What Needs to be Done
You wake up in only mild confusion. You didn’t sleep through the night, because of course you didn’t. With children to distract you, your disgusting little crush on Solas couldn’t lull you to sleep. The kids slept like rocks, however, likely due to their exhaustion and newly-full bellies. But it’s just as well… You haven’t time to sleep. You slip out from between the children, tuck them into Solas’ blanket a little more completely.
Bull will understand you missing today’s training, you’re sure. All of Skyhold will be a chaotic mess with all of these empty mouths to feed and injured to tend to. Not to mention the fortress can’t hold them for long… No doubt the Inquisition’s diplomats are working out a place to send them as soon as possible. But for now, these elves are your responsibility, and if you don’t go kick some teeth in, they won’t have breakfast.
Gaston isn’t happy to see you when you walk in, but you use the fact dinner was stolen away to you by the kitchen elves to your advantage.
“Thirty mouths, ser, and I had a chicken to split between them!” you lecture. Your stance is aggressive, your tone that of an angry mother; it throws the man, who has likely never been spoken down to by an elf in his life. “I will have porridge for them this morning, and food to give them every meal until they leave.”
“I barely have enough to go around! They’ll get food when everyone else-”
“Clearly they won’t, ser, or I wouldn’t have had to swipe their measly dinner last night!” you interrupt. “Porridge for thirty, delivered to the rotunda… You know… Ser Solas’s rotunda. When are the Inquisitor and his companions due back, by the way?”
“I… you… they…”
“Don’t forget the bowls, ser,” you say icily. “If it’s not there by an hour after sun-up, I’ll be back, and I’ll be far less cheerful about it.”
You hear him swearing in Orlesian as you leave. ”Fucking rabbits, she’s as bad as her master.” You smirk as you head towards the stairs. You’ll take that as a compliment.
It doesn’t take you long in the courtyard to figure out the Commander’s plans. Work is already started on wagons and an armed escort to get the refugees… somewhere. That doesn’t seem clear yet. But the Commander does seem to want them out fast. Even this early, the whole of Skyhold is alive with work being done. You chew on your lip for a moment as you watch soldiers and servants alike rushing to and fro. It would be easy to go back to the rotunda, keep an eye on the children. But you don’t think that’s where you’ll be the most useful. Your heart doesn’t melt for the human refugees. Not the way it does for the elves… but you can hardly see the orphans out to safety by themselves. For them to be safe, the whole caravan will need to be able to move swiftly.
So you interject yourself where you’re not wanted. A requisition agent is determining what number of wagons will need to be constructed; you ensure there will be room for the orphans. They will not walk down the mountain on bare feet. Work is being done to give all the refugees warm clothes for the journey; you’re rather insistent that you need two dozen warm outfits for children. Those extra wagons need extra horses. You go directly to Belassan and Dennet; you wheedle, whine, and beg your way into four strong horses to pull the elves’ wagons. You find who you need to in order to muscle dried meat and grains for the road, to ensure the elves will be fed.
“By whose order?” they all want to know.
“By mine, and delivered to Ser Solas’s rotunda,” is what you tell every single one.
You’ll really have to apologize for dragging his name into this when Solas returns. It might be that this is you finally overstepping and overreaching. If he returns while this mess is still ongoing, you’ll be in quite a fix, and if not, it may be too much for you to brush under the rug when he does return. You’ll likely be out of that rotunda on your ass. But nearly thirty elven lives are more important than your thirst for knowledge and your foolish little crush combined. It took you most of your life for your mother’s teachings on the value inherent to an elven child to sink in. It’s not something you’ll forget easily now.
When you’ve made all the preparations you can for the elves, you begin working in a more general manner, running messages and items from place to place, holding nails, even, at one point, running about a pen catching chickens for the slaughter. You do whatever tasks Skyhold requires of you until the sun is high in the sky, and stop only then because one of your friends tracks you down. It’s Sera who finds you covered in feathers, standing in the Undercroft where you’re delivering no small amount of iron to be turned into nails and axles.
“I’ve been seein’ you all day, runnin’ around like a chicken with yer head cut off… You’ve even got the feathers,” Sera points out.
“Plenty of work to do,” you say tiredly.
“For those elves, right?”
You stiffen a bit at her tone.
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice, what you’re doing… You’re focused just on them, though. ‘Cause they’re orphans?”
“Because they’re elves! Because they’re elves and I’m an elf!” you snap. “Where did you live after the orphanage that you forget how much that matters, Sera?!”
She looks taken aback, likely because she’s dragged you through petty pranks and broken limbs and you’d never once taken that tone with her. You shake your head. “Sorry, I’m just… I have work to do.”
She takes a moment, seemingly to compose herself, or remember why she came in the first place. “You need to eat, Em’. You do still need food to live, right?”
“Only because I’ve yet to reach the next level of elfiness,” you say with a grin, and she seems as willing as you to take it as a joke and let the moment pass. You let her take you to the mess and stuff you with food, although you eat quickly to get back to work sooner. If she notices, she doesn’t comment on it, and she parts ways with you when she realizes you’re heading back to the rotunda.
When you enter Solas’s workspace, you find it’s still populated with your elves–thank the Maker–and that you’d successfully intimidated Gaston… Not only had they had breakfast, they’re now eating lunch. Not the best food, but probably more or less what the other refugees were getting. The children are antsy, being locked up in one room all day, but you insist with the adults that they stay indoors and on this level. You’re overextending what little pull you have in Skyhold as it is.
After ensuring that the elves are fed and sheltered, with clothing coming in, you head back out to see what use you can be. Before long you find yourself in the stables, simply because you’re not much use at assembling wagons and there are no more chickens to be chased. You set to work preparing horses for a long journey; the Inquisition got prime horses for a cavalry from Dennet, but the horses they were using before (i.e., walking flea machines who you personally would be uncomfortable tying to a plow) are still around. Those are the ones the refugees are getting, and they need some help. You don’t know how to shoe a horse, but you know how to groom and kill ticks, and you consider yourself something of an expert in the art of scooping poop. You find things to do.
And so you work. There are worse ways to spend your evening than ankle deep in horse shit (not many, but still), and you feel like you’re helping. You only break when you realize you need to ensure that the children have gotten dinner, and then you’re right back in the stables. The sun has set by the time someone interrupts you with anything other than a new task. To your surprise, it’s the Grey Warden, Blackwall. If that startles you, his reason for being there absolutely floors you.
“You’ve been here all afternoon and evening. You’re no good to these refugees dead. Eat.” The bearded man thrusts what appears to be the leg of a turkey into your hands. It’s not exactly what you’re used to being handed, and the fact that it’s him doing it has you off balance. You’re caught between the polite little linguist and the woman who has two dozen orphans to protect, and your brain stalls like an overweight donkey.
“I… I don’t… The… What?”
Eloquent.
“Eat,” he says again, pantomiming as if you’re a Maker-damned idiot. Perhaps you seem that way. But you do take a bite of the turkey leg–you hadn’t realized how hungry you had gotten until you got food in your mouth. You tear into it like a beast, both out of hunger and out of a desire to get back to work. Those horses (although you use the term loosely) won’t clean themselves.
“I was under the impression you were a linguist, not a stablehand,” the Warden comments off-handedly as he watches you absolutely destroy the turkey leg.
You bite back a sharp retort and swallow a mouthful of food before replying. “Are these refugees in dire need of having something translated, Ser Warden?”
“Still, you must be out of your comfort zone here.” He gestures vaguely around the barn.
“It needs to be done,” you say with a shrug.
“As simple as that?”
“Should it be complicated?” you exclaim, tossing your hands into the air in frustration. What is it with people today? Between Sera’s obliviousness and Blackwall’s… whatever the hell this is, you’re going to wind up punching someone. This is what happens when you skip practice with Iron Bull, clearly… too much punching energy built up. “There are refugees in our halls! There is a long list of things they need, Ser Warden, and ‘linguist’ is not on there!”
“You’re doing good work, with those elves. Sera told me.”
You search for the barb, for the catch, but can’t find it. “It… needed to be done. That’s all.”
“Is it? Elf or no, there aren’t a lot of people who would do what you’re doing.”
“I know. That’s why I’m doing it. If I thought someone else would, I needn’t have bothered,” you say shortly.
Blackwall is silent for a moment, then nods and reaches out, resting a large hand on your tired shoulder. “The Inquisition will always need people like you, linguist.”
The way he delivers it sounds deeply meaningful, but if you’re being totally honest, you’re not sure what he means. Also, he chooses that moment to turn and leave, so even if you had known how to request clarification, you lose your chance. Too busy to really get into being confused at the moment, you decide to just shrug it off and finish the turkey leg. If you’ve given him cause to dislike you less, than that can be a side benefit to the work you’re doing. You would never have guessed it, but with a mercenary group and a growing list of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle coming to enjoy your company, you’re getting into a good position here in Skyhold. You’re willing to blow that to help these elves, but perhaps that won’t be necessary. Now if only you can think of a good excuse for Solas.
After you do everything you can in the stables, you find yourself working with some of the requisition agents. You’ve always been an organized individual, so secretarial work and making order out of chaos come naturally to you. Plus, working to assign purposes to the wagons rapidly being constructed in the courtyard means you can ensure that the ones you bullied into use for the elves remain theirs to use.
Later, you assist in packing wagons tight with supplies, food, blankets, and bandages, ensuring every single one is crammed as tight as it can be. You throw your weight around less in a crowd full of stubborn, serious, mostly Fereldan men, phrasing your commands and orders to be seen as suggestions, even tricking the occasional officer into thinking that it was absolutely his brilliant idea to tie a spare wheel onto the bottom of each wagon. Whatever needs to be done to ensure the safety of these refugees. Even kowtowing to some fragile male egos.
It’s late in the night by the time you collapse. You do so literally. One second, you’re carrying a box of canned food to a wagon, calling back to the man shouting orders, and the next, your legs give out from under you and you find yourself in the dirt. You clutch the box against your chest as you fall, to prevent it from breaking, but find yourself unable to stand. Your legs are useless, crumpled beneath you. Someone takes the box from your arms; they almost have to pry your fingers off of it.
You attempt to stand again, but your body just isn’t cooperating. It feels as if someone’s severed your spine and your legs can no longer respond. Someone comes to help, bless them, wrapping one of your arms around their shoulders and helping you stand. They lean you up against a wall, and you see that it’s a rather jovial-faced man as he pats you somewhat condescendingly on the cheek. “You’re overworking, rabbit. Get some rest; the world will keep moving without you.”
You have no desire to rest, and are certain the world WILL continue to move without you… and without the elven orphans you’re attempting to assist. But your body is making a stand—after working hard all day with minimal food, it’s done. Somehow, you manage to crawl up the stairs (nearly on hands and knees) and make your way shakily into the rotunda. The children are all already asleep, although a few stir as you pass. The couch is packed with sleeping elves, so you climb onto Solas’ desk and pass out almost immediately into a dreamless sleep.
You awake before dawn, as is your tendency. Awareness comes to you slowly as you attempt to remember why, exactly, you are curled into a ball on Solas’ desk, surrounded on all sides by sleeping children. The memories return to you in a rush… the refugees, yesterday’s work, the work still left to be done today. Your body doesn’t feel much better than it did when you collapsed; the sleep you got was a poor facsimile of the real thing, and being immobile on a hard wooden surface for a few hours did nothing for your soreness. Every muscle in your body burns as you slide off the desk and slip out the rotunda door, but you know forcing yourself to work is your best option.
Work on the caravan is still ongoing in the courtyard; it likely never stopped. How long were you out for? Three hours? Four? You spare only a few moments to stretch before diving back into the thick of things. The wagons are all completed now, and most are packed. The Commander is up (had he slept?) and in the thick of it; soldiers and requisition officers swarm around him like bees. It makes him easy to avoid as you check on the status of the elves’ wagons.
Miraculously, people are still operating with the knowledge that those are wagons for the elven children, and even more miraculously, the supplies you bullied your way into getting are being delivered to the rotunda. You manage to requisition a few people to assist you in packing the supplies into your wagons, making sure you leave enough space for all of the orphans to sit. Even if no one else in the caravan is willing to share supplies with the elves, they’ll have enough to get them to where they’re going.
And you do learn where they’re going, eventually… To your delight, House d’Argent is taking the refugees onto their land. It says a lot for the Inquisition’s reach that the refugees had to flee from Orlais, and are fleeing straight back into it but now with a destination. Someone important needs to ask before resources miraculously turn up, as always. But this is good news for another reason… There may be more your “specialized talents” can do to help these refugees after all. But first, you need to ensure everything is set for their departure. Commander Rutherford is sending soldiers as guards to ensure the caravan’s safe passageway to d’Argent’s lands.
First, you ensure that the two elves’ wagons were assigned guards. They were. The real trouble is when you see the two men who were assigned to your people. You recognize one of them, in the worst possible way—he was a man you first met when he was shouting about the things he’d like to do to your “filthy Dalish ass.” He was not, in fact, the one that the Commander had caught and punished… He had been smart enough to run. You would not, you could not leave the protection of your people to this man. Your girls would be in more danger from him than from bandits.
The lieutenant you try to speak to about switching guards is having none of it, however; diplomacy quickly falls through.
“You’ve got two damn wagons just for the elves, woman, just how much special treatment do you want them to get?”
“Two wagons for the elves and two dozen for the humans!” you snap. “I’m fighting for every scrap they get, and I’m telling you, all I need is a different guard! Put him up front on the opposite end of the progression and give me someone else.”
“I don’t take orders from you, you-” His hand raises as if to backhand you and you take a quick step backwards—a strike from an iron gauntlet can do quite a lot of harm. The blow never lands, however—another gauntleted hand wraps tight around the man’s wrist, causing him to shout in pain.
“Lieutenant, go oversee the workers near the kitchen.” The Commander’s voice is, as always, one that demands obedience. The lieutenant practically runs off towards the kitchens, and Commander Cullen turns his attention to you. Just where you didn’t want it. “You have a knack for getting into trouble, Miss.”
“My apologies, Commander,” you say with a full bow. You had hoped to avoid this for a while longer. At least until the elves were safely on their way.
“Let me guess… You were asking something for the elves, and my Lieutenant didn’t want to bother?”
He has taken notice of your actions then. No surprise; how could he miss them? You only procured two entire wagons full of supplies. “It’s that guard, my Lord.”
“I’m no Lord-” he interjects, but you press on.
“His name is Lawrence Underhill, according to the roster. He… Ah…” You clear your throat. “He and I met just before you and I did, ser.”
“I don’t s… Oh.” You can feel the relief flood through you as understanding dawns on the Commander’s face. It’s cut off by the fact understanding is quickly followed by anger, however, as he turns towards the man in question. You step in front of him quickly, half expecting to be shoved out of the way or struck, despite the fact the anger is arguably on your behalf.
“I don’t want trouble, ser. I only want him moved, perhaps traded to guard another wagon?” you begin desperately.
The Commander’s face is still an angry storm when he turns his gaze back to you, and you can feel yourself shrink under it. “How can you-”
“Very e-easily, ser. I don’t care what he s-says to me–I just d-don’t want him near my girls. Ser.” It’s taking much of your willpower to maintain eye contact, although you’re starting to shake a little. Angry Templars are up past “angry Qunari” on the list of things you run when you see. You watch carefully as the Commander’s fist clenches and unclenches. Then he sighs, and you remember to breathe. He grabs a passing soldier—literally, he just grasps the man’s arm.
“Corporal, move Underhill off the job. Put Wille in instead,” he says, voice tight with irritation.
“Yes, Commander,” the unfortunate corporal says before scurrying off.
“Th-thank you, ser,” you say meekly. “I’ll, ah… I’ll just be…”
“Emma.” You freeze. “Don’t think your work with the elves has gone unnoticed.” You swallow, hard. You rather doubted it would be, but couldn’t he let you hope for a few more days? “I… That is, the Inquisition… appreciates it. Your work.”
You blink at him, as confused by what he’s saying as the awkward manner in which he’s saying it.
“It’s easy for the smallest people to get swept under the rug in a rush like this. You’ve made sure they didn’t, when your job had nothing to do with it.” He clears his throat. “You made sure they got what they needed. I’ll take care of the rest.”
A dismissal you can understand, so you bow and wander off, dazed. You can’t shake the feeling like there’s a sword looming over your head, but it has yet to drop. There has to be some consequence for the shit you’ve been pulling. You’d feel better if people would stop reacting positively and react in the “uppity elf, I’ll show you!” fashion of the lieutenant. Someone will feel the need to put you in your place, and you’d like to get it over with.
But it looks like the preparations for the caravan are winding down, and you’ve got a few more things to do before you send your little elflings on their way. You head back into the rotunda, and enter to a crowd of sleepy-eyed orphans downing porridge. It’s a good sight, but you head to your desk rather than basking in it, and immediately begin drafting a note. You write quickly but professionally, and then fold it up and drip some wax from your candle to seal it. Then you find the oldest elf there, a woman likely only a few years older than you.
“Your caravan is traveling to House d’Argent,” you inform her. “After you arrive, go to the castle and find a serving man by the name of Onfroi. Give him this letter, do not open it. Tell him this, exactly this… ‘Banal’ras is calling in their favors.’”
The woman nods, eyes wide.
“Say it back to me.”
“B…Banal’ras is calling in their favors,” she says nervously. You nod.
“Good. He will deliver it to the Comtesse. She will see the lot of you taken care of. Do not leave the castle until Onfroi returns.”
You drill the woman on her task until you’re certain she knows what to do. The Comtesse will, in fact, take care of these elves. They’ll likely fare better than the humans. How well they’re treated will inform of you of whether or not you need to make certain indiscretions on her part public knowledge. You had been saving those favors in the off-chance that you needed them in the future—House d’Argent owes “Banal’ras” quite a bit—but this is worth the expenditure of that particular debt.
As you see the elves loaded into their wagons–wagons you procured–and sent off to a better life because of you, you find yourself practically glowing with pride. It’s not often that you can say you’ve done good. Most of your life has been a series of sacrificing others to ensure your own survival. But this… This is good. This time, this one time, you can be proud of your actions.
Iron Bull finds you on the ramparts, watching as the caravan fades into the distance.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” he comments. “I heard you adopted some kids.”
You smile, genuinely. “A little bit, maybe.”
“I also heard you collapsed from exhaustion not six hours ago, and yet here you are.”
You wave him off vaguely. “A few hours rest and I was right as rain, obviously.”
“Uh-huh. So tell me, how much have you eaten in the last twenty-four hours?”
“…A turkey leg and… and… Well, I had lunch of some sort yesterday, I don’t remember what.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’m dragging you to the mess now, and you’re going to eat until I’m satisfied you won’t be collapsing again,” Iron Bull tells you flatly.
“I really should get back to the rotunda, I have to—”
“You know how this works, Emma. You can walk, or I can carry you.”
“I can escape most of your grapples now,” you say with a scowl.
“And you really want everyone to see us wrestling our way across the courtyard?”
“Alright, alright… I’ll go eat,” you say with a sigh, raising your hands in surrender. “No need to get physical.”
Breakfast does make you feel a little less shaky. You did everything but eat, sleep, and work on your manuscript yesterday. You can’t exactly sleep the day away, and you have work to do before you can sit down to the manuscript, but at least you can eat.
The thought of the work you have to do makes you antsy, however. The rotunda is a mess, and the only thing worse than the thought of Solas returning to a rotunda full of baby elves is the thought of Solas returning to a rotunda that is a mess and sorely lacking in baby elves to use for evidence as to why. Iron Bull seems to understand that getting you to sit still and eat a meal is a miracle in and of itself, and doesn’t try to hold you up any further when you make your excuses and head towards the rotunda.
The rotunda is a mess, but it isn’t as bad as it could be, all things considered. Perhaps out of gratitude or just a sense of cleanliness, the elven refugees had straightened up a bit before leaving, but there’s still a lot to be done. You take a deep breath and then get to work, beginning by gathering up all the wooden bowls and plates the elves had been using and bringing them back to the kitchens. Then the blankets and bedrolls… Most are easy, you simply gather them up and take them to the laundry. But Solas’s… you can’t risk the laundry losing even a single one; you would never forgive yourself. Perhaps they’re all simple blankets provided by the Inquisition… but what if they’re not?! That’s not a risk you’re willing to take.
Instead, you borrow a bucket of water, a washboard, and some soap. Dragging the bucket up the steps outside Solas’ rotunda is a task, but you manage it, somehow. Then it’s simply a matter of washing the half-dozen blankets and sheets you “borrowed” from his linen closet. You wash all except the brown one you’d been using… You could make any number of excuses, but the reality of the situation is that you don’t want it to lose that Solas-y scent. That realization causes no small amount of self-loathing… You really are pathetic.
You also air out the pillows, and finally, string it all up outside to dry. If people find it comical to see blankets flapping the wind over the ramparts near the entrance to Solas’s rotunda, no one says a word to you. Only Solas’s brown blanket remains (how is it so easy for you to recognize it out of so many?), strewn over the back of the couch.
After the worst of the clutter is gone, there’s still a matter of the floor and furniture. The thought of pestering the maids to do it barely flitters through your mind—it’s your mess, after all, and you’d called in more favors than you’d earned just taking care of the refugees. You simply steal a brush, then use the soapy water from the laundry to scrub the floors.
It’s tiring work, and it fills your mind with less-than-fond memories of your childhood. There’s nothing glamorous about cleaning a floor… but everyone had to start somewhere, you suppose. You scrub the damn floors until you suspect it’s cleaner than it’s been since before the Inquisition moved into Skyhold. Then you take advantage of the fact that Solas’s desk is clear to give it a thorough scrub down as well.
Somewhere in there you wind up skipping lunch, and you only notice when your stomach begins to growl. Well, it can wait a little longer. You clean every exposed inch of the rotunda before you’re satisfied, and you only refrain from cleaning the walls because you’re paranoid you’ll damage the murals. You put all of Solas’ belongings back on his desk and attempt to arrange them something like he had them. Somehow you still feel like he’ll be able to tell you slept on it just by glancing.
You pace around the room a few times before deciding that you really have cleaned everything that can possibly be cleaned. The only thing left to do is attempt to get back to the actual work you’re supposed to be doing here… the tome. Another loud grumble from your stomach changes your plans however… It’s almost evening. An early dinner won’t hurt you, and you did skip lunch.
Heading out early allows you to avoid most of the people who might seek you out at dinner, such as Thea or Iron Bull, but as you exit, a familiar arm loops around yours.
“All done playin’ house-elf?”
It says something about how attractive Sera is that your earlier irritation at her melts away almost instantaneously at the sight of her smile. How many sticky situations has that pretty face gotten her out of? You can certainly relate, but that doesn’t mean you appreciate the fact it works on you.
“Finally,” you say with a smile of your own. “I’ve cleaned that rotunda top to bottom, and yet I still feel like Solas will know the second he walks in.”
She chuckles. “Yeah, I kinda like that you up and housed them right in his place. I bet they got sticky fingers all over his dumb books.”
You shudder. “Maker, I hope not. I’m still amazed I’ve gotten away with everything I did, so far. If there’s a single page out of place, he might just light me up on the spot.”
Sera snorts. “I don’t like that Solas much, but if he had that kinda temper, you never woulda been able to set up in his place t’ begin with. He’ll like that you were takin’ care of the elves,” she adds, although she wrinkles her nose. “He’s all about elves, that one.”
“Ma serannas, lethallan,” you say dryly.
“Don’t you start!” she exclaims, batting you on the back of the head. “I can’t lose you to that nonsense!”
“Che dire di Antivan?”
“Wot?”
“Fortasse Tevene?”
“Alright, you’re just fuckin’ with me. How many languages do you even know?”
“Tel’abelas, lethallan. I know six,” you say with a smirk.
“Stoppit! Just speak normal!”
“Alas… all of my knowledge of languages, but I’ve never learned ‘normal,’” you say forlornly. “Perhaps you could teach me?”
“Oh, I’ll teach you something, alright,” she says with a scowl. “Prat. Why do you even know six languages?”
“Because the more languages you know, the more books you can read,” you say with a shrug. “I wish it was more complicated than that, but it’s really not.”
“I guess you’re what Solas’d be if he didn’t have his head stuck so far up his ass,” she says, still frowning. “Don’t you get all… all “elvhen glory” on me.”
“Not much risk of that. No one wants ancient elvhen documents translated, and there aren’t many to translate to begin with. I’m more likely to wax poetic about Tevinter history than Elven.”
“Don’t do that, either! S’boring!”
You roll your eyes, but with a smile. “So, where are we going? I can’t help but notice you’ve been leading me towards the tavern.”
“We’re not goin’ in, so don’t start fussin’. Did you know that the Commander’s been workin’ almost non-stop with these refugees in?”
“I’m not surprised,” you say with a shrug, not adding that you’ve been doing the same.
“Mmhmm. So I have it on good authority that right now… he’s takin’ a nap.”
Her wicked look makes you stop mid-stride. “…Oh Maker, but… Sera, it’s not even dark!”
“Tha’s why it’s so perfect! There’ll be more guards out at night, there always are! Specially ‘round where important people sleep. But the guards here are like clockwork, just like their Commander… They’ll be at all their normal stations.”
“And he’ll be in that loft of his, alone,” you say, shaking your head as you realize what she’s thinking. “But how are we even gonna get out the front door?”
“Well, the way I see it, we’re gonna either sneak out an’ then hope that no one wonders why we’ve got a ladder, or we’re gonna run like hell.”
“Why am I at the top of this thing?” you hiss down at Sera as you desperately unhook the ladder from its connections to the floor of Commander Cullen’s loft. You keep staring up at his bed, where a shape that can only be the Commander of the Inquisition tosses and turns. Your realization that you successfully unhooked the ladder connecting the loft to the Commander’s office comes when it begins to sway backwards. Fortunately, Sera has been waiting for just that, and stabilizes the ladder long enough for you to scramble down.
“You know, Sera,” you whisper. “Just because you can’t get in trouble for this shit doesn’t mean I can’t.”
“Shush and help me lean this over!”
The two of you fumble momentarily with the ladder until you get it horizontal, with her carrying one end and you and the other. She checks at the door, then gives you a quick nod before throwing the door open. The two of you dart out, then down the stairs, before any guards show up. Once you’re at the bottom of the stairs, the two of you go more slowly, trying to look casual.
“It really bothers me that we haven’t been caught yet,” you comment to Sera as the two of you walk, unchallenged, across the courtyard—just two elves with a ladder. “What if we were… assassins or something?”
“Ladder assassins?”
“You know what I mean! Shouldn’t he have guards?”
Sera shrugs. “Takes more than some McKnifey with a bit o’ poison to take out someone like Cullen. Besides, they’re pretty careful about who gets in.”
You’re not sure how much you believe that… you got in, after all. Of course, you’re also not the kind of person who could successfully assassinate a knight-commander, either. You do have a knife, though, is the thing, so maybe you shouldn’t be able to go into his bedroom, is your point.
Sera leads you across the courtyard, back to the tavern, and then around behind it, before stopping. “Alright! Here we are!”
“What, we’re just hiding it behind the tavern? Here I thought you’d have us drop it out of the Undercroft.”
“Nah. We don’t want him stuck up there forever! Besides, I wanna go back on the roof, and you don’t have the best track record with climbin’,” Sera says, beginning to lean the ladder against the side of the building.
There are worse ways to spend your time than up on the roof with Sera, watching the sun finish setting over the horizon. The two of you sit side-by-side, idly chattering back and forth. Sera supports herself on her arms while you sprawl backwards across the dark roof still warm from the sun’s heat.
“Y’know, it was Dirth’len who taught me to climb buildings,” Sera says with a sigh. “Can’t believe it… I mean, I guess I kinda knew but… I thought if anyone woulda gotten out, it woulda been her.”
Gloomy subject, and not one you really want to think about. Hearing Sera reminisce about you in third person might be good for your ego, but really, Denerim isn’t a place you like thinking about.
“I’m better at climbing trees,” you lie.
“Pff, I’ll believe that when I see it. We really should get outta Skyhold one o’ these days, get some priv—”
“There it is!” a male voice echoes from below. “By the tavern!”
“Oh, shit!” exclaims Sera. “No, no, stay down,” she adds as you jolt upwards.
“Is someone up there?” the same voices calls.
“Cheese it!” Sera exclaims, grabbing your hand and pulling you along the roof, staying low enough to avoid being seen. You think for a moment she’s diving off the side, and begin to expect another dangerous run across Skyhold, but instead of jumping, she hangs down, dragging you along with her, and swings into an open window in the tavern.
You land with a grunt, tangled up and on something soft… in darkness, at that. It takes you a moment to realize, but you’re on a bed, of sorts, your legs all tangled up in Sera’s. You’re practically sitting in her lap. She’s looking out the window, waiting, and pulls you down onto the bed when two men carrying Commander Cullen’s ladder pass by. Your heart is pounding, both at nearly being caught and at being on a bed in a dark room with Sera pushing you down against the mattress. If you were in any condition to dream, you’d wonder if you were asleep.
“I think they’re gone,” she whispers, turning her head from the window back to you. It’s then that she seems to realize how close the two of you are, just how much of your bodies are touching. Your hair has come loose from its bun and strews across the bed underneath you. You feel as much as you see the breath hitch in her throat. “I, uh… I…”
She leans closer, slightly, and your own breath speeds up. Large elven eyes reflect your own as you lift yourself up towards her—
“The Inquisitor’s party is here! The Inquisitor has returned from Fallow Mire!”
The voice bounces in from outside, repeatedly shouting the news through the courtyard, interrupting your little ill-thought-out moment and causing you both to draw back slightly and glance towards the window. It’s only then that the news properly registers.
The Inquisitor.
Solas.