Bruises
Lunch with the Chargers is fun, but their endless joviality distracts you so much from eating that you feel you may have eaten too much. Your stomach twists uncomfortably, and your face is hot despite the lack of stimulus. You’re also getting tired… the tremble in your arms is coming back. Well, you’re not going to let it affect your work today. You try to steady your shaking as you walk into the rotunda and head straight for Solas’s desk.
He’s busy at work, or what passes for work with him… reading some dusty old tome. You envy him more than a little; he seems to spend his days doing research and little else. People leave him more or less alone; you get more visitors to the rotunda than he does. The people who do come in—Sera, the Inquisitor—mostly serve only to antagonize him, rather than offer any form of friendship.
“Solas?”
“Mm?” He barely even glances up from his tome. You shift uncomfortably. Are you interrupting something important?
“Would you mind enchanting my wrist again?”
He glances up again, and for a moment, you almost expect a curt refusal. It is perhaps somewhat presumptuous for you to ask, but he’s never refused before. He leans back with a sigh and sets the tome, still open, onto his desk. You shift nervously, wondering if you’re about to get a lecture, but instead, he simply waves you over. He doesn’t offer you a place to sit, so you just stand awkwardly by his chair. He grasps your wrist with one hand and pulls your arm out somewhat, probably for a better grip.
He must see something he doesn’t like, because he frowns. The sight chills the very blood in your veins. What have you done now? Perhaps he notes the way your arm is trembling, although you’re fighting with it to be still. With a single swift movement, Solas grabs your sleeve with his other hand and yanks it up, revealing your forearm. You’ve a nice, fresh bruise there that you hadn’t even really noticed. Courtesy of Iron Bull resting his weight on your arms that morning, no doubt; it’s almost a handprint. The looks Solas gives you manages to be simultaneously judging and concerned. You received similar looks from the hahren in the Denerim alienage when you were younger.
“I get a bit bruised up in morning training,” you explain. At least Solas knows that Bull’s teaching you to fight. It means you don’t have to come up with a creative lie to explain the bruise. Solas isn’t frowning any less, however. “It’s nothing, Solas.”
“Bruises, new and old,” Solas grumbles, twisting your arm a bit to look at it. You wince. “You want me to enchant your arm because it’s shaking… perhaps for the same reason as those circles under your eyes.” His mouth twists into a scowl, and your legs begin shaking as if they no longer want to hold your weight. You struggle to command them to behave. “Ironic you should borrow a tome of necromancy from Dorian; you’re beginning to look like the undead.”
You flush slightly. “It all looks worse than it is, I assure you,” you say. You delicately try to shift your arm away, but his grip is firm. Not firm enough to bruise, you note.
“Why not go to a healer?”
“They’ve more important things to do. I’d have new ones every other day anyway; I bruise easily.”
“You bruise easily, but your solution is to simply be battered, rather than find a healer or cease the training?”
Now your flush is deepening, but out of frustration, or perhaps indignation. It doesn’t help that he’s still got a grip on your arm. Has he forgotten he’s holding it? And what business is it of his, exactly, even if you were being beaten stupid each morning? You want very much to snap at him the way you would at Bull if he was prying or prodding too much. You don’t, however; you’re still trying to coax some of Solas’s knowledge out of him, after all. It won’t serve to antagonize him, even if he’s being a presumptuous ass.
“It’s just a bruise, Solas. If I was seriously injured, I would go to a healer.” You have several times already, as a matter of fact, although you don’t tell him that.
Solas doesn’t seem very placated by this, but he runs the hand not gripping you over your wrist, and you feel the warm, soothing tingle of magic. It takes you unawares; your legs very nearly give out. Maker, had it always felt this good, or are you just oversensitive today? No, you realize, he’s being tricky. You watch in mild awe as the bruises fade under a rush of tingling blue magic. You bite your lip to cut off any sounds growing in your throat.
Then comes the familiar rush, the strengthening sensation as Solas bolsters your weakening muscles with delightful magic. He releases you, finally, and you flex. You’ll never get used to it… just like that, the pain gone. The bruises too, although you know you’ll simply have new ones there tomorrow.
“Thank you, Solas,” you say quietly, uncertain what else there is you can say. Your irritation at his prodding was washed away by the pleasing flood of magic. All you can seem to remember now is how well he treats you, when he’s no reason to do that, either. Your eyes linger on him, but he’s already picking up his tome, seemingly unaware of your sudden rush of emotion. Just as well. You take a few steps back, then turn and walk quickly to your desk. Work. You got your enchantment, so now you need to make the most of it.
Before you can get so much as a word onto the paper, however, a familiar voice softly echoes through the rotunda.
“She sleeps, but she doesn’t rest.”
You turn to glare around the room, eyes coming to rest on Cole, sitting up on the wooden platform where he enjoys perching. Not something that you asked him to keep secret, true, but he doesn’t need to be giving Solas any hints.
“Hello, Cole,” Solas says, setting his book back down. It seems like life is going to keep interrupting him.
“She’s mad at me, but I’m helping,” Cole says reproachfully, and you run a hand over your hot forehead, sighing. Solas’s lingering gaze on you seems to say that he can relate to what Cole’s saying. Both of them likely have your best interests in mind. What they think are your best interests. Damn meddling types, the both of them.
“I won’t lie and say I don’t need your help,” you say finally. You could never do anything to send the spirit away from you. “But for right now, I’m fine. I just want to work.”
“You should let more people help you,” Cole chides. You must have glanced away for a second, because suddenly, he’s not there. You blink.
“That’s disorienting,” you complain to no one in particular.
“He gives good advice,” Solas comments before going back to reading his tome. You can’t help sighing again. You’re being double teamed here. You turn your focus back to your work, determined to get as many pages done as possible before dinner.
You work steadily through the afternoon, pausing only to stretch slightly to take the pressure off your bruised backside. The heat in your face doesn’t subside, nor does the ache in your body, and it’s almost amusing to see the shakiness of your left hand when compared to your right. But thanks to Solas’s enchantment, you tear through lettering, completing several pages before the candle on the wall informs you that it’s time for Solas’s dinner. You complete the line you were working on, and set your quill down regretfully. You hate stopping when you’re on a roll; if it were not for your duty to Solas, you likely would have skipped dinner to continue working.
No helping it… Hopefully today, he eats quickly, so you can get back to work.
Stopping by the kitchens reminds you that you’d intended to check in on Celia. You don’t see her in the kitchen, so she’s likely still ill. You’ll need to take some time away from your work to check on her, as much as you itch to get back to the rotunda and put more words to paper. You’re almost tempted to simply drop of Solas’s food and see to her while he eats, but you have a nagging suspicion that he would be displeased to see you skipping a meal. Besides, he always pulls that stool out for you… the idea of shunning that small invitation is too much for you to bear.
Wary of the way your stomach twisted into knots at lunch, you grab nothing but broth and bread for your dinner, although the roast pork you fetch for Solas makes your mouth water. You hunt through the kitchen for something special to bring Solas as thanks for enchanting your wrist… and maybe as apology, too. Although apology for what, you’re not quite sure. Being you, you suppose.
You manage to nab some fresh fruit. Maybe you’ll even be able to stomach some yourself if the broth goes down fine. The fact that Skyhold even has fresh fruit, all the way up here, is somewhat mind boggling. You’re certain that it’s thanks to that diplomat, Miss Montiliyet, attempting to appease what nobles dragged themselves out here to the middle of nowhere. Well, thank the Maker for spoiled nobles, if it means you get to eat an Orlesian apple.
You return to Solas’s rotunda and present him with his food as well as the fruit. He seems pleased, starting with an apple rather than his actual meal. You wish you could join him, but you force yourself to focus on the broth. Your stomach groans in protest, threatening at once to return the broth upwards, but you manage to keep it down.
Solas, blissfully, keeps the conversation off your small meal and questionable health. You manage to have a somewhat pleasant conversation about how much work you’ve gotten done—thanks to him.
“You finished four pages in that time?” Solas says, sounding surprised. “That is remarkable.”
Mmm, compliments. When it comes to your scribing capabilities, you’re more than capable of taking them. “I’m good at what I do,” you say as modestly as you can. “There is a reason an elf was able to make a name for herself in Orlais. I did so by being the best… and by having a suitable pen name.”
“Oh?”
“Mm, yes. Alix Gagnon. Orlesian enough to have its own wine.” You sip idly on your juice. You’d tried a light wine at lunch, but even that small amount of alcohol had threatened to make you ill. “A nice, respectable name to put on their documents. By the end, I did so much of my work at a distance that I suspect many of my clients never even knew they were hiring an elf.”
“Why didn’t you continue to use that name here?” Solas inquires.
“Because it’s not my name,” you say with a smile. “Outside of Orlais, I’ve little use for it. And besides… I read the posters. ‘An Inquisition for All!’ Surely they would find little problem with an elven scribe.” You sigh gently. “I was right about that, at least. I have a good position here. Better than I could have hoped.”
You glance around the half-painted rotuna and smile. A good position indeed… and a great view.
You check on Celia after dropping the dishes off at the kitchen. She tries to assure you that she’ll be feeling better tomorrow, but you’re not really having any of it. She looks damn near as bad as you feel; the only difference is that you’re vertical.
“Really, Emma, I’ll be back to work tomorrow,” she informs you, voice still hoarse and occasionally breaking.
“I’m not saying I don’t believe you, exactly…” you say delicately, trying to think of how someone could successfully convince you to stay in bed. “Just that it won’t be an issue for me to retrieve Solas’s breakfast tomorrow. Think of it as… one less thing you’ll have to do, if—”
“When!”
“When you go into work tomorrow.”
Celia sits up on her elbows, scowling at you from the bed. Her eyes are puffy and swollen, but she does look slightly better than yesterday. “You’re not fooling me.”
You grin at her. “And you’re not fooling me. Get some more rest, okay?”
She thumps back on the pillow and groans. “Elgar’nan, I hate this.”
Her usage of the Elven deity gives you a start. You carefully mask the shock on your face despite the fact she isn’t looking at you. Does Miss Celia have more background than she lets on? No wonder she keeps her head down. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be fighting fit in no time,” you say dryly. “But for now, I’m sure the nobles all prefer not to have a sick elf handling their food.”
She grumbles something nonsensical into her pillow and waves you vaguely away. You take that as your cue to leave. You like her when she’s sick, honestly… Either she’s too busy feeling shitty to bother with the bend-and-scrape routine, or she’s becoming more comfortable with you. You’ll take either.
Solas notices you as you return, and does a double-take. You try your damndest to walk normally… had he noticed the awkward gait your bruised back has given you? You’re simply sore, but you’ll never hear the end of it if he thinks you’ve injured yourself again. Or… more. You see annoyance flicker across his face and your heart damn near stops. You shuffle quickly to your desk and sit down as quietly as possible. If you’re annoying him, you really, really need to watch your step. No more requests for arm enchantments for a while, then, and you’ll have to try to work as quietly as possible.
You immediately set back to work writing, back hunched over to try and make yourself as small as possible, as if you can physically shrink the amount of space you take up in his life. You hear Solas exhale slowly out through his nose… The sound only serves to make you tenser. The feeling of his magic supporting your wrist now only gives you guilt as you try to focus on putting word after word onto paper. What had you done, exactly? Your mind races through your actions at dinner, picking apart every word you said for something that could have given offense. Or was it earlier?
Solas clears his throat, and you abruptly straighten as if someone had shoved an iron rod up your spine. “Emma.”
“Y-y-y-yes?” Maker damn you and your stupid fucking stutter.
“You’ll be bringing my breakfast tomorrow.”
You honestly can’t tell if that was a question or a statement, but your reaction wouldn’t change either way. “Y-yes, ser.”
He falls silent after that, and you go back to sweating and stewing over your work, wondering what in the Maker’s name you’d done wrong. You’re still not good at predicting Solas’s moods or emotions, and it frustrates you. You hadn’t predicted he’d be cross with you for being bruised up. You wore long sleeves to cover the bruises, yes, but that was purely for the sake of presentability. You weren’t ashamed of what you and Bull got up to in the mornings—Maker, that made it sound bad.
It’s no use… You can’t think of why he’s cross with you. Well, that’s not entirely true, you can think of a dozen reasons, but you have no way of knowing which one’s correct. It’s doing you no good to fume. You simply attempt to focus on your work and on being as quiet and unobtrusive as possible.
You leave early again, just to get out of Solas’s way. This time, you swipe some materials to bring with you, a single quill, some parchment, and a small pot of ink. You suspect Solas notices, if only because he comments for you to “actually sleep” as you leave the rotunda. You cringe a little, but simply bid him a good night. As soon as the door to the rotunda closes behind you, you sprint towards your room like a spooked rabbit.
You spend the rest of the evening frantically transcribing bits of the borrowed Veilfire tome. The sooner you can return this, the better. Perhaps, at some point, you’d crossed a line into overstaying your welcome. If you can skip backwards back over that line again, you might be able to avoid gaining any more of the man’s ire.
You sleep that night, a little. You have flashes of dreams, none pleasant. Still, you’re glad you managed to get a bit of rest. You crawl out of bed regretfully during the pre-dawn hours. You wouldn’t mind staying in bed for a few more hours, but you have things to do.
You only become aware of how uncomfortably cold you feel when you step outside. Well, it’s August in the mountains… Cold is to be expected. Still, you regret the fact that you have to wear light clothing to practice with Iron Bull. By the time you jump over the fence into the practice yard, you’re freezing. Hopefully, the training will warm you.
You expect Bull to be warm or even hot to the touch given how cold you feel, but if anything, he feels cool. You suppose that the wind is mostly to blame for that. He’s got more mass to him, yes, but that doesn’t mean he can magically keep warm when it’s cold out.
You start training feeling already weary, but eventually the endorphins catch up with you. It’s what makes getting repeatedly knocked to the ground worth it… after fifteen minutes or so, you start actually feeling alive and awake again. It’s like a fog lifting from around your head. You’re just starting to get into the swing of things when you see the absolute last person you want to see: the Inquisitor.
What is he doing here? Bull mercifully doesn’t take advantage of the fact that you freeze in spot. Instead, he follows the path of your gaze to the steadily approaching Inquisitor.
“Hey, boss!” he says, his tone casual and his body relaxed. Go figure. Everyone you know seems to be on a goddamn first name basis with the Inquisitor. You knew Iron Bull was part of his Inner Circle, but seeing it kind of stings. You’re trying to get the Chargers in your pocket, which means you are, in a sense, trying to get them out of the Inquisitor’s.
“You’re up early, Bull,” the Inquisitor comments lightly, but his gaze is going straight past Bull and right to you. Thanks the Maker for Ben-Hassrath training; Bull seems to pick up on the tension right away, but doesn’t react to it.
“You know me, Boss. Late to bed, early to rise. What about you? You hate mornings.”
“I received word that the soldiers we saved in Fallow Mire are coming up the mountain. They should be here in a few hours,” the Inquisitor says with a long sigh. “Seemed pointless to go to bed after that.” He gestures towards you. “I see you’ve met our ever-popular linguist.”
You try not to bristle visibly.
“Oh, Emma? Yeah, she’s real friendly,” Bull says, placing a too-familiar hand on the back of your neck. You don’t know whether you want to kiss him or kill him. Half of Skyhold already thinks you’re a whore, the Inquisitor included. It’s the perfect way to assuage his obvious suspicions. It’s just also a bit humiliating.
“So I’m learning,” the Inquisitor says dryly. His eyes draw slowly down your body, as if he’s just now taking in the relatively scant clothing you’re wearing. You want to slap him, but instead, you avert your eyes to stare determinedly at a pole. Let him draw as many false conclusions as he wants. Better he simply continue thinking you’re banging your way through Skyhold than start wondering why you’re learning how to fight from a Ben-Hassrath.
“Do try not to break her, Bull,” the Inquisitor says, and you can hear the smirk. “I still need her to finish that translation.”
“Gotcha, boss,” Bull says with a grin, and the Inquisitor turns to continue his early morning stalking about the grounds of Skyhold. You let out a light sigh of relief.
“The boss doesn’t think much of you, does he?” Bull asks when the Inquisitor is out of earshot. He sounds amused.
“No, he doesn’t,” you agree. “His first… well, second, technically… introduction to me involved Solas.”
“Ah, say no more,” Bull says with a chuckle. “You’d think Solas giving him a castle would help to soften things between the two of them, but I think those two will hate each other until the day they die.”
“Mm… Bull?”
“Yeah?”
“Get your hand off my neck.”
You call off training early yet again in order to bathe, change, and still have time to bring Solas his breakfast in a timely manner. You’re nervous thanks to his clear irritation the night before, and you take time to make sure as many of his favorites as possible are involved with his breakfast. Perhaps a good meal to start the day will soften his mood.
Vivienne is already awake and enjoying a disgustingly fancy looking breakfast on the balcony. You amuse yourself by imagining simply walking up to her and pushing her over the railing. The way she’s positioning herself for power, throwing other mages gleefully under the boots of the Templars to gain it… Ugh. You can take some small comfort in the fact that she, at least, is a worse person than you.
You take a few deep breaths outside of Solas’s door before rapping the polite knock of a servant. You enter as quietly as you can, expecting Solas to perhaps still be in bed.
You don’t know whether he’s up early or you’re just running late, but Solas is already awake. Vigorously awake, as a matter of fact. You open the door to the sight of him pushing himself off the ground and back up onto his feet. He’d been doing some kind of… stretch, although you’ve never quite seen someone bend that way on purpose. He’s shirtless, because of course he is, but you can’t seem to make yourself avert your eyes.
“Good morning, Emma.” You find you can’t find the words to respond. You stare for longer than is technically appropriate as Solas stretches his shoulders before turning to fetch a shirt. That snaps you out of it; Maker, you can’t just stand here and watch the man dress.
“Good morning, ser,” you say, extremely belatedly, as you quickly move to begin placing his food on his table. You’d just been telling yourself you’d be less of a nuisance, and here you are, practically drooling on him. Maker, get a grip!
You finish unloading his food around the time he gets a shirt on. You turn to leave, but Solas, somewhat predictably, stops you. You’ve not been able to simply deposit his food and leave yet, after all. But the manner in which he stops you is something of a shock.
“Emma, remove your tunic.”
You freeze mid-step. …Clearly, you misheard.
“P-p-pardon?”
“Your tunic,” Solas says, his matter-of-fact voice now suddenly chilling to you. “Remove it.”
You turn slowly to stare at him, still not quite believing that your ears are correct. “My… tunic?”
“Yes.”
“I… you… the… what?” Eloquent. Highly eloquent.
Solas lets out another slow exhalation through his nose, and you feel a bolt of fear jolt through you. He’s irritated. Why is he irritated? Why does he want you to strip? You stand rooted to the spot as your mind rushes through possibilities. There’s the obvious, of course, but Solas… Surely, Solas isn’t the type to… And he’d just gotten dressed…
“I… I can’t…”
“It wasn’t a request, nor a suggestion,” Solas says curtly, and you bite your lip, fighting against churning panic. There’s something here you’re not understanding. It’s as simple as that. Hands shaking with nerves, you undo the ties on your tunic and slip it off over your head. You clutch the crumpled cloth in front of you like a shield.
Solas waves you towards him–towards the bed–and you go with halting steps. Should you run? You didn’t lock the door behind you. But what would be the point? You work in his rotunda. If you piss him off, any chance of gaining his knowledge will be gone. He gestures for you to sit on his bed and you do so, shoulders slumping in surrender. You can deal with this. You’ve dealt with it before.
He sighs and sits down next to you. You don’t move, don’t look at him. You’re already staring off into space, prepared to go to another place until it’s over. “—even worse than I thought.” You realize, belatedly, that Solas is talking, but you can’t seem to make yourself listen, because he’s lifting your shirt up.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to take this off,” Solas says, and he sounds… apologetic? You lift your arms obediently to let him peel your undershirt off of you. You hear a sharp intake of breath; it’s not yours.
“Fenedhis,” Solas swears under his breath. He places a hand on you and you flinch. “Be still,” he says, and you obey. There’s nothing else for you to do.
Imagine your sudden surprise—and alarm—when you feel the familiar, tingling warmth of magic seep through your skin. You whip your head over to stare, disbelieving, at Solas. He merely glares in response. “I said, be still.” You turn your head back to stare blankly at the wall. You turn your focus inward, to grasp control of your aura and yank it down out of the way as his magic seeps into you.
“You’re a wretched mess.” Solas is scolding you, but you still haven’t quite caught up to what the fuck is happening. “I thought your arms were bad, but this… What exactly were you hoping to accomplish?” He runs hands gently infused with magic down your bare back and understanding finally dawns on you. He’s healing you. And he’s… taking objection to the number of bruises you’ve obtained over the weeks?
“I..” you say, trying to get your mind back into a state where it can form sentences. “I’m… fine?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Solas snaps. “Any sane person would have gone to a healer days ago.”
“I’d have gone if it was serious!” you protest. “It’s just bruises, that’s all.”
“Your ‘just bruises’ are quite serious.” Solas raps a knuckle against your back; you cry out in surprised pain. “You have too much blood built up under the skin here. It’s making you ill. Unable to eat or sleep properly, dizzy, feverish. I believe you have the beginnings of an infection, as well. If that had seeped back into the rest of your blood, you would have been in serious trouble.”
You stare blankly at him, uncomprehending. They were just bruises. The very definition of un-serious injuries. You get them all the time, so ignoring them is second nature. But to hear him tell it, you’d been on death’s door.
“How long have you let Iron Bull brutalize you, only to forego healing entirely?” Solas scolds. “I can appreciate your desire to learn from the best, but your distaste for healers is pure stupidity.”
Solas continues to lecture you as soothing hands cure the deep ache in your back. You try to pay attention to what he’s saying, but you’re still in shock. The fact that you’re in naught but your breastband doesn’t help. The words “dressing down” were no doubt designed for this exact scenario.
Eventually, he seems to have healed you enough for his own satisfaction. He lets out another long, irritated sigh. “I’ve done what I can. You’ll be tired after so much healing, and hungry. Get breakfast—actually get breakfast.” He pulls your shirt on back over your head; you quickly move to get your arms through the sleeve holes. “I hope this frankly embarrassing encounter sticks with you,” he continues to scold. “Take proper care of yourself, and we won’t have to repeat this.”
“Yes, ser,” you say meekly as you yank your tunic back on. You’ve barely spoken throughout the whole ordeal. “Sorry, ser.”
“Don’t apologize,” Solas sighs. “Do better.”
He shoos you out of the room and closes the door behind you. You just sort of stand blankly outside for a moment.
What…
What the fuck just happened?