Chapter Text
“You would, I think, benefit from a flame-aspected focus, if greater mastery of fire is your wish.”
The Herald’s brows pinch in concentration as she studies the vague sketch Solas hands her as though it is some missive of great importance, and while Solas tacitly appreciates her attention, it is hardly a suggestion worth such attentiveness. Still, he is glad of it all the same, if only for the fact that he cannot remember the last time someone took his words so clearly to heart.
“I don’t know,” she says, chewing her lip. Solas fixes his eyes on the parchment in her hands and nowhere else. The conversation is as innocuous as it’s possible to get, a discussion of efficiency, practicality, and nothing more, and he will not – even in the privacy of his own mind – twist it sordidly into anything deeper. “The last time I used a staff with a focus I wasn’t familiar with, I nearly burned down the camp.”
The statement is true enough, and Solas had been left healing the burns suffered by their campmates for a good handful of hours after the fact while desperate apologies spilled ceaselessly from the goodly Herald’s lips. He hadn’t minded it so much, as accustomed as he is to dropping a barrier over her at a moment’s notice, it had been no hardship to ensure both hers and his own safety, but neither Cassandra nor Sera had found it particularly amusing when their tents went up in smoke from the ill-timed lightning strike.
“Familiarity is the goal,” Solas tells her while she wrestles with her misgivings. He taps a finger lightly against the page, drawing her attention to the sketch’s focal point – a carved gem designed to slot within a stave, imbued with the elemental power of fire – the source of the Inquisitor’s turmoil. She is most adept with the element of frost, though most adept is a misnomer. For a child of the Veil, her skill is worthy of note, even exemplary when one takes into account the twisted curtain that suppresses the full depth of her potential. The truth is that Solas would not have endeavoured to assist her at all, if the guilt did not weigh so heavily.
But no heavier than the weight of her gaze when she fixes her eyes upon him and listens.
He clears his throat. “As such, you cannot expect to improve if you do not acquaint yourself with the subtle ripples of the Fade. You claim mastery over frost and cold, but your barriers are strong, and you’ve a keen knack for dispelling wards. You must have noticed, surely, that each aspect feels different when you pluck the threads through the Fade?”
“Sort of,” she hedges. “A bit?” She digs her knuckles into her cheek as she thinks, drawing the pad of her thumb rhythmically across the deep scar drawn from the left corner of her mouth to the swell of her cheekbone. It was already an old wound when they met, and Solas still doesn’t dare ask how she came to possess it. Yet she always does this and it intrigues him; strokes the ridged length of it as though it focuses her concentration. His palms itch oddly so he presses them firmly against his hips. “Barriers are— barriers. When I form one, it’s like… water. It comes out in an even pour and all I have to do is direct it. Frost is even easier. It’s like it’s already here and I don’t even have to reach for it.” To illustrate, she splays her fingers. The very tips crystallise with blue-tinged ice. She holds the spell for a beat before banishing it, then wipes her damp fingers against her leggings when the ice melts. “But it does feel like it’s caught on something if I need to intensify the spell. Like when you’re trying to pull a blanket out from the bottom of a heavy pile.”
Solas has never heard it described quite like that before, but he has to admit there is a disconcerting level of charm present in her clumsy metaphor. “The greater the strength of your spell, the more the Veil will resist you. If circumstances were not as they are, you would be afforded the requisite length of time required to channel stronger spells without straining yourself. The fact that you must cast powerfully in such short spans of time is what depletes your mana so quickly.”
“I’m a stronger spellcaster than I was when my magic first manifested. Is it because my mana pool has strengthened or because I’ve been alive long enough to fill it fully?”
Solas blinks. “An interesting question.” He ignores the delicate flush to her freckled cheeks in response to the praise, for his own sanity, if nothing else. Guilt curls seditiously within his chest. “But not an unfounded one. It is the former, absolutely. With practice – familiarity – your mana reserves will grow. I posit that your time within the Inquisition will vastly improve your magical stamina, though I wish it were not so. You’ll strengthen your resolve through battle, which is not fair to any aspiring young mage.”
“I don’t mind,” she murmurs, tilting her head. “If I live through this mess, I can go back to my clan with my head held high and impress them all.” She grins, as though the uncertainty of her survival is a trifle to be scoffed at.
Solas hides his disquiet beneath a slow nod. “A positive outlook. You stand to become the most accomplished Dalish mage of your generation. Perhaps hundreds of generations.”
“I’ll be all the rage at the next Arlathvhen,” she teases. “Which will be a welcome change, compared to the fleeting fancy of shems.” She looks back to the sketch. “I appreciate this, Solas. Really. I know it must seem pathetic to you that I struggle with such basic spellcraft.”
“There is no shame in it.” Truly he should be ashamed at how quickly he jumps to reassure her if the deprecating slant of her lips did not twist viciously like a knife in his breast. “Each of us have our talents. That you possess such a skill with frost is not to be scoffed at.”
She sucks her teeth, considering. “Perhaps. But if I can get better, I will. I’ll take this design to Harritt— Thank you, Solas. Again.”
“‘Ma neral,” he says, and does not warm within at the sight of her eyes narrowing and her lips soundlessly forming his own words. She knows so little of what she should – his fault – and scrabbles greedily for the barest scraps he shares with her. He is ashamed of how much he enjoys offering what should be hers by right. “If I can further assist—“
“Oh, I’ll come straight to you.” She grins at him, wide and warm, in a way he has come to realise she does not smile at anyone else. She is not free with her smiles, though they are far less infrequent than they had been the first few weeks after she awoke. Most are small and private, tucked into the corners of her mouth like secrets, others charmingly crooked – those usually reserved for Varric or Sera or Dorian. But this, unfettered and bright as the sun, the deep gratitude of shared knowledge, this is for Solas alone.
She gets to her feet with a quick farewell and is out the door in a flurry of robes and sun-spun hair. In her wake, borne along by the sudden draft of chill air through the door, the scent of pine, moss, and snowmelt lingers.
Once again, Solas finds himself just as distracted by her absence as her presence, though not because of the oppressive silence left by the lack of her voice, though the traitorous thought that he misses it already slithers through his mind. He has been… unbalanced of late, but this matter is not unique to her, as most others are.
Solas could boast of the heightened senses of the Elvhen before the Veil was misbegotten. He could boast of keener senses still, by virtue of his title and his nature. And yet, when the cloying grip of uthenera finally released him, he had found himself overwhelmed, and not by the sudden deluge of physical sensation that had swept in to buffet his weakened body the moment awareness returned. Sound, taste, touch, and smell had all been unbearably sensitive in those early days, but strangely more so than they ever had been before. The wolf’s form is lost to him along with the full scope of his power – now contained in the palm of a fragile quickling – and yet even restrained to this body he can still discern who approaches simply by scent alone. Some have a thicker scent than others with notes he can pick out like a skilled Orlesian sommelier, and some have barely any scent at all. And some – like the Inquisitor – have a scent that lingers like a perfume that permeates every surface, every thread and fibre, even the very stones of any room.
Like the Herald, though the comparison is disingenuous. Nobody smells like she does, none so powerful, none so lingering, and none so capable of snaring Solas’ attention so completely. He’d wondered at it for a long while until ultimately writing it off as a disconnect between the form he inhabits and the one he remains barred from in his weakened state, but the longer he dwells outside of the Fade, the harder it becomes to ignore.
But there is a war unfolding around them and a Breach is widening the sky, and so such puzzles must pass by unsolved no matter how intriguingly they call to him.
It would be best to ignore it, regardless. No good can come of his misplaced fascination with the Dalish child.
The odd thing is, she seems aware of it.
Not Solas’ inappropriate fascination, thankfully, that she remains under the impression is nothing more than budding friendship, which Solas is happy to allow. She flirts, of course, but so far Solas has managed to keep it relatively tame, with easy, careful non-answers that satisfy her well enough. His slip regarding her indomitable focus was a terrible one that will absolutely haunt him - he’s lost more than one restful night to that mistake – but otherwise their interactions are nothing more than pleasant.
Except she seems fully aware that she carries an intriguing scent, and even more keenly aware that Solas can trace it.
When she comes to him, full of questions and bright-eyed curiosity, it is always easier to ignore if they are outside. The cold bite of Haven’s mountain air is quick to steal it away, though the faint notes of pine cling to her regardless, complimented by the crisp scent of snow. If they are enclosed in the meagre space of his cabin – a situation he is mindful to avoid for… many reasons – it is far harder to ignore. It permeates the small space, often leaving him distracted, dazed, and light-headed. He wouldn’t mind it so much, it is pleasant, but it also relaxes him oddly, and has the alarming tendency to loosen his careful tongue.
That, more than anything, should have been his first clue.
Today, the winds tug almost playfully at her hair, long, golden, left free and silky to hang down her back, almost to her waist. It is a far cry from the dirty, tangled and soot-streaked nest it had been when he was called to her cotside in Haven’s cells, and suits her well, or at least he thinks so when he allows himself the private consideration, until the wind carries that sweetly resinous scent directly into his lungs and he stiffens almost instinctively in response.
The Herald’s sharp eyes catch the movement and she grimaces. A bizarre reaction, made even stranger by her quick apology. “Sorry. Adan is waiting for a shipment of deathroot.”
He hadn’t noticed before, but the sharpness of her scent is cradled within a sweeter counterpoint of sun-warmed grass. Blinking, he turns her words over in his head, too distracted to pay them his full attention. “Pardon?”
“Deathroot,” she says again. “It helps, but he’s out. I said we could get some, but it doesn’t grow nearby. Not much point hauling ourselves across Thedas to find a handful when he can have it shipped easily and far more quickly. He says it’ll only be a couple of days.”
He examines her words silently from every available angle. He cannot find a single one by which they make any sense. Their conversation to this point had nothing to do with alchemical substances. “Forgive me, I don’t see the relevance.”
“Oh, is it not— I hadn’t thought the remedy Dalish.” Her brow creases in thought. “It might be, I’ve little experience with how the shems handle it. Cassandra says it’s uncommon but understood well enough.”
Solas is entirely at a loss. He decides he viciously hates the experience. Uthenera has stolen none of his loathing for the lack of understanding. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with anything you’ve said.”
“The scent,” she says, staring at him. “I know it’s stronger right now.”
“Oh.” Solas clears his throat. “Well, it’s not unpleasant.”
She blushes prettily at that and the sight certainly eases his frustration over the lack of comprehension. It shouldn’t, but here they are. “You’re kind to say so. And…” Here, she bites her lip, and Solas groans inwardly. “I’m… I probably shouldn’t be as happy as I am that you can notice it.”
She can be as happy as she likes about whatever she wants, Solas thinks. He does not dare to say something so ineffably stupid, but he thinks it all the same. “Again, it is not unpleasant. Is it perfume?”
He is gifted by a bright if bashful grin that shows all her pearly teeth, the force of it squinting her eyes. She flushes right down beneath the collar of her leathers and Solas cannot shake the feeling that he’s wandered into a trap that neither of them had known was there. “Well! How forward of you, Ser. Perfume, he says. That’s sweet.”
Is it? “Is it?”
Her beautiful smile turns knowing. As lovely as the sight is, it rankles unpleasantly against his pride. What does she know that he does not? “You as well, by the way,” she says instead of answering. Her smile dims again, into something bashful this time, as though the admittance is something sordid. “Parchment. Ink. Old books and wood dust. It’s lovely. Warm.” Her eyes glint at him. “Old, but in a nice way.”
She is sharing a secret with him, that much is obvious. If only he had any idea what she was talking about. He opens his mouth to ask, but a call of “Herald!” steals her attention. He snaps his teeth shut painfully against the mounting frustration. With a soft apology she is gone, and Solas is none the wiser.
Par for the course, honestly.
They are expected in Val Royeaux by the end of next week, Cassandra tells them once the Herald and Haven’s advisors are finished debating within the Chantry’s main chamber. Solas is to accompany them, which he has come to expect from the Herald’s preference for the strength of his spellcraft, though there would be little need for his magic there, he wonders privately if it is his company the Herald seeks. Sera is also joining them, though, which promises to make for an… interesting excursion. They will ride out three days hence, and return once their business – whatever that may be - is concluded.
Two days later, Cassandra returns to tell him that their journey has been postponed. She offers no explanation, nor does the delay seem to vex her, which surprises him.
“All is well?”
“Of course,” Cassandra says, tugging at her glove to better secure it. “The Herald is simply indisposed.”
Rather understandably, he thinks, that gives Solas pause. “Illness?” He can’t stop himself from pressing the matter, a deep sense of unease settling low in his gut. “Is she injured?” He is caught by such a sudden and visceral surge of panic that is utterly untenable.
Cassandra gives him an odd look. “She’s well enough. Of course we understand the requirements of the situation. We ask much of her but we are not cruel. She is comfortable enough in her quarters and Cullen has posted several guards at her door. She will not be disturbed, I promise you.”
Though the Seeker likely intends to be reassuring, Solas is nothing but bewildered and – to his eternal consternation – growing increasingly concerned by the moment. “If she is ailing in any way, I would tend to her. I should have thought it would be obvious that I am willing to tend to her.”
Cassandra’s reaction is unexpected, to say the least. Her eyes widen almost comically, brows disappearing into her hairline as she gapes at him, mouth falling open and a deep flush spreading across her cheeks.
“I—“ She coughs sharply. “Well! That would be— I would have no place in that decision. You would need— I could not decide for her. And I would—“ Solas has never seen her flounder so desperately. Her face is a scarlet beacon, as though he has declared his intent to stride naked through Haven in broad daylight. “I would perhaps not… voice that desire or intention to anyone else.”
The smart thing to do would be to demand the Seeker explain what on earth has prompted that reaction, but Solas is far too stunned to be so logical. Besides, he doesn’t get the opportunity. Flustered beyond reason, Cassandra is quick to beat an expedient retreat, hurrying back towards the Chantry and leaving Solas staring at her back with far more questions than answers. He is getting increasingly tired of people walking away without explaining themselves.
Why on earth would an offer of healing be taken so poorly? If the Herald is truly indisposed, why is it not being taken for the serious matter that it is? When did it happen? Where was he? Their last foray into the Hinterlands was rote by all standards. She had not been hurt beyond a few minor scrapes and bruises, all of which so superficial that Dorian had been able to heal them without difficulty.
He thinks to go to her, but Cassandra’s reaction and the mention of stationed guards halts him. Guards. For an apparently simple indisposition. Something isn’t right.
“Well, don’t you look wretched.”
Solas inhales deeply through his nose and offers Dorian the fiercest glare he can muster. Unbalanced as he is, it isn’t nearly as biting as he’d like it to be. Not that Dorian is by any means easy to disarm. The man possesses an inhuman sense of fortitude. Solas supposes that’s to be expected when one is so determined not to take the world seriously. “You do enjoy turning up at the most inopportune moments, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Dorian scoffs. “How would I catch people at their most vulnerable otherwise? Premeditation makes for excellent ammunition. You never know when you’ll need a good dose of blackmail.”
“Delightful,” Solas says through his teeth. “Can I help you, Magister?”
Dorian pulls a face at him. “No, no, I simply couldn’t help overhearing— Well, no, I was actively eavesdropping.”
“Of course.”
“And I thought to myself that surely,” he grins, eyes crinkling,” surely, our resident reticent hobo wouldn’t dare to flaunt himself so brazenly. In front of the Seeker no less! And as much as I deeply enjoyed the potential scandal of it all, it struck me as quite out of character. So I was forced to conclude – and this is equally as enjoyable as my original assumption, just so you know – that you had no idea what you were offering.”
“Ah, of course. A perceived lack of knowledge is like blood in the water for an arrogant Tevene, I’d forgotten.”
The issue is that Solas is indeed desperately curious. He is concerned and uncertain, too, and liable to make mistakes while so wholly distracted, even if Cassandra’s assurances that the Herald’s welfare is being handled are as comforting as they are confusing. But while he is curious, he is also prideful, and there are significantly fewer people he would prefer to receive knowledge from than a cocky Tevinter who hides behind a grating veneer of flippancy.
Solas has never before felt so keenly divorced from his nature. He wants to know. He would rather hear it from anyone else.
Well. Perhaps not Vivienne. The Herald’s fondness for the woman is a deep source of contention. Not that he would ever admit to it.
“But do you?” Dorian probes. “Do you know?”
He does not, which is painfully obvious, but he is not an idiot. He can see in the shrewd intensity of Dorian’s eyes that admitting to this dearth of knowledge will not get him the answers he desires. This is not a well-meaning exchange of information, Dorian is not here to magnanimously bestow the knowledge that Solas lacks. Solas can recognise – would not be worth his unfortunately twisted reputation if he could not – that this is a test. He can admit to the lack of comprehension, but humbling himself thusly will not prompt Dorian to enlighten him. He is painfully aware that to admit such will open him to suspicion, something he can ill afford at any moment but especially now that he has gained the Herald’s favour and therefore the attention of fanatical, watchful shemlen, because it is patently obvious that this is something he should know.
“Concoct whatever narrative best suits your needs, Magister,” Solas says coolly, inclining his head. “My offer of assistance came from an unwillingness to see the Herald suffer unduly. She does much for those who would follow her. I would see that burden eased.”
Dorian pulls an utterly dissatisfied face. “Ugh, how noble of you. And utterly useless to me. Fine, fine, have it your way. Perhaps don’t spread your willingness to assist around the place, though, hm? There are several among us who would string you up for offering it, the Commander included, I’d wager. The Herald of Andraste is elevated by the expectation of purity, no? I hardly imagine the Chantry would appreciate the knowledge that an elven apostate is the one tending to their dear Herald, even if their support is flimsier than cobwebs.”
The way he says it leads Solas to the uncomfortable conclusion that tending, in this context, has nothing to do with healing. And yet he is still unenlightened. He resolves, then, to seek the Herald herself out for further clarity. There is too much unspoken weight around the matter for him to seek understanding carelessly.
In the end, it matters little. Haven falls before he has the chance to ask.
She is lost, and then she is found. Solas weeps in private before she is returned to them, hot, frantic tears pressed into his sleeve, breathless gasps smothered by his palm because it should not matter this much. She is the unwitting vessel for his power, nothing but useful to his goals, and yet that lie was old before he could truly convince himself of the falsehood. In the painful, exhausting hours following blood and dragonfire and vengeful cultists, Solas mourns and he mourns bitterly. For the loss of potential, for the bright spark of life so cruelly snuffed out – his fault, his fault – and the terrible truth of the fact that she mattered more than he ever should have allowed her to.
And yet he cannot believe that she is dead. The Anchor burns in his awareness, a white-hot but distant point of connection notched beneath his ribs. Tucked away from the masses who mourn an icon and not a person, he begs the spirits nearby for aid. Find her, he begs them. Guide her home. He listens in strained silence for their calling howls as they comb the ruined mountainside, praying to gods he does not believe in for mercy he does not deserve.
When she is returned to them, feverish, delirious, half-dead, the Anchor a furiously spitting viper of unstable magic in her flesh, he does not weep. The relief is palpable but he does not weep. She needs him and so he is there, calming both the fever and the mark of his power twisting through her limp, pale body, until she is warm. Until she is safe. Until the tightness of guilt loosens its gripping fist around his heart.
He fills his lungs with the familiar scent of her. She is here. She is here. Her eyes, dulled with pain and exhaustion and halfway to insensate beneath heavy lids, fix on his face for a single heartbeat with an intensity that nearly undoes him.
He brushes hair from her sweat-slick forehead with such care that his fingers tremble.
He leads her to Skyhold.
He kisses her in the Fade.
No.
She kisses him.
He is an irredeemable, broken fool.