovial arm around you. You’re at once reminded of how strong he is despite his similar height. Dalish is so far gone that you suspect she’s probably already passed out by now, but a few of the other Chargers note the two of you. They have an instinct for excitement, it seems, and always gravitate towards the most interesting section of the party. Apparently, that’s now you and Krem.
“Hey there, Da’nan!” They use Dalish’s little nickname for you. The fact that they can drunkenly slur elven is kind of impressive in its own way. “Got yer eyes on another Charger, eh?”
It’s a sign of how deep in the drink you are that you laugh at this. “‘Nother? How many Chargers ‘m I suppos’ta be after a’ this poin’? ‘M losin’ track!”
The raucous teasing continues as they steer the two of you towards a long table where Bull and most of the other Chargers are sitting. They’re damn near out of chairs; half the Chargers are sitting on each other. The Iron Bull, in fact, has a woman who is very decidedly not a Charger sprawled out on his lap as if it were an armchair. You can’t help notice that her red hair very nearly mimics your own. Well, you know he has a thing for redheads.
When Krem sinks down into a chair towards the other end of the table, you follow him down, sitting down his lap and kicking your boots up on the table. This gets a round of cheers from the Chargers, and you can’t help grinning. Maybe mercenary life wouldn’t be so bad. You bet that’s how they get half of their recruits… just get ‘em drunk enough to sign the papers. You rest your head back on Krem’s shoulder—Maker, that’s comfortable. He’s just the right size, damnit.
Krem angles his head to look down at you, and you can see his blushing… Or is that just redness from the alcohol? You’re way too drunk to tell. He leans his head down, just a little closer. You tilt your head to the left, back further, until your faces are damn near touching. He’s definitely blushing now, and his lips part ever so slightly. Damn, that look on his face… Really makes you want to…
“Hey, Krem! Getting a taste for Bull’s sloppy seconds?”
Krem’s head almost ricochets away from you, and he scoots back suddenly away from the table. You feet stay on the table; your ass leaves his lap. You crash onto the ground in an undignified heap. The ringing leaves your ears just in time for you to hear Krem say “as if!” You watch from the ground as he storms off, then your eyes slide over to the man whose teasing had ruined your little moment. You stand up with the help of the table, calmly brush yourself off… and sock the loud-mouthed Charger square in the jaw.
That’s the last thing you remember.