Solas does, eventually, steer the conversation back towards his gift, although not after prodding at you for more information on your religious beliefs of all things. After having presented him with more than enough information regarding the intersection of your beliefs and the Inquisitor, you politely dodge the next few questions until he brings it back around to the book. You’re willing to be more open about a lot of things with Solas. Religion isn’t one of them.
“Last night, after you went to bed?” Solas is saying in that mildly curious tone of his.
“Yes. I’m keeping it in my room, lest it be mistaken for a library book,” you reply.
“I’m beginning to wonder if you do ever sleep.” The comment seems innocent enough, but the look in his eyes is anything but. You repress a shudder… Does he know something, already? Has he perhaps been talking to Iron Bull? Or worse, has his magic granted him some insight? When you start walking down that road, there are a seemingly infinite number of ways for you to accidentally out yourself, ways you have no way of even knowing about.
“I sleep,” you say with a laugh. “Perhaps not as much as you, ser Early-to-Bed-Late-to-Rise. But I do sleep.”
He doesn’t seem to believe you, but he at least lets the matter drop. Maker… you’re going to have to have some excuse for your insomnia for him, before your evading becomes too obvious. It’s at times like these you really wish you had a mage you could trust. That would make fooling everyone else (particularly other mages) a lot more straightforward.
“I can’t imagine you managed to read much of it before sleep took you, then,” Solas says, eyes still far from the playful look he had when teasing you.
“Only a little,” you admit. It’s a bald-faced lie; you’d read for hours, right up until you rolled out of bed for your daily beating. “I started with the section on Compassion. It’s informative, but… Cole is different… at least, he seems to be. Admittedly, I’m hardly an expert.”
“Cole is unique. Normally, spirits cannot take a physical form or exist solidly outside the Fade without a host. Cole defies both of these facts.”
“Are all spirits…” you tap your head, unable to find the proper word. “…Odd, like Cole is? The way he talks and thinks is different.” It’s frustrating to hold a conversation in which you genuinely want to learn while lying about the knowledge you already possess. Much like your early training with Iron Bull, it’s more about pretending to learn things you already know. Annoying when it’s fighting, but when it’s something you have a genuine curiosity about? It’s agonizing.
“Spirits mimic aspects of life that they see through the Veil. They’re not always accurate, and they don’t always see nuance or… ‘shades of grey,’ as it were. None act quite like the humans they seek to mimic. Cole is, again, unique. He is here. He is learning.”
You’re quiet for a little, simply eating as you process Solas’s words. Cole certainly is a treasure… both in his rarity and in the simple fact that he’s a kindhearted individual who seems to genuinely care about you. That’s some bitter irony… You always hoped that one day you’d meet someone willing to look past your flaws and failures, and genuinely care about you. It just took you meeting a spirit whose sole purpose is caring about people.
“He must be popular,” you muse out loud.
“Quite the contrary. Most cannot even remember they ever saw him, and of those who can, most fear or dislike him for his ability to see even their deepest secrets.” Was it just you, or did that comment seem barbed? Well, Cole did say he’d mentioned to Solas that you’d requested Cole’s silence. Under the same circumstances, you would be positively erupting with suspicion.
“I wish I could say that sounds anything but typical,” you say with a sigh. You gnaw idly on a particularly chewy piece of crust. “I wonder why I remember him? And I wonder if I’m actually remembering all of my encounters with him. Maker, that’s a weird thought.”
“You may not be,” Solas says with a chuckle. “I’ve witnessed him make a mistake while trying to comfort someone, only to make them forget and then immediately try again.”
“That’s… alright, I guess that’s a little frightening,” you admit. “But as long as he doesn’t have me forgetting anything important, I suppose it’s worth the risk.”
“What’s worth the risk?”
“Cole. Getting to know him. He’s… I mean, yes, admittedly, he’s unique and fascinating and an anomaly and all of that. I doubt I’ll ever get another chance to talk with a spirit like this. But he’s also… genuine. Kindhearted.” You pause for a moment as you chew and think. “I find myself thinking more about what you said before… about spirits being people,” you confess.
“Oh? Have you come to any new conclusions?” Solas has long since finished eating, and you’re only gnawing on hard-to-chew scraps at this point, but he’s yet to go back to reading.
“Cole is the only spirit I’ve met. I’m not sure if I can really make any conclusion just based on him, but… If anyone tried to tell me he wasn’t a person, I think I’d be offended. I’d think them an idiot, certainly.”
Solas smiles, and your eyes latch onto it. Such a broad smile from Solas feels like a summer sunrise. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to; you can practically feel the approval. To cover for the sudden spread of heat to your face, you quickly begin fumbling with the dishes. “I… better take these back to the kitchen, then,” you mutter pointlessly, gathering them all up in a heap and skedaddling out the rotunda door.
The crowd has been moved evenly to either side of the Great Hall when you exit the rotunda. You quickly see why… there’s a man being brought up the middle of the hall in chains, with armed guards on either side. Seems like you spent a little too long conversing with Solas.
You’re hardly going to dart across, so you just sort of stand there, awkwardly holding a stack of dirty dishes and tableware. The crowd doesn’t even move out of your way, but instead pushes and bumps you around. You wind up nowhere near Solas’s door by the time you hear the Commander’s voice ring through the hall.
“Knight-Captain Denam, Inquisitor. He awaits judgment for serving the Lord Seeker at Therinfal Redoubt. I knew some of the knights who died there… I asked to oversee his sentencing.” You barely repress a shudder… you’re quite glad you can’t see Commander Cullen from your place in the crowd, although with the rate you’re being shoved around, that may change. His voice is cold, hard, and angry… everything you’ve learned to fear in Templars.
“Denam knew the dangers of red lyrium,” Cullen continues. “He murdered the knight-vigilant and corrupted his brothers and sisters.”
You hear the Inquisitor’s voice then, just as cold, but slightly bored sounding, as if he has better things to do. “We’ll find a suitable punishment for the good captain.” You can’t help remember that the Inquisitor has been training as a Templar as well. You have no sympathy for the man in chains, but you are very glad you’re not in his position. If you’re not very careful, it’s quite possible you will be one day.
A voice cries out, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. “I only did as I was told!” That must be Knight-Captain Denam, then, mounting the classical “not my fault” defense. You suppose there’s not much else he can say, in these circumstances.
The fury in the Commander’s voice as he cuts Denam off sends a chill through you. “We found everything! The corpse of the knight-vigilant, even papers proving you knew red lyrium was poison!”
Ah… so that’s what the man had gotten up to. No wonder rumors are circulating that the Inquisitor will sentence him to death.
“There is a greater power walking this world!” the Knight-Captain explodes. “I wasn’t fool enough to deny it. None of you would have. I demand justice!” A greater power…? Is he talking about that… thing, that they were saying destroyed Haven? You’d thought that to be no more than rumor. Red Templars would be enough to blow through a small town’s petty defenses. Are the Templars perhaps delusional, or is there really more going on here?
The Inquisitor waits for the murmuring to die down before speaking in a clear, clipped voice. “I didn’t suffer at your hands. That was your knights in the Templar Order. Let the remaining Templars judge the man who failed them.”
Poetic, you suppose. The penalty will most certainly be death, or at least, that’s what the screaming Knight-Captain seems to think. You watch as he’d dragged back through the hall. Interesting… will the Templar put on a show of their own, or merely run the man through? It will probably be a more private affair than this, in any case. After Denam’s screaming fades away, you push your way through the crowds as best you can. They’re not dispersing quickly, although they are spacing out a bit, which enables you to get to the door that leads to the servant’s quarters and kitchen.
As you enter the door, not only Celia but several others workers suddenly swarm you.
“Emma!” says a woman you don’t even recognize. “Did you see what happened? Has the Inquisitor judged him yet? We heard a fuss in the courtyard!”
You blink in surprise as the dishes are quickly unloaded from your arms. “Um… Yeah, I got caught in the Great Hall while it all happened…”
“I knew it!” exclaims Celia, then clears her throat awkwardly as you stare at her. “Well, I just figured, you know, since you work up in the rotunda, you’d be able to see…”
“What happened?” demands someone else.
“The Inquisitor handed the Knight-Captain over to the Templars. It seems to be expected that they’ll execute him for treason against the Order,” you explain. There are gasps around the kitchen. You note with some amusement that even Gaston is listening in, although he’s pretending to sharpen a knife and ignore his surroundings.
“That’ll make the Templars happy…”
“I wonder if there’ll be a public execution?”
“What is it with you and executions?”
It’s actually quite a while before you manage to escape the kitchens. The girls want to know every last detail of the trial, since they couldn’t see it themselves. You find yourself a little swept up in it, but as long as the Commander never knows you had a pot placed on your head while you acted out his role in the trial, you should be fine.
“Aaargh! Noooo!” you exclaim dramatically as you pretend to be dragged out of the kitchen by two cooks playing the role of the guards. “You can’t do thiiiiiis!”
“Was he really so dramatic?” wonders one of the serving girls who’s enjoying your impromptu re-enactment.
“Justice has been served!” you shout out, throwing your voice across the room and speaking in a poor facsimile of the Inquisitor’s voice, deep baritone and very manly. “Nooooooooo-“ you cry out, switching back to the voice you’re using for Denam as you’re dragged out the door and around the corner.
The applause surprises you a bit, but you dart back into the doorway to take a quick bow before Gaston yells out, “Oh, alright, get out of here, malin lapin1!” and waves his knife vaguely at you. You give a little Orlesian curtsy to him before darting off. The laughter of the kitchen staff follows you, echoing through the hallway.
“You’re the oddest messenger I’ve ever seen.”
You’ve never run into anyone other than servants on your way to and from the kitchen, so the voice, with it’s clear Tevinter accent, makes you jump. You stare into the somewhat shadowed archway where the voice came from… it’s the Tevinter mage you delivered a missive to, once, complete with his Templar escort. …Servis, his name had been. Crassius Servis.
“Can I help you, ser?” you ask after you’ve composed yourself.
“Oh, no; I’m just attracted to the sounds of merriment,” he says dryly. “I take it the next fellow didn’t fare so well as I under the Inquisitor’s judgment.”
“You’re… Oh.” You clear your throat delicately. “That explains the Templar, then.” The Templar merely glares.
The Tevinter mage snorts. “Did you think all mages of the Inquisition were leashed like this?”
“This is the South, ser,” you say wryly. “All the mages have leashes.”
“Not anymore,” he says, his eyes glinting. “Not since the rebellion. Even here, in the stronghold of the Southern Templars, I see mages running around without a Templar guard following them. Why, even one of my countrymen, free as a lark.”
“Did you want a second showing of my performance, ser, or can I get back to my work?” you ask as politely as you can manage. You may prefer mages to Templars, but Vints will never be your favorite people, despite the best efforts of both Dorian and Krem. Even if you do enjoy their sarcastic nature sometimes.
“I can think of a great number of performances I’d like to see you do,” the man says with the sly grin of a snake. “But far be it from me to keep a woman from her duties! …Whatever those may be.”
You give the man a bow in the Tevinter style, one a servant might give to an Altus. The look of surprise on Servis’s face when you rise from it is worth it. You grin your own serpentine smile at him before you head back towards the rotunda.
“That took you quite a while,” Solas comments as you (finally) make it back to the rotunda.
“Maker, tell me about it,” you grumble. “I got caught in the Great Hall for the proceedings, then the girls in the kitchen wanted to know what happened, then I got quizzed by a Vint mage. Mondays…”
“Can you not even make across Skyhold without trouble?” asks Solas, sounding amused. “I shudder to think what happened while I was gone.”
“If you can imagine it, it probably happened,” you say, sinking down into your desk chair. “Well, at least now I can finally—“
“Hey! Psssst! Em’! Hey!”
Fuck.
You glance over to the door, where Sera is utterly failing at being subtle.
“Em’! Over here!”
“Sera, you know you can come in,” Solas says mildly.
She glares over at him before opening the door the rest of the way. “I’m just here for Emma,” she says stubbornly, crossing her arms. “She’s got trainin’.”
“So I hear,” Solas says, leveling you with a long, pointed look.
You sigh. This is so not the elf sandwich you’d like to be involved in with these two. “You’re a bit earlier than usual, Sera.”
“Thought I might have trouble pryin’ you two apart. Might be obsessin’ over some old book or sommit.”
You don’t know what hurts more, the derision or the accuracy. “My job is obsessing over old books, Sera,” you say with a sigh as you stand.
“Don’t you have work to do?” interjects Solas.
“Hey! This is work!” Sera protests. You raise your eyebrows; Solas must do something similar because Sera makes a face at the both of you. “Too much elf in this room! C’mon, Em.”
You give Solas an apologetic look as you follow Sera out of the door onto the walkway above the courtyard.
“Ugh,” she says as the two of you walk towards the outer walls. “I dunno why you work with him, Em’. Such an ass.”
“I don’t work with him, I work near him,” you correct. “And I doubt you’re actually curious about my reasons.”
“Ugh, definitely not,” she says with a gagging noise. “Watchin’ that old perv flirt with you just—“
“Maker, Sera, what is your problem?” you snap.
“It’s that Solas!” she snaps right back. “He’s too elfy! He—“
“I don’t know if you missed this, Sera,” you exclaim, pointing at one of your pointed ears, “But I’m an elf!” You shout this perhaps a little more loudly than intended… a passing guard looks over, startled.
“So am I! But we’re not weird about it like he is! S’not all we are!” she protests right back.
“Solas and I share an interest in Elven history,” you say through gritted teeth. “As well as many other forms of history, as my job is translating ancient texts. I like that you see past my ears, Sera. Really. It’s one of many things that I love about you. But that doesn’t mean the rest of the world doesn’t see them! I-“
“Wait, love?”
You flush, a combination of embarrassment and anger. “I… don’t get semantic on me! I just… I mean… You know, the rest of the world treats us differently because we’re elves. You have to know this! You were on those posters!”
“What the hell was on those posters that has anythin’ to do with this?”
“You know, ‘An Inquisition for All?’”
“It is! For the little people, you know! Not just the big, stupid ones.”
You pause, eyes widening in mild horror as you realize the implications. She doesn’t know. “…Sera… The Inquisition only hung those up in alienages and stores that elves frequented, from what I saw.”
“They… wot?” She looks confused, then shocked, then angry. “They wot?! Those little shits! They told me that was to get the little people more comfortable with the Inquisition! I thought they were full of it, but then you showed up, and… Maker, and you’re an elf! I’m going to kill them. Oooooh, that Eugene prat is history; I’m going to cram an arrow right up his-“
You cut off her rant, catching her shoulder as she turns to leave, probably to shove an arrow someplace unpleasant. “Sera, I’m sorry. I, um… thought you knew.”
“Well, I didn’t! I never would’ve agreed if I knew they were turning it into some weird, stupid elf thing!” she snaps.
“Yeah, that’s shit… Although you probably shouldn’t actually shoot anyone…?”
“Ugh!” She throws her arms up into the air in frustration. “Stupid bloody pissbag nobles think they just…” You follow after her as she storms across the ramparts. She doesn’t seem to be going anywhere in particular, but you do want to make sure she doesn’t try to shoot the Inquisitor. Especially not because of something you said. You just let her rant as she paces, try to keep up, and offer occasional platitudes.
Eventually, near the tavern, she slows. “I didn’t bring ya out here to argue, y’know,” she says with a sigh.
“I know… And I am sorry. I really didn’t know that you… didn’t know,” you say lamely.
“Eh, I’m sorry too. I’ll deal with his Inquisitorialness later,” she says with a scowl. “I actually thought of somethin’ fun to show you, and I’m not letting a bunch of assholes ruin it.”
“What did you think of?” you ask, relieved to have something to distract her with. It’s not like you to lose your temper… Okay, yes, it is. But you’d rather not lose it at Sera.
“Well, you’re good at throwin’ knives, yeah? So I was thinkin’ about neat stuff I’ve seen people do with knives, and that made me think of this!” She reaches into a nearby barrel—that’s why she was going towards the tavern, presumably–and pulls out a potato.
“…Knives made you think of potatoes?”
“Not potatoes! Jugglin’!” she says cheerfully.
“Oh, of course… That makes much more sense.”
“Oh, shut it, you.”
Despite its rocky start, your afternoon with Sera passes pleasantly. You actually really don’t know how to juggle, although it seems like the kind of thing you would have picked up somewhere. Sera is right; your natural dexterity lends itself well to this sort of thing, although by the end you’ve probably dropped more potatoes than you caught. Sera even tries to show you two-person juggling, where you use six potatoes and toss them back and forth. She gets hit in the face with a potato for her trouble. You only stop when the sun begins to get low in the sky, and you remember you still have duties. You don’t want to see how sour Solas will be if you’re late with his dinner because you were fooling around with Sera.
You don’t tell Sera that’s where you’re going, however. Whatever her issue with Solas is, you don’t want to exacerbate it. “Hey, sorry, but I have to go play house-elf to that person you hate” would probably exacerbate. Instead, you make your normal work-related excuses, and head towards the kitchen. You’re expecting any number of things when you arrive, but Cole determinedly carrying an entire sack of turnips out the back door is not one of them. You hold the door open for him and watch as literally no one appears to take notice of the young man carrying the giant turnip bag. You watch as he crosses the courtyard, then slowly shake your head. He has a good reason… probably.
You pull together a dinner for you and Solas, and find that the kitchen has returned to being happy to see you after a few days of sourness over how you procured food for the orphans. If you’d known it was as simple as making a fool of yourself for their amusement, you might have tried it earlier. Either way, you’re certainly not complaining when one of the chefs points out a tray of chocolates for one of the Orlesian dignitaries.
They won’t miss half a dozen, surely. You put them on a plate and tuck it under a cover for good measure. No point in advertising your theft.
“I was beginning to worry I would be missing dinner,” Solas comments as you enter the rotunda.
“Sorry if I’m a bit late,” you apologize. “But I’ve got something to make up for it.” You place the covered plate down on the desk, but hold it closed when he reaches for it. “Uh-uh. After dinner. Haven’t you ever heard to eat your vegetables?”
“Desert then, I take it? More cakes, pilfered from the decadent Orlesians?” Solas says wryly.
“Clean your plate first,” you say with a wink, placing the rest of his food in front of him. You unload your food as well, and sit down on your little stool at the corner of his desk. Interestingly, it always seems to be there when you arrive with Solas’s food, but you never notice it while you’re working. Is he honestly moving it so you have a place to sit? The thought makes your heart beat a little harder.
“So,” Solas says after a moment of just eating. You note that he appears to be skipping over the turnips in his salad… One more thing to remember for future meals. “What sorts of things is Sera ‘training’ you in?”
“Whatever she happens to think of,” you say with a laugh. “She tried teaching me to shoot a bow, but I’m useless at it. Climbing walls, picking locks, acrobatics… Typical roguish talents, I suppose.”
“Climbing walls?”
He would latch on to that one.
“Mmhmm. Amazingly, I didn’t actually get injured that time.”
“That time?” His eyebrows shoot up.
“Aha… Yes, well, you know. Accidents happen.”
He looks remarkably unconvinced, but you’re definitely not going into any of the details. “Today, she was showing me how to juggle.” You pause, waiting for him to take a drink, then add “I’m terrible at it, of course, but I got to hit her in the face with a potato.”
Solas chokes on his drink at that. You feel quite satisfied. You smile as he coughs to clear his throat, patting himself on the chest. “It’s a shame you two can’t stand each other, really.”
“I promise you,” Solas says as he wipes off his mouth delicately with a napkin. “The distaste is purely one-way. I have no particular issue with our… friend.”
The way he pauses before he says “friend” catches your ear, but it has so many possible meanings that you don’t dwell on it. He may suspect you and Sera of being more than friends—not an entirely baseless assumption—or it could be any other number of things, ranging from harmless to telling.
“In the end, it still means the only one I have to ride harts with is Belassan,” you say with a laugh.
Solas quirks an eyebrow upward. “Is that an invitation?”
“Do you want it to be?” Two can play the “answer everything with a question” game, damn it.
Solas doesn’t answer, merely looks at you, and the silence stretches out as the two of you maintain eye contact for far longer than you’re comfortable with. You’re the one who chickens out first, glancing down to your plate and deciding to stare at it for a while, instead. So much for beating him at his own game… or even successfully playing it for longer than two minutes. Thank the Maker you never ran into anyone like Solas in Orlais.
It’s ridiculous, honestly, and you find yourself filling with self-loathing as you glare pointlessly at your turnips. You’ve been able to stare down men and women far more attractive than Solas. This is just… objectively stupid. You’re a fully grown woman, goddamnit, not a bitch in heat! You have self-control!
You take a deep breath and look back up from your plate. Solas is resting his chin against the back of one hand, leaning against the desk, fork dangling from his hand. More importantly, however, he’s still looking at you. You feel a bolt of heat straight through your body. Self-control, damnit!
“Did you honestly get that tome from a dealer in Redcliffe?” you say, opting for changing the subject entirely. Solas gazes at you for a moment longer before going back to eating like nothing had happened.
“That is what I said, is it not?”
“It is. I suppose he was hoping to sell it to the mages there… That book has to be black market. There’s no way the Chantry wouldn’t ban it.” You pause to chew for a moment. “Of course, I’m in possession of a children’s book that’s been banned by the Chantry. Hard to take them very seriously when they ban children’s books, honestly.”
“I thought you were Andrastian?”
“I am. That doesn’t mean I have to approve of everything the Chantry says. The Divines are human. Amara III is a person who existed and was likely completely insane, as much as the Chantry likes to forget about such things… as was Theodosia II, well known for her divinely ironic statements on the importance of chastity among the servants of the Maker. I suspect that if you took a poll, the majority of the Chantry would say that an elf can’t be Andrastian. Renata I declared via divine writ that elves had strayed further from the Maker than mankind, and therefore have no place in the Chantry, or, indeed, in the faith at all. Paradoxically, if I were to restrict myself and live by everything that the Chantry said, I would have to cease to be Andrastian… therefore I would find myself no longer needing to listen to the Chantry, and would be free to be Andrastian.”
Solas is smiling again, ever so slightly, and you’re really not sure why. “So if not loyalty or faith in the Chantry, what fuels your belief?”
You tsk gently at Solas, wagging your finger. “I believe now is when I distract you from the topic at hand before my tongue pulls me into trouble.”
“Oh? And how do you intend to distract me?”
Another rush of heat from your core to the tips of your ears. Purely accidental, you’re sure, but Maker did that sound suggestive. You simply reach over and pull the cover off the small plate of chocolates. Solas’s eyebrows rise with the lid.
“How did you pilfer these, da’ahlras2?”
“By being my charming self, of course. I’d love to know where the Inquisition got the cocoa. Can’t afford enough blankets to go around to refugees, but they can import delicacies from Par Vollen for spoiled Orlesians,” you say bitterly.
Solas takes one of the elaborate chocolates from the plate and bites into it… You would be once again amused by his tendency to take small bites out of tiny things were you not so enamored by the face he makes. His eyes slide shut as he savors the taste, seemingly letting it melt in his mouth before popping in the rest of the chocolate. You stare at the melted chocolate on his fingers for entirely longer than is appropriate. Fortunately, he’s still savoring, so you have time to wrestle your filthy mind back into control… Just in time for him to lick the bit of melted chocolate off his fingers.
Maker’s breath.
You had originally been planning on eating half of the chocolates yourself. Now you’re considering just sitting back and watching him eat them all. The sight has you drooling more than the smell of the cocoa.
“Delicious,” he says after having sufficiently savored the flavor of a single small chunk of chocolate. You hang onto every syllable before attempting to shake some sense back into yourself. You probably would look like a buffoon if Solas was bothering to pay you any mind at all.
“Well,” you say, a little weakly. “Consider yourself distracted.”
You wind up eating only one of the six chocolates, and that only because Solas noticed that you hadn’t eaten any and invited you to have the last one. It’s nearly as sweet as Solas simply saying the word “delicious,” and it has nothing on the sight of him licking chocolate off of his fingers. That will fuel your imagination for years to come, no doubt.
Fortunately, you remember your tavern date with Varric before you can make any more of a tit out of yourself, and rush the dishes back to the kitchen before heading to the Herald’s Rest—it had taken you quite a long time to learn it had a name, since it doesn’t have anything resembling a sign. Varric has secured the two of you a little table off in a corner, and as it’s still early, the tavern isn’t very crowded. He slides you a mug of ale as you sit down across from him.
“Maker, this has been a long Monday, Varric,” you say after taking a long drink from the mug.
“You certainly look… flustered. Been thinking about Fenris?” he teases gently.
You roll your eyes, but his words making you think about Fenris licking chocolate, and you find you really need to submerge yourself in cold water and possibly say a few prayers.
“Past the description in your book, I have no idea what he even looks like,” you point out. Not that it’d stopped you from fantasizing in the past, of course. “Now… what was it he said he wanted to know, again?”
“I thought you might have trouble remembering,” Varric says with a grin. “So I had one of the mages copy this for you.” He slides a small piece of parchment across the table towards you. Your face begins flushing red the second you lay eyes on it… It’s a magical copy of the part of Fenris’ letter that Varric had read to you… the part about you.
Your fingers curl gently around the paper as you read Fenris calling you “charming” in his own handwriting. Maker’s breath… “My life is good,” you mutter aloud, face now quite pink. Then you clear your throat. “Alright. How I escaped. Hmm… I suppose it’s only fair. I know the story of his escape, as does most of Thedas.”
You glance around the bar. No one of particular note is in here, and no one you recognize as one of Leliana’s. You still wind up lowering your voice and leaning in to talk quietly with Varric, however. “This is just for Fenris, Varric… I don’t want to hear this around Skyhold. And under no circumstances are you allowed to share any of this with Iron Bull, do you understand?”
Now he just looks more interested, but he holds up a hand. “Dwarf’s honor.”
“That’s an oxymoron,” you say dryly. “Especially for you Merchant’s Guild types.”
“I’m hurt, Stutter!”
“You will be, if Iron Bull gets wind of this,” you say with a scowl. “Now, listen closely, because I’m only going to tell this story once.”
Emma was only twelve when she escaped slavery in Seheron. Does that seem young? She says she only knows that because when she hit the mainland, she learned that it was her thirteenth birthday. But more on that later.
She worked in a Tevinter stronghold, built partially into the side of a mountain. She was kept away from the action, but apparently her few encounters with Qunari and Fog Warriors in skirmishes while traveling across the island were enough to put fear into her. She was convinced she’d be run through by Qunari immediately if she tried to escape the stronghold.
Perhaps it’s ironic, then, that it’s the same Qunari she feared so much that gave her a chance to escape. To hear her tell it, it was all luck, but to me, it sounds like quite a bit of quick thinking and no small amount of bravery… especially for a twelve year old girl. I think you’ll agree.
There was a raid on the stronghold. Somehow, the Qunari had learned of its existence and of its relative lack of armed soldiers. They hit it, and hard. It was chaos from the word go. The screaming woke her, but her door wouldn’t open. She slammed into it until it eventually opened, and by then, the screaming had passed. It was a dead body that had been blocking the door… and the hall was full of them. She was covered in blood in short order. She says she thinks that’s what saved her. She started running. Whenever she heard Qunari coming, she would play dead, even hide among the dead bodies… some of which she recognized. Covered in blood the way she was, they assumed her one more casualty.
She crawled amidst the body of the dead until she made it outside, although she had no idea what to do once she made it there… Everyone she knew on the island was back in that stronghold, probably dead. And to make things worse… a fog was rolling in. Somehow, the Fog Warriors had learned of the location at the same time, probably through the same leak, and Emma realized it was about to be a threeway massacre.
She’s convinced some of the Fog Warriors must have seen her out there. But, well… she was a twelve year old girl covered in blood. They left her alone. She made it to the docks, somehow, and convinced some rather unsavory Antivan pirates to take her aboard. She neglected to give me the details of how; she was pretty deep in the drink by that point. I suspect the whole “twelve year old girl covered in blood” thing played into it again. She wound up in Antiva, but the story from there is one for another time, I’m sure.
I hope that sates your curiosity some, friend. It took her a lot of ale to get through the whole story. But trust me, she’s looking forward to meeting you. Speaking of which…
You’re already drunk by the time the Chargers enter the bar, around when you were purposefully leaving out the “and then I set them on fire HA” part of your life story. That effectively ends the interview with Varric. You even manage to escape the bar after sharing another drink or two with the Chargers… You suspect Iron Bull can tell that you’re not exactly in the mood for a party.
You stumble out the door to the tavern and into the cold air, determined to make it to bed and pass out, whether you can properly sleep or not. Unfortunately, well… “lone elf woman drunkenly staggers across courtyard” is the sort of thing that a certain kind of man takes note of.
“Hey there, knife-ear,” a slimy voice leaks into your ear.
Maker, this day never ends.
You turn around slowly, eyeing the man up and down, as well as taking as much stock of your surroundings as you can in your inebriated condition.
“Where you heading? Seems like you could use a bit of company,” he says, complete with accompanying leer.
You sigh. He’s taken care to do this when you’re almost to your quarters. You’re too close to the wall for a passing guard to notice you, unless he happens to be directly above when you scream. It’s late. There aren’t a lot of people around. And you’re drunk. This man might have terrible taste in victims in this particular case, but it’s clear he has at least a passing notion of what he’s doing.
That’s when you recognize him. One of your first nights here in Skyhold… One of two drunken men who’d propositioned you, the one who ran off when the Templar showed up. No Templar around right now, though. You eye him up and down… are you too drunk to incapacitate without killing? Do you even care? Your hand slips around to your back, where your knife is hidden. If you miss and hit an artery, well… No real loss.
“Friend of yours, Emma?”
Your hand freezes a few inches from the hilt of your dagger. The man freezes as well, his sleazy grin melting into surprise. Iron Bull walks a bit closer, then leans casually against the fortress wall.
“Not at all, Bull,” you say, eyeing the man coldly. “I believe he was just leaving.”
The man takes the escape you give him quickly, not running, but walking as quickly as he can in the opposite direction. You watch him leave, then sigh.
“I’d scold you for following me if you hadn’t just saved my ass,” you grumble.
“Eh, you probably could have taken him,” Bull says with a grin.
“Sober, maybe… which I’m decidedly not. Although I feel a lot more sober than I did five minutes ago.” You run a hand across your head, absentmindedly checking your hair. “Maybe I should hire the Chargers. Apparently I need an escort just to get into bed intact.”
“Most of the guys around here are all talk,” Bull says, giving you a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Tell ‘em to fuck off. And if that doesn’t work, break his nose.”
You grin. “If I punch him as hard as I’m used to punching you, I’d probably break something important, huh?”
“That’s the spirit! Now let’s get you to bed before anyone else notices the pretty, drunk elf girl,” he says, gripping you by both shoulders and steering you towards the door.