Notes: Thanks to the Trespasser DLC, shawarma, AlDub3, and a Solavellan AU fic binge, I dropped a murder mystery AU to write this fluffy happy snarky AU piece instead. Because I need it. Enjoy?
'Sheva'bradh' is my entirely non-canon take on Dalish shawarma: shavings of meat slow-roasted on a vertical grill (although a less-popular—but no less authentic—variant uses sun-dried or cured meat), rolled up and served with a leaf of spindleweed, pickled vegetables and a special honey-yogurt dressing in extra-thin toasted flatbread. The word 'bradh' means bread, borrowed fromFenxShiral's Project Elvhen. 'Sheva' is my presumptuous fuzzy Elven for shredded meat. Sheva'bradh thus translates to 'shredded meat bread'. (But really I just used it because it sounds close enough to 'shawarma'. And because it sounds nice. Fictional languages are fun that way.)
Disclaimer: Dragon Age: Inquisition and corresponding characters belong to BioWare. The story below is a free fanwork published solely for entertainment.
Chapter 1: Ladders, Knickers and Marmalade Bradhel
Late Solace, ME 2015
It was the tail end of summer when they first met, with the air warm but blessedly dry and All Soul's Day, the first day of August, just around the corner.
They met perhaps by chance, or by queer contrivance of fate. They met because Ellana needed a stepladder.
She needed one because she was a five-foot-three elven woman trying to install the light fixtures on a ceiling, and that ceiling happened to be elevated exactly ten feet from the floor. Standing on tiptoe atop a wobbly wooden stool can only get her so far, as she found out, even with her arms outstretched and held out and upraised; her latest effort effected little but send her toppling, like some bizarre lightbulb-wielding statue, straight to the cold linoleum floor.
Cold reality set in soon after: the reality of requiring a ladder to properly affix the blasted bulb to the blasted light socket in the middle of the blasted ceiling. That, or wait a couple of more hours for Merrill and Mahanon to come back—but that was, as far as Ellana's stubborn pride was concerned, out of the question.
So, the stepladder.
There was none to be found in the storage closet, however, or anywhere else in the newly rented ground floor unit that was to be the happy little home of Daisy's Sheva'bradhan. Then again, she hadn't really expected that there would be. That nice young man who'd helped them carry their stuff in this morning—he'd given his name, but for the life of her she couldn't quite recall it—had pointed that out, hadn't he?
Something like it, anyway, Ellana mused, her brow furrowing. What had he said?
"You'll need a ladder for the lights." Right, that was it. "I've got classes later, so I won't be here to help, but you can borrow one from the bookshop across the street."
She stepped outside. How quaint, she thought wryly, that she could remember all that, yet completely forget the lad's name. Memory was a funny thing.
In any case, there was the bookshop, exactly where the young Samaritan had said it would be, a small but stately affair of brick and glass with BOOKS FOR LESS stenciled in plain white lettering. Beyond the store window several books were arranged for display: hardcovers and paperbacks, thick and thin, bestsellers and obscure tomes with titles she could barely read. Even more books lined the shelves further in.
The sign at the door declared the shop open, but she couldn't see anyone within. Not that it mattered; from without the place projected a distinctly detached aura, not unlike that of an aloof, ancient cat. You either went in, or you didn't. It didn't seem to care either way.
A bell jangled overhead as Ellana entered the shop. She started at the sound, half-expecting some crusty old curmudgeon to come swooping in. But no one appeared, curmudgeon or no. She remained quite alone at the entrance.
"Hello?" she called out tentatively, looking about.
The shop's interior was just as welcoming as the front. There was the obligatory desk and register set up by the door, with nobody to man it. Tall bookshelves covered the perimeter of the room, the walls—what little she saw, at least—heavily wainscotted and papered a somber green. Even suffused in summer afternoon sunlight, the dark gray floor tiles gleamed coldly. Taking a few steps inward she perceived a narrow hallway and an equally narrow flight of stairs. Neither had shelves, for books or otherwise, there that she could see; just more of the same abominable wallpaper and even more wainscoting.
And a painting, a seascape set in a simple wooden frame, mounted on the wall opposite the staircase.
Ellana stood in front of it, utterly transfixed.
A rocky seaside, a roiling sea. A flock of birds flying triumphantly towards the sun. Earth and water. Wind and fire. A veritable riot of color and light. And yet—
"Can I help you?" a voice inquired, low and smooth, behind her.
She jumped and turned around. She blinked.
The elven man who met her gaze was decidedly not a curmudgeon, nor old, nor crusty. Middle-aged, yes, in his early forties if she were to take a guess, bald and broad-shouldered and tall. He wore a cream-colored long-sleeved shirt with the top two buttons undone, its edges neatly tucked beneath a pair of deep brown trousers. His skin was pale, his expression dour, his face bereft of vallaslin. Good-looking, too, if 'scholarly ascetic' was your thing: high cheekbones, full lips, an aquiline nose. A prominent cleft on his chin. Deepset eyes, slate-blue and piercing.
"Yes?" Ellana replied, perhaps a little too loudly. She coughed, and in a steadier tone went on, "That is, I hope you can. I'm Ellana—" She smiled at him and stuck out her hand, "—from across the street. We've only just moved in."
The man did not smile back. Instead of taking her hand, he merely looked at it. "I see," he said, once again meeting her eyes. "And with what particular matter are you hoping I can be of help," —At this, his mouth quirked ever so contemptuously, "Miss Ellana from across the street?"
Her smile considerably thinned at his words. Not a curmudgeon, no, Ellana appended, but definitely a bit of an ass. A condescending, annoyingly eloquent ass with a voice she shouldn't find so damned appealing.
"A stepladder, hahren, if you could lend me one," she retorted, her proffered hand falling to her side, the 'hahren' intended more as a dig at his age than an actual honorific. (Not that she was that much younger, at thirty-three, but still.) "And 'Ellana' would do just fine, thank you."
That earned her an arched brow and narrowed blue-grey eyes. "Ma nuvenin," the man rejoined, "da'len." He spoke in flawless Elven, each word enunciated with the same pointed courtesy she'd earlier employed on him.
Tit for tat. Splendid.
He got Ellana his stepladder in short order, at any rate; even offered to carry it over to her place. She politely declined, thanked him through gritted teeth, and promised to have the ladder returned to his shop by noon of the following day. They exchanged equally abrupt goodbyes that really meant 'good riddance', and went their separate, not so merry ways.
Or, at least, she did. The ladder folded and secured in her arms, she returned anon to the still-unfurnished Daisy's. If he watched her cross the road, or if he headed off to sort books, or to sit behind the register, or whatever it was booksellers did on slow summer afternoons, Ellana couldn't rightly say. Neither could she care any less.
She'd really rather not deal with the insufferable man, she thought, more than was absolutely necessary.
~o~
"And yet," Mahanon dryly observed, hours later, "you can't quite seem to stop talking about him."
"I can, too," Ellana scoffed. "I am doing so right now, in fact. Now help me move this back, will you?"
"Yes, ma'am," her cousin replied, obediently walking over.
Together, they lifted the refrigerator, placing it against the wall adjacent to the back door. As Ellana got it plugged to the electrical outlet, Mahanon proceeded to unpack yet another cardboard box, this one labelled 'Grill - A'.
"What's his name, anyway?" he asked after a time. "This 'hahren' who's got your knickers in a twist?"
She gave a snort. "Don't go dragging my knickers into this." She hesitated to admit that she never did get the man's name, for all that she'd practically made off with his stepladder.
But luckily Merrill came in just then, bearing two grocery bags' worth of provisions. "Who's dragging what now?"
"This brat," Ellana replied, at the same time Mahanon responded with, "Knickers."
"Oh." Merrill blinked a couple of times, those big, pale green, kittenish eyes fairly registering her confusion. "That's... nice, I suppose? Or odd. Definitely odd. And more than a little creepy. I mean, why would Mahanon want to drag your knickers around, Ellie?"
Now there's an image. "Why, indeed?"
"I wouldn't!" Mahanon protested, holding up his hands. "It's this hahren Ellie met, from that dreary old bookshop across the street."
"He wants Ellana's knickers?"
"No!" Ellana laughingly denied. Now there's an image. "Merrill—"
~o~
And so it was that Merrill was duly apprised, over tea and bradhel with marmalade, as to how Ellana had borrowed a stepladder from the bald elven bookseller across the road.
"At least I got the lights all done by the time you came back," Ellana finished with a shrug, waving her half-eaten bradhel up at the ceiling. "I never did get his name, but he's—"
"Solas," Merrill said.
Ellana nodded. "Oh, he certainly is. The proudest city elf that I've met so far. And he's so tall it's absurd—"
"I meant," Merrill gently cut in, throwing an apologetic look at Ellana, "that that really is his name. 'Solas'."
Mahanon frowned. "You know him, then?"
"Well, not personally—" Merrill shook her head, "—but Varric does. In fact, I do believe they're friends." A beat, and then: "Unless he's another tall, bald, bare-faced elf. Who also happens to run a bookshop in this district. That may very well be the case, you know."
Both cousins bit thoughtfully into their respective snacks.
Eventually, Mahanon agreed, "That is entirely possible, yes."
Ellana took a sip of her tea and added, "Though not very likely."
Merrill smiled. "Well," the dark-haired elven woman declared, "whether he is Varric's friend or not, I suppose we could just ask him his name."
"Yes," said Ellana, "I suppose we could."
'We', of course, meaning only Merrill and Mahanon; she did promise to return the stepladder tomorrow, but she never promised to return it herself. With any luck, she would never have to see this Solas—or whatever his name really was—ever again.
Notes:
More to follow later. Thanks for reading! (Is it obvious that I'm making this up as I go along?)
Fuzzy Elven:
sheva'bradhan – literally 'shredded meat bread place'; a sheva'bradh shop (non-canon)
vallaslin – 'blood writing'; facial tattoos typically sported by Dalish elves who come of age
hahren – elder
Ma nuvenin – As you wish.
da'len – child
bradhel – Dalish sweet bun with a jam or custard filling; may be baked or fried (non-canon)
Solas – pride; to stand tall