Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the Tevinter Imperium, flashy magic is the name of the game. Bold robes, oversized hoods, all manner of hats, both great and terrible, but, most of all, a sort of flair in spellcasting that doesn’t exist down south.

Or, in his experience, anyway. Given that he’s currently hiding in a Redcliffe tavern, pretending to be one of the mage rebels, he supposes he understands why those around him aren’t levitating their glasses of ale.

Dorian takes a sip of his own ale, masking a grimace. He’d ordered wine but the bartender - a classic Ferelden sort wearing overalls, a checkerboard patterned shirt, and displaying a wheel of cheese on the back bar, looked at him and poured him a beer instead. Not even a brandy; a full-on concoction that reminds him of liquified bread that’s long gone off.

That is, technically, what beer is. Right?

He’s waiting on Ixchel Lavellan and her lovely little entourage of brand new friends, which includes a dwarf with a remarkably impressive crossbow that has him thinking he might be willing to steal candy from a toddler in exchange for an hour to glance under its collar, so to speak, a gloriously tall qunari warrior, and an elven mage.

The mage has him pondering flash - or lackthereof, here down south. Instead of dressing in his evening best, the man came to the chantry dressed in a green ensemble, wielding a simple wooden staff. Now, he has nothing against green - emeralds are green, after all, but this specific shade of green, coupled with the man’s rather severe shaved head has him thinking the man probably spent a little too long in the great outdoors after finding himself liberated from his circle, so to speak. During the fight in the chantry a couple hours back, the man focused on casting barriers on both Ixchel and the qunari, but cast a dispel far more powerful than any he’d seen back in Tevinter, preventing a nasty looking Terror demon from slipping out of the Fade.

Now, if he’d cast a spell like that, he’d make a show of it. Make it sparkle. What fun is there in subtlety?

He’s right in the middle of swallowing his truly tragic ale when Ixchel arrives in this very rustic tavern, glancing at the bear head affixed to the wall. Without a second glance, he abandons his ale to a lucky rebel mage to finish, follows her straight out the door, and positions himself so he can chat with the mage. The man walks tall - almost soldier-like, though to his understanding, mages in the south don’t have the sort of formal military training battle mages in Tevinter would, leaving him a mystery.

“I didn’t get your name?” he opens with, extending his hand. After a moments’ hesitation, the man shakes it, and offers a nod of his head, giving his name as Solas.

“How long have you been free from your circle? Were you in one of the more permissive ones?”

“I am self-trained, having honed my skills through my journeys in the Fade,” Solas says, as if that’s a perfectly ordinary thing to have done and not a fascinating skill.

“I take it you study spirits, then?”

“I do.” The man stares ahead at the road, eyes fixated on Ixchel, who is leading their merry little band. He’s not the chatty sort, it appears, but he tries again.

“Back in my homeland, we keep spirits as servants.”

“So I’ve been told.” There’s what may be a hint of irritation in the man’s tone that he can’t quite figure out.

“The things they can be made to be are quite marvelous - you should see them.” Spirits were never his speciality - classmates of his worked under mentors who researched spirits, frequently calling them from the Fade and binding them as part of their studies, but he always found himself called to more theoretical fields.

“The Tevinter Imperium is not the safest place for an elf,” Solas says, his even tone betraying a hint of irritation and Dorian realizes he’s just stepped in it, so to speak.

“Ah, yes. Point taken,” he says, deciding it best to slink off and try to open a proper discussion with the man another time.

***

Plenty haunts him about the horrible future he and Ixchel landed in, but there was something equally intriguing and horrifying about Solas’ manner.

“I am dying, but no matter.”

He can hardly imagine such casual indifference in the face of certain death. It’s almost as if the man had been long-prepared to die.

Though, he supposes if he’d spent a year in Redcliffe Castle’s dungeon, amidst ever-expanding veins of red lyrium, he might find himself ready to punch out too.

Not a thought he likes to linger on, and Ixchel had mentioned that Solas seemed more interested in the magical phenomena than he was to learn of what his future self had done to ensure they made it back. It’s with this in mind that he brings his worn black lamb-leather notebook to the cabin across from his own that Solas has turned into his quarters.

“Ixchel had mentioned you were interested in the happy little intricacies of what happened to us - magically-speaking, so I thought you may be interested in perusing the notebook I kept while working with Alexius.”

Solas stares at him, his posture still infuriatingly perfect, and he realizes he has no read on the man. Nothing. It’s as if he’s staring at a blank slate in elf form.

“You would share your research?”

“So long as you don’t go off and try to rip another hole through space and time, but you don’t seem the sort to start messes.”

“Merely curious, is all.” Solas accepts the notebook and stares at it. “It is a generous offer - am I correct that, in your homeland, sharing such knowledge would risk undermining your own work?”

He and Alexius kept their work quiet, both because it was nothing more than theory that never actually worked, risking the mockery of those who saw no value in studying the theoretical, and because, as their little field trip proved, time magic in the wrong hands is dangerous.

Turns out Alexius’ hands were the dangerous ones. He never could have anticipated that once, but grief and desperation can drive even the best of people to do terrible things, and the prospect of losing his son drove him into the waiting arms of this Elder One and his little Venatori cult.

“You’re, uh…” he gestures up and down at Solas, “whole aura suggests you would not be inclined to run off with my notebook and publish this research. Am I safe to assume you would not slip it over to any of those nasty Venatori sorts?”

“That would be a safe conclusion to make. Thank you - for your generosity,” Solas says, his tone polite, yet distant, but as he turns and wanders back to his own cabin, he’s pleased that he might have a way to open the lines of communication with a man so different from any he’s ever encountered before.

***

Solas returns his notebook with a quiet thanks three days later. “So, do you have any thoughts?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe of his cabin, trying not to behave like a student over-eager to impress his professor.

“Your penmanship is terrible.”

He cackles, remembering how his teachers used to order him to copy and re-copy his notes, hoping to get the long, looping cursive so desired by the sorts who give a damn about penmanship, instead of his sharp, crowded scrawling lines that would inevitably sit just off the lined parchment he used as a boy.

“I taught myself to write with my left hand while working with Alexius so I had my dominant hand free to muck about with things, but rest-assured I was severely chastised for my, let’s just say… functional way of writing even before the switch,” he says, grinning.

“I would recommend switching back to your right hand,” Solas says dryly.

“So, penmanship aside…”

“I did have questions.” Solas gestures into his cabin and, realizing that a discussion on magical theory is liable to be an extended endeavour, he steps aside, offering to put on the kettle.

“I dislike tea,” Solas says. “Water will suffice.”

“We could open a bottle of wine? It’s evening somewhere, right?”

“I’m content with water, thank you.”

So, not the sort to drink while exploring the possibilities of magic that had been theoretical until about two weeks ago. Good to know.

Solas, to his surprise, asks how he’s feeling about Alexius’ arrest, following a long discussion about his research, and a brief, but spirited debate on Solas’ technique for crafting barriers versus his own, leaving him energized; thrilled to be around someone so eager to learn, even if he doesn’t necessarily agree with much of what comes out of the man’s mouth.

“I… don’t know. I’m… sad, mostly,” he says, frowning. “He’d been a good man once.”

“Many battlefields are covered with the bones of those who would once have called themselves good men.”

“I genuinely do not know what to say in response to that,” he admits, speaking far more seriously than he’d prefer, and it occurs to him that the man sitting at the wobbly wooden card table across from him is truly an oddity. Not Dalish and not a city elf, but a man who lived alone in the woods, studying spirits. He says this to Solas, who glances at him, blue eyes piercing.

“Is this a problem for you?”

“No, no. You're a special and unique snowflake. Live the dream,” he says lightly.

Solas says nothing in response, when the correct response would obviously be to poke him back about the time he spends grooming his mustache every morning, and tending to his hair, and he realizes that his specific form of banter may not be to the man’s liking.

Shame - banter is great fun. Alas, it turns out men who spend their lives out in the woods cannot be nearly as perfect as he is.

Chapter Text

If you wish to make amends for past transgressions, free the slaves of all races who live in Tevinter today.

Dorian stares at the woodgrain of the table at the Herald’s Rest; the vinegar they pass off for wine at the tavern goes down even harder than usual as he considers the argument he had with Solas the other day. He’d tried to make amends on behalf of his countrymen, only to be told that freeing slaves in Tevinter was the only way to assuage the guilt of his people’s bloody history.

A strangely idealistic suggestion for a man so known for lacking anything resembling optimism. He wishes he could forget the suggestion and enjoy the wine in front of him - or, as well as one can enjoy terrible southern wine. He really must speak to Josephine about this. Her family has a vineyard, yes? Surely she can do something!

What can one man do? Not just one man - a damned pariah! Slamming his fist on the table, he stands up, having known what he was going to do with the rest of his night for the last hour, and wanders to the rotunda where Solas is sitting at his desk, a book open on one side of the desk, which he is consulting as he scribbles notes with his right hand.

He realizes he still has his glass of terrible wine in his hand. How unfortunate. He takes a sip out of it and clears his throat. Without looking up, Solas says, “I’m aware of your presence.”

Avoiding a smart comment in response takes the willpower required of a child avoiding the temptation to stick their fingers in a pie cooling on a windowsill. Lesser men than him have won awards for the valour he’s showing right now. “I’d wondered if you might be willing to… consult on the matter we spoke about the other day.” Before Solas can ask him to elaborate, he clarifies, “freeing Tevinter’s slaves. How would I do it?”

Solas sets his pen down and glances up and then leans back in his chair, glancing at the door just behind him. “Not here,” he says, standing up, walking briskly out the door and onto the battlements, leaving him trotting at the man’s heels like a poorly-trained pup. At this hour, the moon is bright and the stars glitter in the night sky, but Solas walks without a mage light, as if by memory - and then he reminds himself that elves see better in the dark than humans can and, swallowing his pride, casts himself a mage light. Solas brings him to a locked door, undoes a ward, and invites him into what he realizes is the man’s quarters. There’s a single bed in the corner, a desk with a neatly stacked pile of books and perfectly folded clothes atop an aged wooden nightstand. It’s cool in the room and he waits for Solas to light the fireplace on the wall opposite to the bed, but when he does, it’s veilfire and he shivers. Noticing this, Solas snaps his fingers and instantly the veilfire shifts to the comforting heat of an actual fire.

“Handy trick,” he says, impressed. He can light a fire using magic - any Circle apprentice with about an hour of instruction can in Tevinter, but not at a snap of his fingers! Solas wards the door and then casts a spell that’s unfamiliar to him.

“To ensure we aren’t overheard,” Solas says, and he gives the man a funny look. Why would anyone object to a discussion about how to dismantle slavery in the Imperium? “There are those affiliated with the inquisition who would be troubled to hear mages plotting revolts, even if those revolts are to take place in Tevinter.”

Solas speaks mildly, revealing no hint of bitterness or frustration; just a calm acknowledgement of the reality they both live with. Solas brings a second chair over to the desk, pulls out a piece of vellum, and a pen, and begins asking questions. The details of his current social status in Tevinter, how many slaves his family owns, how they are treated, and their precise positions. Then, the same questions of families closely associated with his family.

“The most challenging part of beginning a movement is the beginning. Once a boulder is rolling down a hill, it cannot be stopped. Free those owned by your family to start with.”

“How?”

Solas blinks at him several times and lets out the same sort of sigh he’d heard in the circle when his professors were contending with a particularly thick pupil. “By offering them a fair wage, equal to what a paid employee in their position would receive. Some may take their newfound freedom and leave, but others may opt to remain. The oppressed speak but the nobility fails to listen - this is not unique to Tevinter or Orlais, or any empire throughout history, and news of your family’s actions will spread. Slaves of families affiliated with yours will demand freedom, and so the boulder shifts, inching nearer to the precipice.”

“You’d said every slave of every race in Tevinter.”

Given how Solas has responded to his questions about binding spirits, he realizes that Solas must include spirits in this, and he considers just how radically Tevinter culture will need to change for people to widely see spirits as more than amorphous constructs of the Fade. He decides not to risk souring the conversation, with Solas so willing to offer his insight, by proclaiming that what Solas wants is unlikely to be possible in one human lifetime.

Now, Solas begins drawing what looks to be a flow chart based on Tevinter’s political structure, explaining that advocating for the end of slavery will require time and allies, and that building a formal alliance with like-minded junior members of the Magisterium would be advantageous. “You do realize that every time a magister gets too mouthy, they wind up visited by templars and then word comes out that they were bleeding their slaves in the cellar, or some such nonsense?”

“I would recommend discretion,” Solas says dryly. “The shadows do much for a fledgling movement, and if you mask the exchange of coin properly, hired mercenaries would target those trapped in the custody of your most prominent enemies, and break their chains. A hired emissary negotiating with mercenary companies on your behalf would suffice.”

“How do you know all of this?” He thinks of conversations he’s overheard between Solas and Sera - how the man seems uncommonly knowledgeable about revolution and toppling the very top rung of the nobility.

“There is much one can find in the Fade if you’d only bother to look,” Solas says - which shouldn’t be a surprise, because it often feels as if that’s the man’s answer to every question about his, frankly, bizarre skillset. “The time will come to strike openly, proposing legislation to repeal the current laws, but prior to doing so, you’ll need buy-in from more than just your allies.”

“Blackmail?” Practically Tevinter’s national pastime, though he’s hardly important enough to partake in the festivities.

“A time-honoured strategy, though a risky one. Your power drips away as soon as the blackmail tap goes dry unless you have alternative measures in place.” Still, Solas writes the word on the vellum in front of him, underlining it twice, and he resists the urge to joke that the man should dot the ‘i’ with a little heart, given how enthusiastic the man seems to be about the prospect of blackmailing Tevinter’s noble families. He shifts in his chair, considering the idea that breaking chains illegally will hit some of the oldest, and most prominent Tevinter families right in the pocketbook, which may be enough to sway some of them. Eventually, anyway.

“Protection for the freshly-freed is another matter. You are in no position to help personally - you lack knowledge of the threats they face, or the resources they need, but there will be organizations that understand what needs to be done; who have built safe houses or escape routes for those fleeing their masters. Do not fall into the trap of thinking you know best simply because you come from a family of means. You do not. Acknowledge your ignorance.”

Solas really does have a way of pulling him down to the ground whenever he dares think for a moment that he’s uncommonly skilled, virtuous, or intelligent. “So, I assume you’re a perfect expert on the matter, because you saw it in the Fade?”

“No,” Solas says bluntly. “Were there such an expert at Skyhold, I would cede the floor to them. Unfortunately, there is not and so I offer what I know in the hopes that you will adapt it to suit the political situation in your homeland.”

At least the man knows what he doesn’t know, Dorian supposes.

For hours more they talk through a problem that is never going to be solved by him alone, and sometime just before dawn, it hits him that a man uncommonly obsessed with personal freedom might carry that passion because he, himself, once lacked freedom. He stands up, yawns, and stretches out his back, aching from hours hunched over the desk they were sharing. Perhaps it’s the heaviness of drowsiness weighing on him that loosens his tongue, because before he can stop himself, he asks, “were you a slave? In Tevinter?”

“What gives you cause to believe that?” Solas asks, sounding confused.

“You care a great deal about the matter.”

“Any who cares for the well being of others would. That does not mean I was a slave in Tevinter.” Most would elaborate more on their personal history. Solas does not. Recognizing that he’s not going to get the man’s life story tonight, he instead thanks Solas for his time and help.

“You’ll be doing good work. Remember: good men are rarely remembered for their deeds in the annals of history, but that does not mean it is not a cause worth pursuing.”

There’s something that feels good about being told that he has the potential to be a good man, and, when he’s halfway down the battlement, he chuckles, realizing he left his half-full glass of wine at Solas’ desk.

Perhaps the man likes terrible wine and will enjoy a nightcap. “The strangest snowflake floating amongst pariahs and idealists,” he mutters to himself, smiling as he heads to his own quarters for a well-deserved lie down.

Chapter Text

An office in the Magisterium is not a fate Dorian had ever anticipated after departing for the south. Now, his office doesn’t have a view of much of anything, save the courtyard where the young parchment pushers eat their midday meals, but he has an office.

An office. Maker, it’s odd to think about. Most nights he stays late, enjoying the relative quiet that comes after the more established magisters depart for the bar or the brothel (or, you know, home to their families but Dorian was surprised by how uncommon that is amongst his older colleagues). Often, he’s the one closing the office wing of the building, leaving the area to be watched over by the young security staff who patrol the halls at all hours of the day, brandishing clubs and whistles, but no real weapons. Theatre, more than anything.

Tonight, he strolls the quiet halls, with the company of a mage light, which floats just above his head, stopping periodically to stare at floor-to-ceiling paintings depicting events in their history. Archon Darinius seizing power; his red robes bejewelled and the cuffs billowing in the wind; standing tall amongst a crowd on their knees before him, giving him a godlike aura. Down the hall, a romanticized depiction of the first humans arriving off the coast of the Nocen sea; the sunset a brilliant red and a fleet of ships the focal point of the piece.

Sometimes a stroll helps him think, but sometimes he happens upon the uglier murals; the ones showing slaves in chains building the Magisterium brick-by-brick, leaving him wondering how much blood was spilled into the cement that holds this building together.

He’s working to reform his country, and as soon as he’d arrived home, he allied with like-minded colleagues. The most pressing cause they advocate for is freeing all those who remain slaves in Tevinter. His first act was to begin paying all of the former slaves owned by his family fair wages - his mother was scandalized but he told her that they could subside without a whole new wardrobe every season if it means the people working for them are free to live their lives as they wish.

Some of his more… illegal activities go through an emissary, as Solas had recommended to him, and he’s pointedly unaware of the details of which families have been targeted and when - normally he hears the gossip third-hand in the Magisterium. He pretends to be concerned for the poor, ruffled feathers of fools who complain that they need to buy and train people to work for them, but he’s thrilled. More people receiving their freedom at the end of a blade is as good as news comes most days.

His stomach churns as he thinks of Solas, and how heavily he uses the information derived from that one conversation he had with him at Skyhold all those years ago. He’d asked the man if he had been a slave, not once considering that he might have run his own blasted slave rebellion. A shame what the man is planning - he could use the counsel of an ancient elf with thousands of years of experience fighting those who think they can buy and sell people.

As he returns to his office, he brushes his hand along the smooth wooden handrails of the marble spiral staircase and then turns to the right, alone as he usually is at this hour - he’s mostly memorized the guard rotation and they don’t normally come to this section of the building until a quarter past the hour.

Still, there’s a distinct feeling that he’s being watched, and once he might have written it off as paranoia, but that was before he was working to outlaw slavery in the nation built on the bones of the ancient elven empire. He pulls at the veil, sending a ripple of magic through his immediate vicinity, finding no sign of anyone.

Paranoia it is, then. He closes the door behind him and sits at his desk, rubbing his eyes, pondering how to respond to the latest bluster from the fools who cling to tradition when tradition stands in the way of progress. He grabs his pen, dips it in ink, and presses the tip of it to the empty vellum in front of him, as if that act alone were enough to bring words past the block in his mind.

Something dark moves out of the corner of his eye and he slams his pen onto the vellum, leaving a nasty ink blot. “Reveal yourself!” he barks, readying himself for a fight - or at least a thorough chewing out aimed at whoever was silly enough to enter his office unannounced. Someone trying to find blackmail or information, perhaps? A useless errand - he keeps nothing more interesting than a plethora of party invites in his office; all of the juicy information is locked in a safe in his cellar behind a hidden wall.

“I mean you no harm tonight,” a soft, lilting voice rings out in response, hands visible, and the trespasser steps forward, towards his desk. The man’s head is covered by the wide hood of his black cloak, but even after all these years, he recognizes the sound of the man’s voice.

Over the years he imagined how this might go - and usually it had Solas on his knees, cuffed and regretful. Not sneaking into his office like a common thief. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he says, staring daggers at the man, who at least has the decency to meet his gaze.

“I’d rather not kill you,” Solas says softly, and he grits his teeth, tempted to remind the man that whatever he has planned could kill everyone.

“Ah, well what’s a death a couple years premature, right?” he says sarcastically, fingers itching to reach for the staff directly behind his office chair, but recognizing there’s no way he could grab his staff, and get a fatal spell off before Solas does his fancy statue shortcut, leaving him a fashionable (and very dead) conversation piece at the office.

“May I sit?” It’s strange that Solas is asking and not just presuming he can do whatever he’d like, on account of having the power to slaughter entire platoons with a thought.

“You’re the all-powerful one,” he snarls, gesturing at the wooden chair directly across from him. Solas sits, and even lowers the hood of his cloak. There’s a weariness to him that never existed during their days as colleagues and not adversaries; there are dark circles under his eyes and his face is thinner, as if he’s been skipping meals. He understands that, at least; some days he’s so busy trying to wrangle his allies in the Magisterium that it’s easier to ignore the growling of his stomach than it is to stop and figure out a meal - especially when he’s working late and can’t be bothered to take a break to grab a meal at a nearby restaurant.

Seeing Solas in such a state brings the man down to the ground a little; even immortal gods have growling stomachs, which is strangely gratifying to discover. With his left hand, he opens a desk drawer and pulls out a wooden bowl filled with mixed nuts and places them between them. Solas eyes the bowl, wary. “Sometimes I’m so busy trying to do some damned good amidst the vipers of the Magisterium that I forget to eat. My assistant keeps the bowl full for me. They’re not poisoned - I’d hardly be gauche enough to use poison to kill you. It’s a rather tired Tevinter stereotype, and I do nothing, if not buck the trends of my countrymen.”

Still, Solas waits for him to grab a handful before reaching to pull out a singular almond and bring it to his mouth, and were Solas not able to kill with a thought he’d be tempted to joke that the almonds were raw. Now, whether one raw almond is enough to down a god is another matter entirely, but he’s fairly sure that Solas won’t be inclined to reveal how easy or difficult it would be to poison him, if he happened to survive a joke made in such poor taste.

“You know, I gave you my notebook and said you didn’t seem the sort to cause a mess. How amusing did you find it, reading through my life’s work, as I handed the man who caused the largest mess since my countrymen opted to take a nice stroll into the Fade a resource he could use to cause even greater chaos?” It’s something he’s thought of periodically over the years, cursing himself for trusting the quiet man so thoroughly with knowledge so dangerous.

“I had been curious about your research. The irony of your comment offered me no private amusement.” The man across from him seems almost… sad as he says this. He grabs a handful of nuts and Solas watches him silently, and his stomach churns at the awkwardness of it. He and Solas often had a contentious relationship, but he never felt awkward in the man’s company before now.

“You’re doing admirable work, Dorian,” Solas finally says. “In the Magisterium, to be clear. I’d rather you stopped your attempts to oppose me because, as I said, I’d rather not kill you.”

“Well, I’d rather you not rewrite reality, but we can’t all get what we want.”

Solas, despite himself, lets slip the slightest hint of a tug of his lips before the stoic mask returns. “Your efforts to outlaw slavery are commendable, and my agents have come across information about your political opponents that may be helpful. Idle gossip, but also information about illegal imports and exports, bribes, and details of the odd Crow contract. It’s a shame your countrymen are not more subtle in their murders.”

“You’re disappointed that my people murder our rivals… too obviously?” he says, blinking several times at the man. Solas produces a white folder seemingly out of thin air and places it on the desk between them. Dorian does not move to open it, but, were it anyone but the man who plans to rewrite reality who did that little trick, he’d be asking for a tutorial.

“Discretion in such matters would be the wiser course of action.”

“Ah, but what’s the fun of a party without a few murders and poison in the punch?” Solas, who had been reaching for the bowl, pauses and he chuckles, despite everything. “Solas, I didn’t poison the nuts. You’re hungry and I’m nothing if not a decent host, even if the venue is my office in the middle of the night. Also, not gauche. We’ve been through this.” Solas reaches for another singular almond. “What’s the catch? How does giving me this help your cause?”

“It does not. I dare say giving you the opportunity to act on some of this may negatively impede my own goals.” He raises his eyebrow. “In a marginal way,” Solas clarifies. “You are working to break the chains of the oppressed for good and I would have Tevinter’s slaves know freedom.”

“Before you kill them all.”

Solas says nothing in response to this; his expression remains the same stony, stoic mask it’s been for much of their conversation. “Thank you for doing what you’re doing. In the Magisterium, to be more precise.”

“You keep clarifying, as if I’m not abundantly aware that you don’t care for my work disrupting your nasty little plots.” He realizes this may be the last time he ever speaks to the man - and hadn’t realized before now that he actually has things he’d like to say to the man. Taking a breath to calm his anger, he speaks words he never thought he’d have a chance to say aloud. “You inspired this. Well, you and Ixchel. I was so… irritated that you kept pressing me on the topic of slavery here in Tevinter, and maybe I was a little too proud to admit that it was because you were right. About abolishing slavery, to be clear. I don’t approve of any of your other nonsense, though the story of your rebellion was quite the impressive one. Well done on that front.”

Solas rewards him with another tiny smile and a nod of his head.

“I’d rather not kill you either. So why don’t you lay down your staff and just… talk to me? There might be another way, but I can’t understand what I need to be looking for when you hoard all the cards against your chest!”

“There is not.”

“Your name means ‘Pride’!” he fires back, somewhat childishly.

“I’m aware of my flaws,” Solas says, yet actually working on them seems like a step too far, apparently. “Take it.” Solas gestures to the folder. “It’s not a trap. I am not - what’s the phrasing you used - gauche enough to use poison to kill you, and handing you the key to your own destruction feels rather the same, does it not?”

Hesitating, he takes the folder, but does not open it. Solas grabs one more almond and then stands up and lifts his hood so his head and face are covered once more. “Use it well.”

“Thank you, Solas,” he says softly, forcing himself to look at the man.

“So few know me by that name anymore,” Solas muses, though he sounds morose.

“You realize there’s a fairly simple solution to that problem, yes?”

“There are no simple solutions, Dorian. Only ugly truths. I’ve long grown used to the waves that sorrow cause. They’re mere ripples in the breeze. Know I will not celebrate the end of your world, but I am doing what I must - as carefully as I can.”

“You do realize that is not a comfort?”

Solas’ head droops and the man pauses just short of his office door. “It was not meant to be. Goodbye.”

Before he can respond, Solas opens the door and slips out so quickly that it’s almost as if the man were a spectre and not an elf. As always, the guards walk past his office at a quarter past the hour, but he doesn’t bother to mention the security breach tonight. Tomorrow, he may suggest they become more spontaneous, but tonight he acknowledges that, if Solas wants to get in somewhere, it’s going to happen. Even if it happens to be the Magisterium offices.

He considers the folder in his hand, sets it down and opens it. Solas may be wrong about most things, but he is right about one very important thing: the slaves remaining in Tevinter deserve their freedom, and if this information may help them, then he’s honour-bound to use it.

Tomorrow, he’ll continue chasing the Dread Wolf. Tonight, he’ll silently thank his friend, Solas, for guiding him once more.