"I wanted to touch him, to tell him that even if everyone left everyone, I would never leave him, he talked and talked, his words fell through him, trying to find the floor to his sadness."
Solas could feel Nasrev's gaze burning a hole in his back as he worked on the mural.
She'd sauntered into the rotunda, moving with the easy grace of a natural hunter, and sprawled across the sofa Solas utilized when reading (and sometimes sleeping). He'd given her a cursory greeting but remained focused on his work. Finishing the outline of the fresco was one of vital importance, as it was the frame his mural would bloom off of.
Painting made Solas nostalgic. He remembered when Skyhold was new and belonged only to him; his fortress, where the sky was held back. Now it was a patchwork of the multitude who'd occupied it throughout the centuries, both intimately familiar and utterly foreign. It was like returning home to find someone had rearranged all the furniture.
Nasrev fidgeted. In response Solas paused, distracted from his musings. That was unlike her. It had become something of a ritual for Nasrev to observe Solas while he painted. But she was always silent and still as if carved from stone until he indicated he was finished. It was partly why Solas allowed her to watch (and partly because of his own selfish desires). Now he couldn't imagine working on the fresco in Nasrev's absence, and cherished those quiet moments when his brushstrokes and her breath intertwined like an orchestra of sibilant whispers.
"Does something bother you?" Solas asked. He heard Nasrev shift and imagined an impish smile spreading across her deeply tanned skin.
"Oh, not much." Her tone was airy but forced. "Just thought I'd come and bask in my utter victory at Halamshiral. That is your next mural, yes? Please say it is." Solas could tell something was amiss, but he didn't press. Nasrev would tell him when she was ready (if only the same could be said for him).
"Bask away." He returned to his work. Solas couldn't resist adding, "You earned it, you handled the politics of the Winter Palace with aplomb."
"I did, didn't I? Josephine couldn't believe it. It was almost insulting how amazed she was," Nasrev said. He longed to turn and face her, but he did not want to lose focus. For several reasons. "I mean, an elf can handle intrigue just as well as any human noble, yes?" There was an odd quaver to her rhetorical question.
They were nearing the root of whatever was bothering Nasrev. It both disturbed and delighted Solas that he knew her well enough to infer this (could the same be said if their positions were flipped?). Relenting, he set aside his tools and shimmied down the scaffolding.
"Briala seems to think so. As did the court. I believe you dazzled them." He looked at Nasrev and smiled. She smiled back, vallaslin crinkling around her bright green eyes. A familiar loathing filled Solas, but he swallowed it. At least she bore the mark of Mythal, rather than Elgar'nan. Or worse, Andruil. He suppressed a shudder. "What's wrong?"
Nasrev's expression turned contemplative. After a moment she straightened and patted the cushion beside her. "Sit with me, please." Solas hesitated. To be so near Nasrev was like playing with fire: dangerous yet exhilarating. "I promise I don't bite. Much." She grinned, wiggling her eyebrows, and he burned for her. Lowering himself, Solas allowed an arm to rest on Nasrev's shoulder. He could feel the natural strength coiled in the corded muscles of her body as she leaned against him, hardened from life in the forest. Her short, dark red hair spilled across his simple tunic like blood.
Morbid as ever. Even his thoughts were beginning to take on Nasrev's lilting drawl. Solas could not escape her; he did not want to (and yet a price must be paid). His heart yearned to press Nasrev into the couch and kiss her, caress her, love her until she cried out his name in ecstasy. But Solas's iron will reigned in the impulse. He would not lay with her under false pretenses.
"What's wrong?" he repeated. Nasrev sighed and nuzzled his neck. A tingle ran down Solas's spine and he gently disengaged, putting an inch of space between them. Pouting, Nasrev reclined her neck and stared at the ceiling. Countless members of the Inquisition scurried about the upper floors. No doubt some would note the two elves below and spread more varied, lascivious rumors. They didn't seem to bother Nasrev but they made Solas feel uncomfortable and vulnerable. He wanted her all to himself, but at the same time he didn't know if he could check his desires without the knowledge of watchful eyes above them.
"I had a thought. Dangerous, those," she finally said. Solas quirked an eyebrow but waited for her to elaborate. His patience was rewarded. Nasrev faced him and her gaze glittered like veilfire. "I got a message from the Dowager."
"The who?" Solas asked, puzzled. Nasrev laughed at his quizzical expression.
"Lady Mantillon. She's a member of the Council of Heralds and has enough former husbands to rival the Evanuris," she said dryly. Solas didn't know whether to laugh or shake his head. His feelings were similarly conflicted, a perpetual state of being whenever in Nasrev's presence.
"Ah. I see. Do continue," he said. Standing up, Nasrev paced back and forth like a caged panther. Her fingers flexed as though gripping the binding of her bow.
"The allemande. You know it, I presume?" Nasrev tilted her head. Solas nodded.
"A prelude." He watched her mouth twitch and curbed the wish to reach out and stroke her lower lip. Doing an about face, Nasrev put her hands on her hips.
"A standoff." There was a challenge in her words. "Land in Orlais is available. Our dear Dowager is tacitly suggesting that the Inquisition claim it." Caught off guard, Solas blinked. The implication of such an offer was staggering.
"Truly? And this is legal?" He marveled at the growing influence of the Inquisition, and also felt a surge of unease. The rapid ascension of the organization – and the leader at its head – was a concern that needed to be addressed. A reckoning was coming, of this Solas was sure.
"Apparently." Agitated, Nasrev ran her hands through her hair, frustration evident. "I just… I don't know. Josephine and Cullen want me to take the opportunity, and I see their point, but it feels like a move made out of greed rather than need. How does this help us in the battle against Corypheus?" Affection flowed through Solas at her words. The wisdom of one so young and carefree never ceased to amaze him.
"I think you already know the answer," he said. Nasrev's countenance turned grave.
"But Solas," she said. "They have walnuts." He had not expected such levity (although he should've, for Nasrev wielded wit like many wielded a sword) and his mirth bubbled forth in a short burst of laughter. Nasrev looked far too pleased with herself and lust pooled in the pit of his stomach. He cleared his throat, more for his own good than anything.
"Indeed. Who needs principles when one could have delicious nuts?" The double entendre was obvious but far too perfect for Solas to let pass. Or perhaps Sera and Blackwell were beginning to affect him. A terrifying notion. Nasrev snorted.
"You jest, but it's a tempting proposition. And then it occurred to me…" She trailed off. Clarity struck Solas and he realized that the allemande had reached its conclusion. The courante was about to begin.
"What really bothers you, lethallan?" he asked. In response she held out her hand. The Anchor glowed on her palm and he quelled his envy. That should be mine.
"All this talk of dancing reminds me that I still owe you one from Halamshiral," Nasrev said. "If you'd indulge me?" It took a moment to comprehend her meaning. Solas frowned.
"That was a onetime offer. Besides, there is no music," he said. He feared for his self-control if he took her up on his offer. Even the simple act of conversing increased his longing with every passing second. Holding her in his arms would be too much to bear.
"Don't be a tease. And you're not wearing that stupid fucking hat, so it all evens out," Nasrev said.
"That hat is magnificent," Solas said, his will crumbling into dust scattered by the winds as he gazed upon her. Against his better judgment, Solas grasped her hand and stood. He could feel the Anchor's power pulsing in his grip. Solas drew her close. Nasrev searched his face, her heartbeat stuttering against his chest. She was summer personified and he was drowning in her heated gaze.
"If I ever find it, it will burn," she promised. He shot her a tight smile and they moved in concert. It was as natural as breathing. Solas wondered where she'd learned to dance in such a fashion, as she'd demonstrated similar brilliance at the ball. He also wondered if she was just as talented at dancing horizontally. Shame colored the tips of his ears and Solas sought a distraction.
"Then I will endeavor to ensure you never find it," he said. The finished murals blurred into an indistinct mass of colors and shapes as they spun across the floor of the rotunda. Anyone and everyone could witness their dance, but in that moment Solas couldn't have cared less. When he touch Nasrev, the world came to life; no longer dull and insipid due to his own folly, but bursting with life and love. Ar lath mah, vehnan.
They paused midstep. Nasrev stood on her tiptoes. Her breath curled against the canal of his ear. It was incredibly erotic and his own breath hitched in response. Warning sirens went off Solas's head. He paid them no heed.
"I liked it," she murmured. Taken aback, Solas fumbled for a response. He never knew what to expect when it came to Nasrev.
"Beg pardon? I presume you are not referring to my hat," he said. They resumed dancing, although their earlier, frenzied pace slowed to a leisurely waltz.
"No!" Nasrev said, chuckling. "All this time, I thought the title of Inquisitor – and before the Herald of Andraste – to be little more than shackles. But Halamshiral was a moment of epiphany. I liked it. Engaging in the Game was like – like drinking a fine wine. Or playing a fiddle. And they all danced to my song. Everyone."
"Power is addicting," Solas said. "It corrupts absolutely."
"It makes me feel human," she whispered. Her confession caused even the shadows to still. He looked into her eyes and saw true, unadulterated fear. They were done skirting the issue, it seemed. The heart of the problem was before him, and for once Solas was unsure of what to say.
"Enjoying power is not limited to humanity, I assure you," he said. Nasrev traced the patterns of his tunic, worrying at her lip. He fought away the urge to kiss her until she forgot her troubles.
"Once, you asked if the Mark changed me. If I was different. I still don't know, but now I think if anything will change me, it is the Inquisition. And I'm afraid of what it will turn me into. I'm afraid of forgetting my heritage. Of taking and taking and taking yet more, with nothing to give in return." They stopped and she clung to him, seeking solace. He stroked her soft hair, inwardly cursing the Dalish. As if they were above such feelings, and for one of their own believe it! He began to understand.
"You worry that, as a symbol of a human organization, you are losing your connection to your Elven heritage. Is that correct?" Solas asked. Taking a step back, Nasrev folded her arms.
"You make it sound simple," she said crossly. "But yes, that is the gist of it." He cupped her cheeks and peered deep into her eyes. Nasrev made a noise, interlacing a hand with his. He could count each individual freckle dotting her elfin features.
"You are –." Words failed him, as they often did in her company. "What you accomplished at Halamshiral was a triumph of diplomacy. Never forget that. You are a shining beacon of hope for – for the People." The Dalish do not practice a culture, but wallow in a past that never existed. Do not concern yourself with them. Solas didn't dare speak his dark thoughts aloud.
She was too close. Too bright. How had Cole described it? Like flying, falling. Plummeting toward the abyss in a mist of euphoria only to crash into reality's sharp rocks. Solas stepped back. Nasrev huffed, her gaze darkening with irritation.
"We were having a moment. Why do you always do that? Grab my ass and then run away, like some blushing virgin," she complained. Choking back his chuckle, Solas shot Nasrev an indignant stare.
"That is patently false," he said. "I caress your lower back, at most." She snorted. It was an undignified sound and Solas loved hearing it. Then her expression softened and her lips formed a tender smile. His heart melted at the sight.
"Ma serannas, Solas. For listening. Out of everyone at Skyhold, I trust you above all." Her words were meant to bring comfort, but instead they stabbed him like sharp knives. He couldn't make eye contact and inspected the floor with great interest.
"I... thank you. I am unworthy." Truer words had never been spoken. He ached with the knowledge that what they had could not last. The one happiness he'd cultivated in this new world would be torn asunder. Squaring his shoulders, Solas returned to his fresco.
He had a mural to finish.
"Treasure this thought, for it was the last of its kind, and so much more than the last of me."