In Another World
Solas is giving you quite the look. You feel somewhat like a dog that’s been caught peeing on the carpet, despite the fact you’ve done nothing wrong. You also can’t help but feel a surge of panic. It would be easy enough to tell Solas the truth were it your call, but will Leliana be cross if you do? Tell no one… Why, for the love of the Maker? The information seemed pointless. Does she suspect spies inside Skyhold? Does she not want news reaching the Iron Bull? Why can’t you even tell Solas?
You shuffle a bit to the side, hoping against hope that Solas has business in the war room. His eyes merely follow you. Despite the fact he’s hardly blocking the entire hallway, his crossed arms feel like a barrier you’ve no hope of crossing. You cast a nervous glance behind you at the closed door. Even if you were going to tell him the truth; you sure as hell weren’t doing it here.
“I, um… I’m late with your lunch, aren’t I? Let me… Let me get that for you. And then we can… talk?” you say hopefully.
“Certainly. I do hope you’re not taking on too many tasks, da’len,” Solas says. His voice is mild, but the way he says da’len carries several pounds of meaning.
“Ir abelas, emma shem’garas,1” you say, slipping into Elven without thinking due to his use of da’len and your own nervousness. You slip past him and practically run back to the Great Hall, slipping quickly by nobles to dart into the rotunda. You drop your papers on a heap in your desk and then scurry back across the hall and down towards the kitchens.
Maker bless Celia, she has his lunch ready. You don’t bother pausing to make your own; you simply grab it and charge back up the stairs. You have to walk more carefully to avoid the risk of spilling, but you still move with the kind of speed and grace Iron Bull could only wish you’d demonstrate during your spars. Even so, Solas is seated at his desk by the time you return, as if he’d never left. Fortunately, as fast as you ran to the kitchen and back, it gave you enough time to come up with a plan.
Breathing through your nose to avoid panting—although your chest is heaving—you place his food down in front of him.
“None for you?” Solas asks.
”I’m not hungry,” you reply, in Elven and to the best of your ability. You’re aware your pronunciation needs work, but hopefully he’ll at least be able to understand you. ”Only you and I speak Elven?”
It’s surprise that forms on Solas’ face, pretty as a picture. ”You are correct,” he replies, also in Elven. Even such short words hold a grace that make you feel like you’re butchering the language. Perhaps you are.
You struggle for the words to communicate your meaning. ”Lady of the shadows gave me a task. She did not give me an option to refuse,” you say, plainly struggling, although Solas doesn’t look confused. Hopefully he understands. ”I was ordered to be silent.”
”This required your presence in the—?” he says something you don’t understand. You assume he means the war room.
”Yes. She wanted me to speak it… No writing.” You resist the urge to pantomime to help bring your meaning across. He seems to be able to understand your awkward phrasing, and you don’t want to help anyone who might be listening in.
Solas seems to be considering this, then gets a look on his face that you’ve seen on Sera’s all too frequently… mischief is on his mind. The way he smirks makes your legs go a little weaker. Mischievous is a good look on him… you’d pull pranks with him any day. ”You remember the words,” he says. Uh-oh. At your silence, he continues. ”You never forget. You remember it all.” Ahahaha… fuck.
”N… not… all?” you stammer.
He speaks rapidly in Elven then, quickly losing you among long syllables and words that flow like a smooth river. You stare, more than a little panicked.
”S… slowly?” you request, desperately.
Solas leans his chin onto his knuckles, considering you again. That spark of mischief hasn’t left his eyes. You get the dreaded feeling it will be the death of you… But my, it’s an attractive death. ”Go get yourself food. When you return, we will resume speaking the human tongue. Then, we will go somewhere private, where we may speak plainly.”
You nod, then turn quickly to leave. You doubt you could keep anything down; your stomach is full of butterflies. But an order is an order.
”I appreciate your clever tongue,” Solas comments as you leave. It sends a shiver down your spine. Maker, that sounds equal parts delightful and filthy in Elven. You wish you were better at understanding, so that you could parse his meaning a little more precisely. You simply have too little practical experience with speaking Elven.
You get a few strange looks for showing up in the kitchen again so soon, but no one questions you as you quickly grab a bowl of broth and a loaf of bread. You take your time returning to the rotunda, if only to calm your nerves. You feel drunk with adrenaline and vertigo, like you’re walking a very narrow, very high cliff. Leliana is not someone you want to displease, but then, neither is Solas. You don’t really appreciate her putting you in this kind of position. It’s not your fault if she doesn’t trust her allies, damnit.
True to his word, Solas resumes speaking the Common tongue when you enter the rotunda. If anyone was listening to you speak Elven, they might be suspicious… At the very least, they’ll have no idea what the hell you’d said. As for you and your “clever tongue” accompanying Solas somewhere “private,” well… You believe the word for this feeling is “ambivalence.”
Solas quizzes you about your progress on the Tevinter tome while you struggle to get your food down—and keep it down. You suspect that Solas would be less than amused if you got sick in his rotunda… or anywhere near him, for that matter. Unfortunately, anxiety and fear have a tendency to make you ill, and right now you have both in spades. It’s not normally an issue; normally people who have you scared don’t insist you eat a healthy meal mid-torment. You applaud Solas for his calm; you would never guess that he was planning something clever while casually chatting about your progress on your work versus your newly discovered social life. You attempt to emulate his casual demeanor, but every now and then you see a glint in his eye that sends a chill straight down your spine… followed, of course, by a rush of heat. Because nothing in your life is allowed to be simple.
Solas, in that slow way of his, turns the conversation towards magic. It’s not a conversation you’re comfortable with having on your best of days. This is not your best of days. You’re not sure what he’s playing at, but you’re pretty sure that whatever it is spells bad news for you. You just play along as best you can while trying not to regurgitate your soup back into the bowl.
“You mentioned once prior that most of the magic you’d seen had been destructive,” Solas comments as you focus mechanically on the task of swallowing bread.
“Yes,” you agree. “Although technically, as I recall, you were asking specifically about magic seen during my travels. I saw slightly more benign magic while living in Orlais, on a few occasions. Although there was still a bit too much fire for my personal tastes.”
“Oh? What did you see?” Solas asks, his faked curiosity indistinguishable from the real thing… or perhaps he is genuinely curious, considering your general reticence on the subject of magic.
“As I’ve mentioned, I did work for Circles in Orlais several times. In one particular case, the tome involved was so volatile that I was required to stay in the Circle for the time it took me to write a translation. It was there that I obtained nearly all of my ‘experience’ with magic, if you could call it that.”
“You stayed in a Circle? I had no idea the Templars allowed non-mages to do such a thing.”
“I believe the Circle in Montsimmard, where I stayed, is rather… liberal… with regards to the containment of mages. I sincerely doubt I could have done something similar in Kirkwall… nor would I have particularly wanted to. As it was, I was more restricted than most of the mages there. They had a Templar watching me all day and all night… It was… unpleasant.”
“Perhaps that’s why you tend towards the sympathetic when dealing with mages,” Solas suggests. “You’ve felt their plight first hand.”
You snort. “Please. I was guarded by a scary man for two months in one of the most luxurious Circles in Thedas. That’s hardly ‘experiencing the mage plight first hand.’ If I made a mistake, or they caught me sneaking around, I would have merely been fired. I ran no risk of possession, death, or Tranquility. The Templar could not do as he wished with me, safe in the knowledge that his word would be taken over mine. I didn’t have to fear a mysterious, deadly test as the apprentices in the Circle feared their oh-so-secret Harrowing.” You eye the remains of your soup sourly. “I didn’t experience any plight in Montsimmard. Admittedly, however, being watched by an armed man while I slept did nothing to enamour me with the Templar Order.”
Solas is watching you silently, eyes slightly widened in surprise. You clear your throat, a little awkwardly. You had gotten off on a bit of a rant there, hadn’t you?
“To answer your original question… I saw some of the more entertaining aspects of magic there, despite the fact that I wasn’t allowed to attend any of the formal lessons or practices. There was a man there… An Antivan, thrilled by my knowledge of the language. He had been in Circles his entire life. Despite the ability of mages in Montsimmard to apply for a secondary place of living, he never had because he knew no one outside of the Circle. He took a fondness to me and often snuck into my room while the Templar guarded outside. He showed me some of the more gentle, delicate sides to magic, although hardly anything practical.” You smile to yourself, a little, the memory soothing your nerves slightly. “He could make colored sparks and fire dance through the air. Silly, I know, but it was beautiful. Before that, magic had always been something destructive, to me.”
You glance up from your soup at Solas, only to see him smiling. The sight sends your heart thudding again, your momentary calm quickly lost. “If you enjoy demonstrations, perhaps there’s something I can show you. Come with me.”
An excuse to go “somewhere private.” You know that’s what he’s doing. You tell yourself that repeatedly as both of you stand and he leads you out of the rotunda. It’s no use; your libido has taken over and simply isn’t listening to your brain at the moment. Solas is leading you off somewhere, perhaps to show you magic. You’re not helped by your memories of some of the less clandestine activities you and the Antivan had gotten up to while the Templar stood guard outside. He hadn’t been sneaking into your bedroom just to show you magic tricks, after all.
Your heart nearly stops when you realize where Solas is taking you. By the time the two of you pass Enchanter Vivienne, who’s lounging out on the balcony, you fear your heart may actually burst out of your chest. Is he taking you to his bedroom? Surely enough, he leads you straight to the door… and then keeps walking, one door further. You blink in surprise as he unlocks the door that is–disappointingly enough–not to his bedroom, and gestures for you to go inside.
The room in question mimics the general shape of his bedroom, as well as Vivienne’s, but a giant hole in the roof explains why there’s no bed. Instead, it’s been largely cleared out. A cabinet rests against the far wall. Your eyes, however, latch onto a small box resting on a shelf. Whether it’s full or not, that is a box specially designed to safely carry lyrium.
You hear the door close behind you, and then a latch slide shut. Your mouth goes dry.
“I imagine the Circle mages have their own space, but since I am hardly welcome among them, I’ve repurposed this space for myself,” Solas says, his voice a little too close behind you. You swallow hard, then again harder when he grips you by your shoulders and pushes you gently into the middle of the room. You follow compliantly, mind too spinning with adrenaline to do anything else.
“Stand here,” he says, and you stand where he leaves you as if you’re a statue. “I need to place wards.”
You’re so off balance that you don’t even notice what he’s doing… until you suddenly realize that you can no longer hear the sounds that had been echoing down from the hole in the roof. There’s only silence. Solas finishes his spell, then turns to you, and you can’t keep the awe from your face.
“Is that… does that work both ways?” you ask, reaching up as if you could touch the ward. Your aura surges beneath the surface of your skin, pushes against the inside of your palm. It’s desperate to run up against the surface of the spell, to explore its mystery.
“You catch on quickly,” Solas says with a pleased little smile. “Yes. The spell blocks magic, but also sound. No one outside this room can hear us. Or see us, for that matter, if someone happened to be climbing along the roof.”
“Amazing,” you murmur, pacing over towards the door.
“Careful,” Solas warns, but you keep your hand out in front of you. It hits an invisible yet solid surface a few inches from the door. You run your hand along it, although you don’t risk prodding it with your magic. It’s too complicated for you to understand without proper study, but the power thrumming through the ward thrills you. “We may now speak plainly,” Solas informs you, and your mind snaps back to the real reason he brought you here. He no doubt wants an explanation. How much can you tell him?
“This is brilliant, Solas,” you say, before sighing and delving into a bit of uncomfortable honesty. “While you were gone, Leliana had me translate several documents. In this particular case, however, she was rather… insistent. I was told in no uncertain terms that I was not to speak to anyone of what I was doing. I would have preferred not to deceive you, but she gave me very little say in the matter. She even specified ‘not even Solas.’”
“Interesting…” Solas muses. “I can’t imagine she has much she wishes to hide from me. The document couldn’t have contained Elven.” He glances over at you, but you say nothing. It seems your face says enough, because he continues. “More likely she thought me the one you were most likely to tell.” Well, considering you told him in like, two hours… “The Nightingale surely has others who can translate most languages,” Solas continues. “Not Elven. You speak only ancient Tevene, and I doubt she’s intercepting many messages in a dead language. No… Qunlat.”
You wince. “I believe that’s exactly why she didn’t wish me to say anything. It’s not difficult to come to certain conclusions.”
“And she has you give an oral report to minimize the evidence.” Solas laughs then, and the sound startles you, echoing loud inside the soundproofed room. “Little does she know, you have an excellent memory. Well, then… What do you intend to do?”
“Do?” you ask, genuinely surprised. “I don’t intend to do anything. I did what she asked of me. Except for the part where I immediately turned around and told you. But I’m hoping she never learns of that.”
“Going to try to keep secrets from an organization called the Inquisition?” Solas says, clearly amused.
What, like it’s hard? is what you want to say. You resist. Technically, you haven’t even kept your secrets for a month, and you’ve had several near misses. There’s still a lot of room for things to go badly. “Honesty isn’t always the best policy,” you say dryly. “In any case… the information was… To me, it seemed useless. It clearly had great meaning to the Inquisitor and his advisors, but I can’t even imagine what it would be.” You sigh. “I was not expecting this kind of nonsense when I came to work for the Inquisition. I retired to the countryside for a reason. I’ve no desire to get pulled back into this… courtly intrigue nonsense.”
“Back into?” Solas says with a smile. You scream internally, a little. This is what happens when you go into a situation nervous. You say something stupid. Fortunately, Solas doesn’t press. “I suspect you’ll have little say in the matter. Leliana is clearly grooming you for something.”
You make a face. “I don’t want to hear that. …Um, Solas?”
“Mm?”
“…Thanks for not being cross with me. Again.”
“The deception was not your choice, and it was short lived,” Solas says with a fluid shrug. Maker, he has nice shoulders. Which reminds you, you’re locked into a soundproofed room with him. “In truth, I’m flattered that you trust me enough not to inform Leliana you broke your word.”
“Technically,” you say with a wince. “She told me not to tell anyone what I was working on. I didn’t… you figured it out on your own.”
Solas smiles. “Semantics, Emma?” he says, a little patronizingly.
“Whatever keeps me out of the dungeons,” you reply with a nervous laugh. “In any case, again, the choice for whether or not to be honest was removed from me. I was between a rock and a hard place the second you caught me coming out from the war room.”
“There were many lies you could have told to explain that,” Solas points out.
“Would you have believed any of them?” you counter. “And how many lies would I need to make later, to cover for that one? No… I had the opportunity to be honest without too much risk, thanks to our shared languages, so I took it. Thank you for tolerating my apparently terrible Elven, by the way.”
“You have an amusing combination of a larger-than-average vocabulary and a complete lack of proper pronunciation.”
“…Yes. Well, I’m glad I can at least be amusing,” you say sourly. “Have I satisfied your curiosity on the matter?”
“Ah, yes,” Solas says, beginning to move towards the edge of the ward. “I imagine you’re eager to get back to work—”
“Solas, wait,” you say quickly. He turns to look at you, expression rather neutral considering all that had transpired. “While we’re here… Well… I understand if offering to demonstrate some magic for me was simply a cover, but… Um… If you wouldn’t mind…?”
Solas smiles, and your heart soars. Yes, yes! He reaches a hand in front of him, and without so much as a snap of his fingers, a bluish-green flame erupts in his palm. You jump back slightly before regaining some composure. You’re used to conjured fire being much more… explosive. You wish you had the kind of control he’s demonstrating.
“It’s not burning you,” you marvel. You reach your hand out towards it, slowly. It is generating heat; it’s not simply an illusion. “Why is it that color?”
“This is veilfire. It is a form of sympathetic magic mastered by the ancient elvhen. It is not true flame, but the memory of it.”
You wave your hand over it, mildly enthralled. It doesn’t give off as much heat as a fire of that size should. You still suspect you might burn if you stuck your hand into it, however. “Incredible. What did the elves use it for?”
“Many things. Most mages these days use it for little more than a showy form of lighting, but at the height of the Elvhen empire, it was used for writing complex runes, woven into spells… I have a book, if you are interested.”
“Of course you do,” you say in an awed tone, still playing your fingers close to the flame. “And yes, of course I am. I wish…” You sigh. You wish you could have him show you how to summon it. You wish you could have such control. You wish a great many things.
Solas lowers his hand, and the flame peters out. “I have distracted you enough. You lost your morning to Leliana’s request. You should attempt to complete at least some of your work.”
You don’t even try to hide your disappointment. “You’re a tease,” you say accusatorily.
Solas merely smiles. “Before I lower the wards, is there anything else you wish to tell me?”
That gives you pause. You look into Solas’s eyes for a few beats too long. Embarrassingly, you find yourself honestly and genuinely considering just… just giving it up. Breaking down right there on the spot, telling him… if not everything, just enough. You feel as if a long path opens up before you, a path to a different world. A world where you trust Solas enough, a world where you can trust anyone that much. A world where you confess your magic to him, where he keeps your secret as well as you do. Where he teaches you his own secret: how he remained safe from discovery all these years. A world a little larger than the one you lived in before. You remember your dream of Solas in the freezing cave with you. How different would your life have been with a companion?
You break eye contact, look away. The path winks out of existence, your world is back to the safe, familiar, small world of one. “I don’t believe so, Solas.”
He pauses for a moment longer, but you continue staring determinedly at one of the walls. “Very well, then,” he says, and the sounds of Skyhold come rushing back in.
Your eyes keep trailing back to the tome as you try to work.
Solas had handed it to you without a word when the two of you arrived back in the rotunda. You can’t stop looking at it, even as you try to focus on lettering yet another page.
Veilfire: A Beginner’s Primer with Numerous Teachings, Exercises, and Applications. You could probably actually learn to summon the stuff with this. If you got a moment alone, away from all the bloody mages and Templars, you could copy the book magically. As it was, you’d likely have to spend your sleepless nights copying it by hand. You won’t be able to learn this sort of thing around Skyhold, obviously, but you’ll be damned if you won’t figure it out when you have the freedom to do so.
But all of that is off in the future. You really wish you could stop your eyes from dragging away from the page you’re working on and back to the tantalizing tome. Perhaps you wouldn’t be so distracted could you do something other than endless lettering. But you need a magnifying stand for the remainder of the art pieces, and a few sources on dragons to help check your work before you can do the more interesting sections.
Still, you’re bored and having trouble focusing. That normally means it’s time to do something else for a little while. You’re capable of forcing yourself to simply work through, of course, but the quality of your work–as well as the speed–tends to diminish. With a sigh, you stand and head towards the stairs.
“Emma.” Solas’ voice freezes you to the ground as surely as if he’d used magic. “If you’re heading up to the library, might you bring something to Dorian for me?”
What? Is hahren too old to climb the stairs? You think it, but you most certainly don’t say it. You really, really want to, though. Instead, you walk over to his desk compliantly. “Certainly, Solas.”
He eyes you as if he can somehow sense your derision, but simply hands you a rather dramatically large and heavy tome. It has the symbol of the Imperial Chantry embossed on the front. You imagine Solas was likely borrowing this from Dorian. The damned thing is heavy, but you head up the stairs with it in any case. It’s been too long since you stopped by the library to visit with Dorian and Thea. Since Solas returned and you now take your meals with him, Thea only ever sees you at breakfast, and Dorian less than that.
You give Thea your friendliest nod—your hands are full of giant tome at the moment—as you come up the stairs, and then head over to Dorian. The Tevinter looks up from his book and eyes you. Come to think of it, did he pull that armchair into the library just so he could have some place comfortable to sit and read? He’s a Vint noble, alright.
“You really must learn not to play servant with everyone who asks, Emma,” he scolds teasingly.
“Yes ser. I’ll just let all the mages know that I, the tiny elf wench, am too important to cater to their whims,” you say dryly.
“You could at least try. The way you run around for mages, I’d think I was back in Tevinter.”
“Old habits die hard,” you say pointedly. Dorian cringes a little at that. It’s probably unkind of you to bring up the whole “Tevinter mages enslaved me” thing so frequently with Dorian, but what’s the point of a life of tragedy if you can’t use it to make other people uncomfortable?
“Well… Thank you for returning this so promptly. I would thank Solas, but,” He raises his voice to shout over the balcony. “That would require him actually coming up himself instead of sending his adopted elf.” He places the tome onto a rather dramatically growing stack of books. The book he placed it on top of catches your eye, however, and you move the returned book in order to pick up the one underneath. There’s no title on the front or side, but there is a rather telling image of a skull of some sort. Curious, you open the book.
“Dorian…” you say with a sigh. “Please tell the scribe responsible for this nonsense that there’s no point in leaving a tome untitled if you put a skull on the front.” It’s a book on necromancy. Because of course it is.
“Subtlety has never been the strongest trait for my countrymen,” Dorian says dryly.
“Tevinter, then, not Nevaran?” you ask, flicking through the pages. You’ve only passing interest in necromancy, and that only because you have a passing interest in all forms of magic.
“The Mortalitasi are not the only practitioners of necromancy in Thedas, as it turns out,” Dorian points out. You’re barely listening; you’ve already gotten absorbed into a description of the practice of using fear spirits to terrify enemies. “You can borrow that, if you want.”
You glance up from the book. “Are you kidding me? Walk around with a tome with a giant skull on the front? There are rumors about me enough in Skyhold.” With a reluctant sigh, you close the book.
“Oh, just tell anyone who asks it’s a dragon skull or something,” Dorian says with a careless wave of his hand. “It isn’t as though you can make any practical use of anything in there.”
You run a finger along the front of the tome, considering. Perhaps if you cover it with something… It might have interesting information about spirits, and if you get the book to yourself, you can make some notes. “Oh, and if you’re going back downstairs,” Dorian adds, fishing around in the pile of books to his left. “Might as well give this back to Solas.” He holds a small, leather-bound tome out to you. You stare at him incredulously, but he doesn’t seem to notice. With a sigh, you take the book.
“Dorian, do you know of any tomes on dragons here in Skyhold? Even in a personal collection.” You did actually come up here for a purpose other than running errands for lazy mages.
“Hmm… You might consider asking Cassandra. She’s a Pentaghast, you know, and enjoys reading more than she lets on,” Dorian suggests.
“I should just walk up to a Pentaghast, introduce myself, and ask to borrow any books she has on dragons?” you say dryly.
“You asked if anyone had a tome on dragons, not for practical life advice.”
You sigh. Looks like you’re sticking with the requisition plan. You know the name Cassandra Pentaghast… that’s the Right Hand of the Divine, or was, anyway. She’s not known for her approachability. You had heard in Orlais that this whole Inquisition business was her doing, and yet you hadn’t actually seen her in Skyhold. And you certainly haven’t lacked in meeting the important people… you’ve even met the Inquisitor on several occasions. Perhaps she’s elsewhere? In any case, you certainly won’t be getting any dragon books from her.
You glance around for Thea, but she seems to have disappeared… Peculiar. Perhaps she’s avoiding you again? No, you had just seen her at breakfast. More likely she’s just busy. A little dejected, you head down the stairs and return to Solas’ rotunda. You set the leather-bound book from Dorian down on the corner of Solas’s desk. “I’ll never understand those upstairs bothering with messengers for these sorts of things,” you comment. “There’s a giant hole through the middle of this tower. Has no one ever simply dropped something down to you?”
Solas looks up at you with a strange expression on his face.
“What?” you say, a little defensively. “Dorian dropped fruit to me last week.”
“Somehow,” Solas says, sounding amused, “I doubt you’re joking.”
“He did! Maybe I’ll have Thea drop something down; you’ll see how convenient it is,” you insist as you meander back towards your desk. You’re not looking forward to more long hours of lettering. “Mm… Solas?” you say, running a hand along the paper you were working on.
“Yes?”
“Do you think you could do that… thing, again. To my wrist?”
“Ah… Certainly,” Solas says, pushing his chair back as he stands. You would have gone to him. He walks over, gestures for you to sit in your chair. Your mind had honestly been on your work, on how much faster the lettering would go with Solas near-miraculous enchantment on your wrist. But then Solas grasps your wrist, pulls it upwards for a better grasp, and your pure intentions fly out the window. He rolls up your sleeve slightly and you feel the warm, tingling sensation of his magic. Thank the Maker that you have as much control over your aura—and yourself—as you do. With it as depleted as it is thanks to your trip to the frozen lake, it lurches like a starving wolf towards the place where Solas’s magic permeates your skin. You wrestle it back under control with little effort; if it were that easy for you to lose control, you would have been found out years ago.
Solas releases your arm, and you flex your hand, twisting your wrist this way and that, relishing in the sturdy feel of it. “Thank you, Solas… I had forgotten how much I missed this. Perhaps I can make up for lost time.” You shoot a disparaging look towards your papers. “Lettering. Then more lettering. And tomorrow? I suspect more lettering.” You sigh. “This is the bulk of my work, but always the dullest.”
“I have no doubt you will persevere,” Solas replies. He seems to be turning to leave, when his eyes fall onto the book on the corner of your desk, the one Dorian had lent you. His eyebrows raise, and he gets an amused look on his face. “You’re certainly taking an interest in the arcane.”
“Hmm? Oh, that. I don’t actually know that it’ll be of much interest to me, but I’ve never seen a Tevinter tome on necromancy… and I thought it might have a different take on spirits,” you admit. “Why do you look so amused?”
“Ah, forgive me. It’s just… You strike me as someone very concerned with appearance, yet I doubt you could have selected a more suspicious book if you had tried.”
“…Yeah, admittedly,” you agree begrudgingly. “I’m thinking I should get some sort of cover for it if I plan on taking it out of this room. Or perhaps I should leave it as is, to brandish at Sera the next time she frustrates me.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
You glare at him, but without any ardor. “We have… differing views on certain things. She’s delightful, really, but sometimes I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake.”
Solas chuckles. “Yes, I believe I’ve experienced that particular sensation around Sera myself. She can be… stubborn.”
“Right, whereas you’re just the perfect image of pliability,” you say with a snort. Solas gives you quite the look and you raise your hands in surrender. “Yes ser, I’ll shut up and get to work, ser.” You twist your chair back around to face your desk and set in to work on your papers. You hear Solas’s chair legs scrape against the ground as he sits down and pulls it back to his desk, but you resist the urge to look over your shoulder. Now is the time to focus.
As it had been before Solas left, you find his wrist enchantment almost ridiculously useful. Any little tremor or shake you had before is gone; even the bruises on that arm seem to hurt less. Lettering is still monotonous, but the letters come more quickly and more smoothly than they had been. You settle into a steady pace and focus on the beauty inherent in each perfect letter. Words slip by as you meditate on perfect lines and the aesthetics of ink on paper.
That’s how you spend the remainder of your afternoon. Solas refrains from casting any magic directly behind you, so you manage to churn through over half a dozen pages before you’re interrupted by a delicate clearing of the throat from behind you. You glance over your shoulder, and Solas is still sitting at his desk, reading. You’re momentarily confused before you take a moment to actually consider how long you’ve been writing. It must be past time for dinner. Your tendency to forget meals yourself is doing you no favors here.
Wordlessly, you finish up the line you were working on, cap your ink, and then stand to head towards the kitchens. You’re almost impressed with yourself when you reach the kitchen without incident. These days it seems you can barely walk ten meters without something happening. You take your time in the kitchen, fishing a bit more blatantly with the chefs and serving girls for Solas’s likes and dislikes. Unfortunately, most of what you learn is that he isn’t particular—except with his tea. You’ve seen him leave food on a plate because it wasn’t to his tastes, however. You know he has preferences. It seems you’ll just have to discover them through trial and error.
You snatch a loaf of sweet bread, freshly out of the oven, although that’s as much for you as it is for Solas. Thin strips of mutton, a light broth because you know Solas prefers that to heavy stews… Bit by bit, you put together two meals. As you work, you notice that Celia seems to be tired, or perhaps worried. It could be nothing, but after the orphans, you’re feeling a little hypersensitive. You’re paying Celia and you obtain information from her… That means she’s one of yours now. If someone has been bothering her, it’s officially your business.
You resolve to simply keep an eye open and an ear to the ground. There are plenty of men in Skyhold who would hurt an elven serving girl, as you’ve already experienced. Most women, like you, know how to brush off the more mundane frustrations, but if something serious has happened… Well, you’ve no evidence of that. She might simply be feeling unwell.
You head back up to Solas with the meals. Between your training with Iron Bull and the constant running back and forth with Solas’s food, your arms no longer tremble quite so badly under the weight of a heavy tray. You still feel some moderate scorn for yourself for ever becoming so weak in the first place. You survived decades based purely on savvy and strength. You became too complacent during the time you spent in the Orlesian countryside.
You re-enter the rotunda to find that the stool has once again been pulled up near Solas’s desk. He really has been pulling it up to the desk for you to sit on… Between that and the little magic demonstration earlier, you’re starting to feel like you’re making real progress with him. At this rate, perhaps you’ll be learning Elven from him within the next few months. You’re fully capable of being patient… if it gets you what you want in the end, anyway.
You place Solas’s meal down in front of him, watching his face carefully as he glances over the food. He would never be so convenient as to simply tell you if he didn’t like something. You had a master like that in Orlais. He was a notoriously picky eater, but rather than simply tell new chefs and servants his likes and dislikes, he simply refused to eat anything that wasn’t to his tastes. Solas, at the very least, wasn’t that picky.
“Are you making better progress on your tome?” Solas inquires after you’ve set down your own food and settled down to eat.
“Yes, thanks to you,” you say with a smile, flexing your still-painless wrist cheerfully. “It would be something if I could do this myself. I could probably charge double.”
“If you were a mage, you would still be a scribe?”
“Well… I suppose I have no way of knowing what my life would be like as a mage,” you lie handily. “I suppose I would have been locked up in a tower somewhere… or, if I had been in Tevinter at the time, I suppose I may have been freed—a Liberati—in which case, yes, I’d almost certainly be a scribe,” you say with a frown. “My old master would have just loved that. I would never have gotten away, if…” You shudder, then glance down at your food, appetite suddenly gone. You’ve gone down that line of thought far too many times before. “On second thought, I take it back. I’ll just keep begging you for enchantments and demonstrations.”
“Oh? You wouldn’t learn magic, were it possible?”
“I…” You sigh. “That’s a very loaded question, Solas. I believe everyone wishes they could do magic. Except maybe Sera, I suppose. But who wants the burden that comes with it? The increased risk of possession, the lack of freedom, the small-but-significant chance that you’ll just accidentally light yourself on fire if you don’t learn how to handle yourself properly?”
Solas’s expression gives nothing away, which frustrates you. You’re probably displeasing him with this line of thought, but you’re hardly going to say you wish you were a mage. In truth, you’d never give up your magic, even if it did nearly kill you or others on occasion. You might feel differently, however, if your life had taken a few small but distinct turns. Remaining hidden was as much luck and timing as it was skill. There were a lot of people just like you who’d been missing luck, or timing, or skill. You aren’t quite so arrogant as to feel as though you could opine on their feelings.
“In any case, it’s a moot point. I can no more become a mage than a mage could un-magic themselves. My wrist and I will just have to be dependent on your good graces,” you say with a winning smile. Hopefully you haven’t soured him too much. It can be a bit hard to tell, with Solas. The term “microexpression” was made for a man like him. It’s what makes it so blindingly delightful when he smiles or laughs fully.
Dinner passes without much more incident, Solas smoothly allowing the topic to change back to your work. You take the dishes back to the kitchen before getting back to work on your tome, but it seems Solas’s quota for leaving you in peace has been used up for the day. Not long after you settle back in to work, Solas begins to watch over your shoulder.
It’s his right, of course. You are in his rotunda, at a desk he was kind enough to provide, working thanks to a spell he placed on your wrist. You tell yourself that repeatedly, because someone watching over your shoulder is one of the sensations you absolutely hate the most. It drives you insane. You just want to take your quill and jab him in the fucking eye… But you refrain. Fortunately, after a few minutes of watching you meticulously shape letter after letter, he seems to bore of it and wander off. You breathe a small sigh of relief. Hopefully he doesn’t make a habit of that.
What he does do, however, is retrieve his paints and begin work on the rotunda wall again. You’re rather pleased; the small bit of the rotunda that is painted is absolutely gorgeous. Does he paint other things? You’d love to see them… One more thing to beg him for later, you suppose. With Solas no longer looming over you, you’re free to get back to work, and the two of you fritter the evening away with your respective tasks.
Solas, as always, leaves for the evening before you do. The spell on your wrist is still going strong, so you continue working… That is, until you remember that you had wanted to look into filling out requisition requests. You frown, looking at the candle you use to help you keep track of time. It’s late, but perhaps Dorian is still awake? The requisition requests almost feel like a waste of time, but you suppose that the sooner you get them in, the sooner you might actually get some of the things you need to do your job. With a sigh, you climb the stairs to the library.
It seems you’re shit out of luck, however. The library is all but deserted; Dorian’s fancy armchair is empty. You frown and pace the wide circle of the library. Perhaps there’s something here that can help you? You eye a stack of papers on a desk, but you’re not quite sure ruffling through them for information about requisitions is the wisest idea.
“Do you require assistance?”
The voice sends a horrified chill down your spine. You turn slowly, and your eyes confirm what your ears heard… You’re being addressed by a Tranquil. The brand on her forehead proves it.
You had seen a few, carrying messages across Skyhold or doing… whatever it is the Inquisition uses Tranquil for. And you had avoided them like the plague. You would rather be speaking to literally anyone, anything else. The Tranquil unnerve you the way you suspect they unnerve many mages: for what they signify. They barely even qualify as human anymore, just an empty husk to be… used. Like the viddath-bas. The only thing you fear more than death.
“I… no,” you reply quickly, taking a step back away from the blank eyes of the Tranquil woman. “I was only looking for in-information on filling out a re-requisition. I sh-should have r-realized no one would b-be here so late. I’ll… I’ll l-leave. Right away.”
“If it’s information on requisitions you seek, I can assist you,” she says, her monotone voice making you feel slightly ill. Who was she before the Templars tore her out of herself? Someone too scared to face down a demon for their Harrowing? A blood mage? Or just someone who was a little too forthcoming with radical thoughts? “I was in fact just completing some requests. I have extra forms you can use if you wish.”
You hesitate. Well… It can’t hurt to accept forms from the woman. It’s not as if she’s contagious, and although you know she couldn’t care less, you don’t want to be overly rude. “Um… S-sure. I m-mean, yes. Please. Th-thank you.”
She turns to the desk you’d just been eyeing—Maker, was it hers?—and pulls a small stack of papers out from the rest. She holds them out to you and you take a few nervous steps closer to take them from her. That brand on her forehead keeps you from pretending she’s just a very bored-looking individual. You glance down at the papers and… Wow, Maker, these are complicated. You frown at them. Well, you have all night to try and figure it out, and you can always ask Dorian in the morning if you can’t—
“Would you like me to assist you?”
Every word the Tranquil says is like dripping poison. You swallow, hard. “Oh, n-no, I wouldn’t w-w-want to int-interrupt,” you stammer uselessly. “I’m s-s-s-sure—”
“It is no bother. I will be bringing my own to the Quartermaster tonight. If you would like, I can drop off your own as well.”
You hesitate yet again. You know Threnn, while not the Quartermaster, works with requisitions. You’d like to avoid seeing her, or her knowing these belong to you. They’ll likely wind up in the trash if she learns they’re yours. “I… w-well. If y-you don’t mind,” you manage. Now if you can just keep your hands from shaking enough to write.
She pulls a chair out for you at the desk, and you sit down with a cringe. She pulls up a chair beside you—you scoot over a little. You suspect she’s not so far gone that she doesn’t notice your abject terror of her. But as a Tranquil, she’s not capable of caring. Somehow, that makes it even worse.
You manage to focus as she walks you through the admittedly complicated process of correctly filling out the requisition form. She even makes some suggestions when you mention what you need.
“Do you have m-much knowledge of dragons?” you ask curiously as you write. You hate to use a Tranquil as a resource, but…
“Not specifically, but I research many animals for the Inquisition,” she says in that horrifyingly dull voice of hers. “I do have some dragonling scales that the Inquisitor brought in, however. Would you like to see them?”
“I… Yes, actually,” you say. “If you d-don’t mind.”
She shuffles off to retrieve them… Maker, you hope you didn’t just accidentally send her across Skyhold. You focus back on the task of filling out the requisition requests until she returns with a small, gilded box in her hand. You accept it from her with thanks and open it. Sure enough, several glistening dragonling scales.
“I have requested the Inquisitor bring me scales from a fully grown high dragon. So far, he has been unable to comply.”
Amazingly, you find yourself laughing. “No, I imagine not! You know, I’m translating the tome he plans to give to a Draconologist. Perhaps afterwards, he’ll go off dragon hunting to bring you your supplies.”
“One can only hope. You have filled out this part incorrectly,” the woman says, pointing to a section of your paper.
“What? Oh, shit… How do I…?” She sits back down next to you and begins to assist you again. The two of you actually have a somewhat pleasant conversation, if awkward and a little stilted. Between her dull monotone and your nervous stuttering, were there anyone else in the library, they’d likely be throwing things at the two of you. Eventually, however, you finish requisitions for several books as well as one for better-fitting clothing. You sign your name to the paper reluctantly, worried that the work you and the Tranquil put into them might be all for naught if Threnn gets a hold of them and recognizes your name. Not that the two of you had a formal introduction while you were screaming at her for her deeply misplaced loyalty to the monstrous Loghain.
“I will bring them along with mine,” the woman says as you finish and stand.
“You’ve been so m-much help. Thank you…” You pause. “Umm… I suppose we never properly introduced ourselves. My name is Emma.”
“I am Helisma Derington.”
“Well… Th-thank you, Helisma. I appreciate y-your help. I hope that they m-manage to find both of our books.”
“You are welcome. I appreciate your associating with me despite your fear.”
You cringe. “Heh… P-pretty o-obvious, I guess. Sorry.”
“It is fine,” she intones. “Many mages share your distaste.”
“Oh, I’m n-not a mage,” you assure her. “J-just a scribe.”
“Ah. I had assumed that your fear stemmed from magehood.”
“No, j-just… r-regular, old-fashioned, irrational f-fear,” you say with a forced smile. “Sorry, again. And, thank you. A-again. I’m just… I’ll g-get out of your way now.” You don’t sprint out of the library, but you do walk quickly. Your ears are flushed with embarrassment. You know Tranquil can’t actually feel hurt or offense, but you’re slightly ashamed of yourself despite that. You’re even ashamed that you feel the need to get completely out of the tower, away from Helisma and the things that the brand on her forehead represents.
You head for your room, slightly shaken and more than a little embarrassed. You just want to get to your room and blockade your door, as if that could keep the concept of Tranquility out. You never get there, however. Halfway across your frantic bolt across the courtyard, a familiar shape steps out of the shadows.
“No one knows. Your secret’s still safe.”
“Cole,” you breathe with a sigh of relief. “I… I know. I’m just…” You glance over your shoulder, as if you’re being chased. Ridiculous. This isn’t even a reasonable fear, like your skittishness around Qunari. Qunari can kill you. Templars can kill you. Mages can kill you. Tranquil? They’re utterly harmless, yet their presence unnerves you as much as that of Qunari. “Would you mind keeping me company for a little?”
“I don’t mind,” Cole replies, and you lead him back up onto the roof of the inn. The raucous sounds from inside help soothe you, remind you that your world isn’t the terrifying grey existence you fear the Tranquil live.
You talk… at Cole, more or less, because he doesn’t respond. “I can’t stand seeing them,” you say with a shudder. “They’re just so… empty. You look into their eyes and there’s nothing there. What do you hear when you listen to them?”
“…Nothing. You’re right; they’re empty inside.”
You choke back a bit of a sob and pull your knees flush against your chest, wrapping your arms around your legs until you feel less vulnerable. “They’re wretched. And I know it’s not their fault. Every one of them is a victim. But I look at them and I see… I can see…” Cole places a hand on your shoulder, hesitantly.
It’s as if a dam breaks. You lean up against him, body wracked with withheld sobs. “I c-can’t… I can’t,” you whisper. “This is why no one can know, Cole. I can’t risk… They’ll…”
“‘Why are we even bothering?’ The man snaps it, sharp, angry. He brandishes words like his sword, both deadly. You can hear them, but they act like you’re not even there.”
“Shut up, Cole,” you whimper, but there’s no acid in it. “Just shut up.”
Mercifully, Cole is quiet, and lets you rest against him until the crying stops. You don’t know how you’ll climb back into that library tomorrow, knowing she’ll be there. But you fight with a Qunari every day. Maybe it’s just a matter of the same thing… forcing yourself to face your fears until you become numb to them. But even the thought of one day being able to stare into that placid face with an expression just as neutral fills you with horror.
As you did the first time you met Cole, you feel your anxiety slowly melting away, soothing down into calmness as he brings you down out of panic through whatever ridiculous spirit power he possesses. How specific… Perhaps your book on spirits has something written about it?
You’re not sure when you go from laying against Cole to laying down on the roof of the inn, but the spirit is still beside you, and that’s enough to keep you calm. You focus on the brim of his ludicrous hat to keep from slipping back into panic. Then you let your eyes wander upwards. There’s a clear night sky above Skyhold, marred only by a few dark, passing clouds. The stars look so bright, so large… You would believe you could reach up and touch them.
You don’t know when you drifted to sleep. But there are Templars, now, surrounding you. One holds your arms pinned behind your back. You struggle against him, desperate, but you don’t have the strength to break free. Your body feels beaten, battered, heavy. Out of the ring of Templars surrounding you, one steps forward.
“Might as well do the Rite now.”
This never happened. This never happened. A nightmare, a nightmare, this is a nightmare. You tell yourself over and over. Time stretches thin as the woman steps slowly closer. No, no, no anything but this, it’s a nightmare, it’s a nightmare, it’s a nightmare.
You’re underwater, thick, viscous liquid pushing you downwards, threatening to drown you. You swim desperately upwards, lungs burning, until you break the surface. The world twists around you and you feel ground beneath your hands; you choke and cough up the thick liquid, wipe your burning eyes so that you can see—
You’re drenched in blood, and the room around you is filled with it, pools and puddles, inches deep on the floor. Mutilated body parts are scattered about, chunks of flesh and bone destroyed so thoroughly you can’t even tell if they’re man or woman, human or elf. You retch, but all that comes out of your throat is more blood. A nightmare, a nightmare.
Blood begins dripping from the walls, pouring from the ceilings. You try to cover yourself, but it’s no use; you can feel it filling the room. A nightmare.
With sheer will you wrench yourself awake, forcing your mind back into your body and out of the Fade. But when you open your eyes, you’re still drenched. Blood still falls from the sky.
- I’m sorry, I’ll come/go quickly. ↩︎