"Fen'harel."
It's his own fault, really.
Years of caution and tiptoeing through life in carefully crafted obscurity, and he throws it all away with a sharp turn of his head toward the sound of someone calling him by a name he's forsaken for decades.
The smell of incense and old vinyl permeates the shop into which he's drifted. Sudden awareness of his surroundings steals over him as he looks down into eyes the color of fresh spring leaves, framed by thick eyelashes and lines of blackest kohl.
His mouth dries in horror as he realizes his mistake. Blinking, he forces a word out past stiff lips, "Sorry?"
She blinks back, confused. Looking him up and down, taking in his humble, plain attire, she offers a crooked grin of apology. "No, I'm sorry. For a sec, I, um …. Anyway, it's not important. Are you finding everything alright?"
Then he sees the name-tag. She works here, this young lady who thought she misidentified him. Clearing his throat of the anxiety-inspired lump lodged there, he said, "I am." Then, confusion sparks through him as he clarifies, "I think."
"You think?" she echoes, with a widening of her smile. She taps the LP in his hands with one black-lacquered nail. "Classic. Are you a collector? Or just a fan?"
Attention drawn back to the garishly out of date cover art of the record he held, he ponders how it even made its way there for a moment. How did I even get here? I was walking past and …. A sour taste fills his mouth as he contemplates her question. "Neither. I'm … just looking."
"That's a shame. I love Evanuris." She winks at him and he notes for the first time her vallaslin. A dusting of shimmering black over one eye in the shape of Sylaise's twisting fire. "They're my jam."
A … fan. Fanatic. Zealot, for that more aptly described the frothing hordes under Evanuris's banner. He winces internally at the idea. So many elves of today taking on the markings without even realizing the extent of their meaning. Or the unworthiness of those they represent.
Then the heavy strains of music pouring out of the store's speakers reminds him of how he ended up here. It had drawn him in, beats and refrains as familiar to him as his own heartbeat, yet …. And yet …. He tilts his head and nods toward the closest speaker as he says, "Is that why it's playing?"
"Hmm. Possibly," she says, tone light and teasing. One of her hands comes up to twist at the fire-red curls at her shoulder, giving them a brief yank before throwing them back out of the way.
"But this is not the original recording. Someone has … resampled it." He put the comment out there as nonchalantly as he could, mustering the blankest expression forth to combat the roil of unease in his belly.
Her teeth, white and even, flash at him between plump lips painted dark, dark red. Almost black. "Ah, so you are a fan."
He sighs and concedes, "Once, perhaps. I'm surprised someone as young as you even bothers with so old a band."
"As I said, I love them. They were revolutionary. In more ways than one. And then they just fell of the face of the Earth one day …. And anyway, well, you're right. This track's been … tampered with." She leans toward him with a conspiratorial smirk. "Some would call that … blasphemy."
From the playful and secretive glint in her eye, he draws a surprising conclusion. "You resampled it?"
"I did. Don't get me wrong. I loved it how it was, but I always felt it lacked a certain …." She paused, hand twirling on the end of one slim bangle-bedecked wrist. "Something. Grit. Honesty."
He could hear it, the added drive embedded in the chorus, the plaintive wail beneath the bridge. Refreshing. Entrancing. It gives the whole song a new and mournful depth. Turning to look at the surprising girl before him, he smiles a genuine smile. "I like it."
She flushes, pink tinting her pale, freckled cheeks, and looks away. "Thanks."
"Are you a music major?" he asks, hoping it won't sound too intrusive.
Her laughter puts him at ease. "Look that young, do I? I suppose I should take that as a compliment. No. I never went to college. I am a musician, though. Self-taught."
"Oh?"
"It's not that impressive. All these kids working around here are musicians. Kirkwall is the place to be, after all. And every single one is looking for that big break." She gives a wave to indicate the other shuffling youths, with their wild haircuts and exotic piercings, stocking and organizing records.
"Well, with talent like that," he says, indicating the song just now winding to conclusion. "You can't be that far from your big break."
With a shy, elated smile, she retorts, "Sweet talker. Hey, if you're interested, there's a show at the Hanged Man tomorrow night."
He shouldn't be, but he is. "Is your band playing?"
"Yeah, if you want to call it that. We're opening for the Grey Wardens."
Barely keeping the sneer off his face, he says, "Metalcore tripe."
Her brows climb with interest. "Oh, my. Are we a touch of a music snob?" Her open and engaging smile defuses any ill feeling that might engender within him.
"There are better ways of spending my time than listening to four minutes and thirty-eight seconds of pig noises." He sniffs and clasps hand over wrist behind his back, the vinyl record's edge tapping the bottom of his shoulderblades. Looking at her with a hint of worry, he says, "I suppose that might sound a tad offensive to you if your band is of the same bent-"
She waves the fumbling non-apology off with a chuckle. "No, no. We aren't, I mean, I certainly can't do the pig squeal, so it's, uh, safe, I guess?"
"You sing?" he asks, the idea pulling at him for some reason. He tries not to imagine her cradling a mic in her slim hands. What might she sound like on stage with her pleasant, liltingly smooth voice? Hard to envision, though temptation whispers that he need only show up to the aforementioned show to find out.
"I do," she says, with no false modesty. He takes a moment to appreciate it, head lifting, skin flushing at the back of his neck.
They stand there staring at one another for a long moment. Clearing his throat and looking away, he draws the LP in his hands up in front of his chest as a sort of shield and is mildly surprised that it works, sort of. He certainly feels a little less … exposed.
"That seems to have become awfully attached to you. Do you want me to ring that up so you can take it home?" she asks, pointing.
"Um, yes." He follows her to the cash register and pays the seventeen sovereigns and thirty pence that appears in the tiny digital display facing him. Trying not to think of the other six or so copies he already owns that only serve to gather dust somewhere in his storage, given to him the day the record went platinum, he smiles at her. "When does your band hit the stage, if it's not too forward of me to ask?"
His formality amuses her, he sees. She bags the LP and hands it to him. "Sometime between eight and ten? Schedules are a thing for other venues, apparently."
"That's hardly professional," he chastises, with a frown.
Leaning over the counter, she rests on her elbows as she peers up at him. "Needs must when the devil drives. So does that mean you're going to come?"
Again, her eagerness and candor surprises him. He tilts his head. "I might, though …."
"It feels weird to be invited by a total stranger? And you totally don't wanna look like a creep?" she finishes for him. At his nod, she grins and sticks her left hand out. "Ellana Lavellan."
Taking her hand in his, a shock coasts up his spine. A tad flustered, he says, pointing to her name-tag, "I know."
Then she looks down with chagrin, cheeks dimpling. "Oh, right. Ha."
"I am Solas," he says, with a nod. Then he realizes he's held her hand for quite a bit longer than necessary and lets go. Solas takes a step back and turns, thinking to retreat from this awkward and unintended situation.
"Nice to meet you, Solas. I'll be watching for you at the show." She gives him a wave from the counter. He returns it a tad stiffly.
The door chime jingles at him as he leaves, and he lets the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding out as he walks out onto the crowded sidewalk in Lowtown. As he makes his way home, he can't help but keep glancing back at the curious shop, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious girl who'd spoken to him like an old friend. Not that he had many.
Strange. His palm still tingled with warmth.
But perhaps she spoke to all her customers like that, inviting them to her band's shows and gigs. It's only prudent. After a bit, he convinces himself that her friendly and likable mien is just that, a facade she puts on to cater to an audience. Void knew he'd done similar, once upon a yesteryear.
Still ….
Later, he cannot resist listening to the album, and hears the missing something. And remembers that year.
The year it all went wrong.
A/N: Alright, so this is my tumblr fic. I thought I'd bring it over here bit by bit. It was meant to be a silly little fluff thing, but now it's running up on thirty chapters. I already took it over to ao3, so now I thought maybe it was time to bring it over here. Hope you enjoy! There probably won't be too many a/n's from here on out. Except on NEW new chapters. You know, like the day I post I have 'in the moment' thoughts I like to share. Sort of thing. Anyway, comments and critique are always appreciated. If you want to read all the way up to current, it's on Ao3 under 'bluekrishna' or on Tumblr under 'bluekrishna101' Cheers!