Hangover
Confusion. Confusion and pain. Those are your only two companions. You groan as you begin to wake, seriously regretting every decision in your life. What… what happened last night? Wait, more importantly, where are you? You blink, blearily, and try to focus on your surroundings. This isn’t your tiny little room, and for a confused moment, you wonder if the whole “joining the Inquisition” thing was just a drug-induced nightmare.
You don’t recognize the bed you’re in. It’s a giant, four poster monstrosity of a bed. You can honestly say you’ve never woken up in a bed like this in your life. You rub your head and let out a little moan. Your entire face is throbbing. What… what happened last night?
“Oh, hey, you’re up.”
Oh no. Ooooooh no. Nonononono. No.
You stare at Iron Bull, utterly uncomprehending. Flashes from last night… a drink that burned like fire. Thea laughing and leaving the bar, but you were still there.
You stare at Iron Bull in abject horror, not particularly concerned about looking meek and small in the face of all this.
“Here, drink this, you’ll feel better.” You eye the cup he hands you cautiously, and give it a sniff, but it’s just water. You drink it slowly, staring at the giant Qunari over the rim. It’s ice cold, and it does help you feel a little better, but nothing was going to be particularly comforting after the realization that you’d woken up in the absolute worst place you could have. You glance down yourself, and find that you are, praise Andraste, still fully clothed.
“Wh… what happened last night?” you manage to choke out, clutching your head, which feels as though it’s about to spin off your shoulders.
The giant of a man chuckles. “Don’t panic, you just had a little bit too much to drink. None of us had any idea where you slept, so I decided to be the gentleman.”
You groan into your hands. “I didn’t… did I do anything stupid?”
“Well, chugging that Dragon Piss was pretty stupid.”
“Nnnn. Yeah. Other than that?”
“You threw a mug at a Templar. Or you might have been throwing it somewhere else, but it hit a Templar.”
“Oh, Maker. I hit a Templar?”
“She had a good sense of humor about it.”
You groan again. “Please, if you see her, point her out so I can apologize. What was in that alcohol you gave me?”
“Alcohol.”
You let out a sound that could only be described as a whine, despite yourself. “Andraste’s breath… anything else?”
“You sat on Krem, for a bit, but I don’t think he minded.”
“Who the hell is ‘Krem’? Please don’t tell me he’s a priest or something.”
“Wow, you really don’t remember much, do you?” Bull says with a chuckle, running a thumb across his nose. “He’s one of the Chargers.”
Sitting on a mercenary’s lap. Alright. You’ve done weirder things. Like throwing a tankard at a fucking Templar! You want to be irritated at Iron Bull; he’s the one who handed you that damn drink. But at the end of the day, you’re the one who got out of control. You let a long sigh. “I am very sorry. I don’t normally drink very much at all.”
“Yeah, we kind of guessed that one.”
You wince. “Sorry. Thanks for…” The words turn like worms in your mouth, but you spit them out. “…taking care of me.” Ugh. Gross. You feel gross now. “I’ll avoid… what did you call it, Dragon Piss? I’ll avoid that, in the future. I think I have some apologies to make.”
“Hold on.” You freeze, halfway through standing up, just kind of awkwardly squatting over the bed. Iron Bull laughs. “You used to be military? You’re good at following orders.” You flush and finish standing up, but you don’t try to leave, instead turning to watch the giant Qunari. He’s less scary when he’s sitting and you’re standing, at least. “I wanted to ask some questions about a few things you said last night.”
Well, shit.
“It seems like private is the best place for them.”
Well, FUCK.
You manage to keep your face calm. “A-alright, what did else did I say?”
“Well, you got in a bit of a screaming match with Threnn, it was a little hard to make out the words.”
You lean back against a wall. “Okay, wait. Who’s Threnn, and why was I in a screaming match with them? God, she isn’t the Templar, is she?”
“Oh, no, just another servant of the Inquisition, like you.” His voice is casual, so is his body language, but you’re not fooled. In fact, you’re starting to have a nagging suspicion about what he was before he left the Qun. Not that you’ve ever heard about a Qunari re-educator ever leaving. “She used to work for Loghain. Still pretty loyal to him, even now.”
You stiffen. “Oh.” You don’t remember, but that’s for the best. If you could recall her face, there would definitely be a round two.
“That name got thrown around a LOT during the fight, as I recall.”
You grunt, then sigh, rubbing your head. “I have no idea why you’re so curious about me, ser.” He gives you a look, but you ignore it. “Yes, I can see myself getting into a fight about that.” You would apologize to her alongside the Templar, but that would require you having done something worth apologizing for. You grind a hand into your forehead, ignoring the pain and nausea it causes. “And I’ll need to avoid that tavern. It seems I cannot handle my… ‘Dragon Piss,’ you called it?”
“Eh, you had a good night. No one here’s going to hold much of a grudge about a drunken elf in a tavern. It’s expected. But I’m still curious about what has you irritated about Loghain. Sounded a bit more personal than ‘traitor to my country,’ and I’ve never known Alienage elves to give much of a shit about politics.”
You are too hungover for this bullshit. “How much do you know about Loghain, ser? Because there’s a factoid about him that gets left out of the stories when they’re busy praising him for slaying the archdemon! For example, did you know, to fund his stupid little petty civil war, he sold Fereldan citizens into slavery? Nary a mention! Slavery is bad, apparently, only when it happens to human children. Elves, we’re basically free little money bags for the kingdom, running around the alleyways!”
Iron Bull’s look softens, almost imperceptibly. “I’d heard the Hero put a stop to it,” he comments. You’re too busy glowering.
“Oh, she did. After a good number of elves had already been shipped out.”
“So that’s how you wound up in Tevinter?”
You sink down onto the floor. “Yeah. That’s how I wound up in Tevinter. Are we done playing Twenty Questions now? Because I’m hungover and I have to go apologize to half of Skyhold for being a drunken prat.”
“Hey, calm down.” His voice is soft, or you would have bristled at the command. You’re still pretty out of it, and cold water only helps your hangover so much. You’re also irritated at having been pecked and prodded about your history for two solid days. Obviously you had something ready, to the extent possible given how sudden your decision to come here had been, but no one has ever cared this much, and that’s made it easier. You’d used far too much of your reality in your story. All these half-truths will wear on you, eventually. How long can you possibly hope to stay? He slides down onto the floor next to you, and this time, you do bristle, a bit.
“Don’t worry so much about what people think of you. Everyone’s seen behavior a lot worse than someone getting a little too much drink in them. You’ll see.”
You grumble something incoherent into your knees.
“So… when did you get away from Tevinter? In Seheron?”
You stand up abruptly, finally more irritated than you are cautious. “I really should be reporting into the library, ser. That manuscript won’t translate itself. Thank you for your assistance.” Your voice carries the ice you’d like to be throwing. You leave, somewhat surprised when no one tries to stop you.
You decide not to even bother trying to get to your room to change clothes and just head straight towards the library.
“Hey, Emma!” You turn, startled, to find a man you barely remember waving at you. Mildly confused, you wave back. “Hope I see you at the tavern again.” He winks. That’s a wink that carries a lot of meaning. You just sort of smile and then continue on, through the practice yard.
“Hey, elf, think fast!”
Having heard that line more than once in your life, you do, in fact, think fast, which means fast enough to turn towards the sound, see a mug barreling towards you face, and reach up. You don’t manage to catch it, but you do bat it away. Startled, you stare in the direction it came from, and see a group of laughing Templars.
“She’s got faster reflexes than you, Belinda!” One of them snorts, playfully shoving at another Templar.
“Aw, shut it,” ‘Belinda’ says, rolling her eyes. “You didn’t have to throw a mug at her.”
“It was hilarious! She smacked the damn thing out of the air. Isn’t she a librarian?”
You clear your throat, memory flashing backwards for an appropriate quip. “You should see the way Dorian throws books. You’d need fast reflexes, too.”
The Templars laugh even harder, and even Belinda, who you are fairly sure is the one you clocked with the mug, cracks a smile. “Eh, get out of here, elf,” she says, waving her hand carelessly. “Go wrestle your books.”
By the time you get to the Great Hall, your mood has improved slightly. You suppose Iron Bull was correct about people not holding a grudge. Well, about the Templar not holding a grudge, anyway. You’re feeling so tentatively optimistic about people’s temperaments that you even go through the rotunda, rather than around to the other set of stairs, as most of the library workers do. You glance around carefully, to see if the man from before is in here, but you don’t see him. You relax slightly, and make your away around the wall, admiring the mural. It seems more has been done since you were last here. Perhaps that fellow is a painter?
“Came back to admire some more?”
At the low voice, you damn near jump out of your skin, spinning around to see a man you would swear by the Chant had not been there before. The man from before, by the sound of his voice, but… an elf? You had been so flustered before, you hadn’t even noticed.
“Maker’s breath! I’m not going to survive here a week! My heart will give out!” you exclaim, clutching at your pounding chest.
The corner of the bald elf’s mouth quirks up, very slightly. “My apologies. It was not my intention to startle you.”
He stands with his hands locked behind his back, and you notice something else odd about him… He is tall. Taller than perhaps any elf you’ve seen, and broader as well, but too lithe looking for it to be said he looks like a human. You shake your head slowly. “I’ve intruded on you again. I’m sorry, ser.”
He shakes his head. “It’s no intrusion. This is hardly a private room. Although, I do note most library staff go up the other stairwell.” He tilts his head slightly, as if inquiring, despite the fact he asked no question.
You gesture lamely at the wall behind you. “It’s pretty,” you say dryly. “I wanted to get a better look at it. Last time I was in here, some strange man startled me.” His lip quirks again, and you find it strangely satisfying.
“So, I assume you’re new library staff?” he asks as you absentmindedly study the length of his ears.
“Huh? Oh. Well, yes, I suppose I am. They have me translating an old manuscript on High Dragons.”
He frowns then, his brow crinkling, and you remember that your goal was to be known to as few people as possible. Seems a little late for that, however, after making a spectacle of yourself at the tavern. This man is an elf, and seems to work—or at least lurk—nearby. Perhaps he could be an interesting addition to the friends you’ve already decided you need to make.
“The one in Ancient Tevene?”
You nod. “I was a linguist, before,” you say, for what seems like the thousandth time since you arrived at this damn fortress.
“Quite the linguist, it seems.” You don’t like the way he’s looking at you. Well, that’s not entirely true. Part of you likes it quite a bit, but that is the part you don’t listen to. That way lies disaster. “Leliana was having quite the time finding someone to translate it.”
“Yes, so I keep hearing. If I’d realized a growing military force was in such dire need of a linguist, I might have come sooner.”
You feel a light surge of mana brushing against you, and freeze, before forcing yourself to relax again. It’s not something you should be able to notice. His prodding is more subtle than most mages’, and you’re a bit surprised you noticed it all. But as long as he doesn’t cram that mana down your throat, you’re confident that you’re safe.
“What made you come?” he inquires, as if to cover for his prodding.
“There were very well crafted posters featuring an elven lass with a bow,” you say dryly. He raises an eyebrow. “No, really, there were. They couldn’t have been complete nonsense, since I managed to trip into the library instead of into the maid’s quarters.”
“The Inquisition is very good at recognizing talent, regardless of who holds it.” His voice is polite, clipped.
Your mouth curves into a smile. “That was a very good answer, ser. Formal! Practiced, even. I like it. I bet a lot of the elves in the place would say that. Exactly in the manner you said it, even!” You grin at his raised eyebrow. “I’m not blind, ser, nor am I deaf. I’ve had half a dozen stammered words starting with ‘n-‘ since I arrived, and people ask me what I did to wind up in the library, but don’t ask Thea. But I wasn’t expecting heaven, I was expecting walls. These are very thick, and I find myself becoming fond of them.”
“Are you normally so casual with strangers?” The firmness in his voice makes you flush slightly. Maybe the elves in this place are more rigid than the ones you’re used to. No one ever plays pretend at the humans being nice where you’re from. Not when there’s none of them around, anyway.
“No, ser. Sorry if I’ve given offense.” You move to duck into a bow, but a hand snaps from behind his back to stop you, resting firmly on your shoulder.
“I am not someone to be bowed to.”
You frown. People not wanting you to call them ‘ser,’ not wanting you to bow, wanting to know all about you. “Pardon me for saying, ser, but this Skyhold is a very, very strange place.”
“I suppose it may be a little out of the ordinary,” he admits, and you smile despite yourself.
“I am sorry to have bothered you, ser.”
He shakes his head. “You were no bother. Just watch that waggling tongue doesn’t get you into trouble.”
“Yes, ser,” you say as you turn towards the stairs. “I will be very careful with the location of my tongue from now on.”
You settle in with your manuscript, determined to get a good day’s work in despite your delayed start. Unfortunately, fate is working against you in the form of more or less constant interruptions. Thea, of course, is eager to know what exactly happened with you and Iron Bull. She, of course, is aware you never made it back to your room last night. You say you’ll tell her later, which only gets her more excited. Then the moustached human appears as well, blathering on even as you try to ignore him.
“Ser, do you honestly have nothing better to do?” you finally ask him, exasperated.
“Oh! My wounded heart! How could you be so cruel, Emma?”
“Melodramatic. You’re Tevinter alright,” you say with a scowl.
“Ah, yes, about that. I heard I was right in my guess.” He even looks smug. You will constantly be wanting to punch people, it seems. Such is your lot in life.
“Please tell me that Iron Bull told you, and it isn’t just common knowledge across the keep.”
“Iron Bull told me, but I suspect it’ll be common knowledge soon enough. These soldiers like their gossip.”
You let out a frustrated groan through clenched teeth. “You people have no concept of personal privacy.”
“Would you feel better if I told you my dark and sordid history?”
“Let me guess,” you say sharply. “You didn’t fit into the mold your parents wanted for you, and you left rather than be forced to conform.”
He actually looks taken aback, and is gloriously quiet. You turn your attention back to the manuscript.
“Alright, how did you guess?” he says, after a moment. You grind your teeth together. This man cannot take a hint. You rub the bridge of your nose.
“Honestly, ser, think about this. Maybe you’re a spy, and if you are, you’re either the best or worst spy in history. If you’re not a spy, you’re an attractive altus miles away from Tevinter, possibly working with their enemies. Tevinter nobles are all about the perfect fit. It’s not much of a jump.”
“Not for some, apparently.” You jolt at the sound, and turn guiltily to see Iron Bull coming out from behind a bookshelf, still looking into a book. You wouldn’t have figured him for a reader. Maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s here just to continue to harass you.
“Our delightful elven friend was just regaling me with tales of what an open book I am,” Dorian says sourly.
“Well, she’s not wrong,” Iron Bull says thoughtfully. Dorian huffs sourly. “Still, it’s not a layman’s observation.”
“I’m afraid I’m no layman when it comes to Tevinter,” you say bluntly. “As you already well know. It was an educated guess, yes, but hardly a difficult one.” You glare between the two of them. “Do neither of you have any important work to be doing for the Inquisition? Because I believe I am supposed to translate this tome before next year.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll let you work,” Iron Bull says with a chuckle. As he turns, he adds over his shoulder, “See you at dinner!”
You drop your face into the book you’re writing in to hide the look of murder that has to be plain on your face. You growl into the spine. These men will be the death of you!