(A/N): Spoilers everywhere. Fairly warned be ye.
Disclaimer: Simply playing with what is not mine.
The Dagger's Edge
She was different after their return from Adamant.
It was a subtle change, one Solas wasn't sure he could put to words if pressed, and so for the first few days he simply waited. In the months they'd been working together, he'd learned she would approach him with questions in her own time, and nothing this side of the Void would drag them from her before then.
Instead, she began to avoid him.
Initially, he was uncertain if it was a conscious decision on her part – the repercussions of the events at the Warden fortress were vast, after all. There were testimonies to be recorded, prisoners to judge, alliances to be made or broken, injured to tend and dead to mourn. The Nightingale's crows took flight at all hours of the day and night. Solas himself spent the first two days in endless meetings with the Seeker and the Spymaster as the two women picked through his story of their tumble into the Fade, trying to foresee any and all consequences – the effect on his person, on the Herald, their companions, the rift-mark; Leliana had even asked, half-jokingly, if the Inquisition should brace itself for another Blight. Solas, aware of her experience with the Fifth Blight and the Hero of Fereldan, had been kinder in his denial than he might have otherwise been.
But as the days passed and the frantic pace slowed – the Inquisition catching its collective breath before the next catastrophe could fall upon them – Lavellan's continued absence became increasingly significant. He caught only glimpses of her, usually at a distance. As he entered a room she would be leaving it. She began to take her meals in her room, no longer venturing down to the tavern.
It was becoming a distraction.
By the sixth day, Solas had been questioned and cross-examined about his experience by a dozen members of the Inquisition and two visiting dignitaries. Thus, when another knock came at his door before the sun had properly risen, his response was curt. "Yes?"
One of the many elven servants stood at the threshold; she dipped into a curtsy, apparently unperturbed by his tone. "Beg pardon, messere. I was told to bring these to you without delay." She held out the two volumes she carried, still wrapped in cured hides as protection against the elements during their long journey. Solas took them wordlessly, unwrapping the first to reveal the title of a particularly difficult-to-obtain treatise on demons, spirits, and theories on their relation one to the other.
"Thank you," he said, hoping to smooth over some of his earlier brusqueness. "Please convey my appreciation to Ambassador Montilyet – I had not expected she would be able to procure these works." The woman nodded and dropped another curtsy before she turned away. Solas watched her go, slightly bemused.
A few months ago a kind word from him would've sent her scurrying in the opposite direction. Perhaps his association with the Inquisition was finally breeding, if not trust, then at least its tenuous beginnings.
Or perhaps he was gaining a reputation as an old curmudgeon, and his poor manners were ignored because of it. He snorted quietly to himself, raising a hand to his temple and using a wisp of mana to chase away the beginnings of a tension headache.
He glanced up at the sound of footsteps, wondering if perhaps the woman had forgotten something, and instead caught Lavellan rounding the far corner. The younger elf paused when she spotted him standing in the doorway, her gaze flicking between the other end of the hall and his person, which stood between them. "Hahren." Her voice was still rough with sleep, but there were dark smudges beneath her eyes.
"Lethallan," Solas returned mildly. He waited. She shifted beneath his gaze, tongue darting out to nervously wet her lips, opened her mouth only to close it again.
"...Good morning," she said at length, hurrying past him.
Solas waited until she had disappeared from view to enter his quarters and close the door behind him.
Well. That answered the question of whether her behavior this past week had been deliberate.
Brow furrowed in thought, he carefully unwrapped the second book, setting the hides aside to be turned in to the requisitions officer at a later date. The books he carried to the rotunda, adding them to the growing pile on the desk he'd claimed as his. Then he simply stood, considering.
Above him: the flapping of wings, the echo of voices bouncing off stone walls.
His brushes sat, cleaned and ready, on the desk. His gaze turned to the unfinished mural, the guiding lines already traced across the wall.
It would be a welcome distraction.
One hurried meal and trip to the Inquisition's stores later, Solas began to work in earnest. He was two hours into the project when a familiar voice spoke behind him.
"It hurt her, being there."
"Cole." Solas acknowledged the spirit with a short nod, not turning from the wet plaster.
"I'm glad I didn't fall back there – I would've felt wrong in this shape."
"Yes. I'm glad you were spared that discomfort," he said, concentrating on the sweep of a griffon's wing.
"She wants to ask," Cole continued, staring curiously at the shapes taking form on the wall. "But the questions are still too sharp."
"The Fade is foreign to her, Cole. She needs time."
"No," Cole said, shaking his head. "She has too much time. When she's by herself, no distractions, it lets the questions grow, grasping..." He trailed off before he crossed his arms with a sigh. "I wish she wasn't so bright – it makes it harder to hear."
"Yes, I know."
"She wants you to ask," Cole said, quietly.
Solas didn't have to look to know when the spirit vanished.
Four hours later, the underlayer was complete. Carefully, he cleaned and dried his brushes before he set them aside, studying his pigment-stained hands.
"She wants you to ask."
There was a danger here. He walked a dagger's edge: The world was not as it should be. He was...very tired, even now. And the shadow in Lavellan's eyes should not trouble him as it did.
He remained in place for another heartbeat before he turned and headed into the main hall.
Varric was seated before the fireplace, perusing a piece of parchment – a letter from the Champion of Kirkwall, if Solas were to judge by the intensity of the other's focus. The dwarf did a double-take when he noticed the mage standing beside him. "Chuckles! How's the masterpiece going?" he queried, catching sight of the elf's hands.
"Slowly, Master Tethras."
"It's Varric, Chuckles," the dwarf corrected with a sigh, setting his letter aside. "And your modesty is a continuing inspiration, serah. So," he continued, sitting back and stretching his legs beneath the table, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I was looking for the Inquisitor."
"Marigold? She's down by the armory, skewering training dummies with extreme prejudice. I'll have to get her to tell me how she managed to scare Cassandra away later." Varric paused, idly scratching at the corner of his jaw. "I hear you guys went through some weird shit in the Fade. All this shit's been weird," he added, half to himself.
"I suspect the Herald would agree with your assessment," Solas deadpanned.
Varric scoffed. "Most people who aren't Fade-walking apostates would agree with my assessment, Chuckles. Before the Breach, I would've sworn nothing would ever top seeing Meredith turned to lyrium on a this-shit-is-weird scale."
"And few have lived a life half so interesting as yours," Solas said lightly.
"Yep – lucky me," Varric muttered, expression darkening. Solas watched as some private recollection knotted the dwarf's brow – only for the space of a few seconds, and then Varric seemed to shake himself, covering the moment with a sardonic grin when he noticed the mage's eyes still upon him. "Anyway, if you're going to see the Inquisitor, tell her I'm still working on that manuscript for the Seeker. Don't worry, she'll know the one I mean," he said, leaning forward and resting his fingers on a corner of the letter.
It was a clear dismissal, and Solas nodded and moved on.
The afternoon air was cool against his skin, but not unpleasantly so. He paused at the head of the stone staircase, squinting in the direction of the armory. There was a figure by the training dummies, but their form was indistinct at this distance.
For long seconds, he didn't move.
This had the potential to become a mistake greater than any he had made before.
He could feel Cole's eyes upon him from somewhere nearby. He bit back a sigh and started down.
He crossed the courtyard with a measured tread, the ground alternately chilled and warm against his bare toes as he passed in and out of patches of sunlight. The figure before the training dummies became recognizable as that of the Herald, flicking daggers into the stuffed effigies' chests and heads. Lavellan noticed his presence as he stepped from the path into the grass, and paused to fix him with a sour look.
"I don't want to talk about it," she said preemptively.
Solas paused. "What do you not want to discuss, lethallan?"
"Anything. Everything. I'm done," she said, yanking a dagger from the chest of the dummy nearest her. "If I have to talk to one more person about the Fade, or the Wardens, or what should be done with that blighted Erimond, I'll scream."
"I see." He took in at a glance the pallor of her skin beneath her vallaslin, the bruised skin beneath her eyes. "I apologize, Inquisitor. I only wished to clear my head, and thought you might enjoy some company. If it won't disturb you, I will remain awhile before heading back – the fresh air is invigorating."
She held her peevish expression another second before she deflated. "I hate the way you're able to do that," she groused, tugging her remaining blades free of their targets.
"Do what, da'len?"
"Make me feel like an unblooded child. You're worse than the Keeper." Solas bit down on a scornful reply, but some of the sentiment must've bled through into his expression, because she sighed and turned away from him. "No, I didn't think you'd like that."
It was an old argument, one they had mostly avoided as she had come to trust him despite his lack of vallaslin, and it would not be helpful to drag it out again now. "It is not a bad thing, to be made to feel foolish," he said instead, leaning against the nearby fir tree as she readied herself for another round of target practice. "It reminds us that we are fallible."
Her expression became wry. "I've felt incredibly fallible lately," she said, letting the first dagger fly. It pierced the stuffed chest just below the sternum.
"I imagine most of those in our company feel the same," Solas said mildly, watching as her second dagger buried itself in the target's shoulder.
"What – even you?" The third dagger sank into the straw man's belly.
Especially I.
"Of course, Inquisitor."
She grunted. "I have trouble picturing that, hahren," she said, frankly, as her final dagger stabbed through the effigy's head.
Solas couldn't still the amused quirk of his lip. "Even so."
"Hm." She studied her handiwork a moment before she stepped forward to recover her weapons. The dagger buried in the training dummy's head she had to struggle to reclaim, the blade having punched entirely through its obstacle. When she finally wrestled it free, she simply stood, staring down at it thoughtfully.
Solas waited.
"Is it always like that?" she finally said, very determinedly not looking at him.
He knew, but still had to ask: "What, Inquisitor?"
Her jaw flexed. "The Fade." Her eyes darted to his face and quickly away again. "Is that what it's like for you? How do you stand it?"
Something in Solas' chest constricted at the barely-controlled tremor in her voice. He should've foreseen this.
He should've foreseen many things.
"No, da'len," he said. "When you opened the rift we entered the Fade physically. I walk it in dreams – it is a far different experience."
"It was awful," she said, grimacing when she heard the waver in her voice. She began to methodically run the pad of her thumb along the flat edge of her blade, still avoiding his gaze. "Like walking through every horrible nightmare I've ever had. How would experiencing that in a dream have been any better?"
Not for the first time, Solas found himself stymied by her lack of familiarity with magic and the Fade. It was a continuous stumbling block, another unintended consequence.
Another mistake to regret.
He spoke gently, wanting to be kind, but not to offer false comfort. "For you, it might not have been – you are not a mage, and would find it almost impossible to shape the Fade to your will."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, her thumb still worrying at the edge of her dagger. "So how is it different for you, then?"
"When I enter the Fade..." He trailed off for a long moment before he started again. "When I was young," he said slowly, marking the way her fingers stilled, "I spent most of my days wandering deep in the woods around my village. It was necessary to keep the townspeople from discerning my nature as I came into my power. I did not mind the isolation – there was little at home to interest a young man, and I enjoyed the solitude.
"One day, I stumbled across a large clearing. At its center stood the remains of some long-abandoned structure, so weathered I couldn't even guess at what it might have once been. A herd of wild harts grazed in the long grass that had grown up through its floors, and sparrows nested in the crumbling towers. I was still very young, and was immediately enchanted, spinning all manner of fanciful stories about the ruin's origin. I returned there often to dream, speaking with the spirits that dwelt there, learning the skills I would need to walk the Fade safely."
Her gaze was far away, fixed upon the picture his words painted, and for a moment he longed to be able to show her the things he spoke of with a force that squeezed the breath from his lungs. He couldn't imagine a life lived sundered from the Fade. How could any words encompass something so vast? "The Fade is shaped by and reflects our world, Inquisitor. My will gives it form – as it did when we walked in Haven." Her eyes flicked to his, a silent acknowledgement of the question that still loomed, unaddressed, between them. "If I desire, I can conjure that glade again in dreams. I have done so before, when I needed a quiet place to retreat from the world." He fell silent, weary down to his bones.
The silence stretched between them...and then Lavellan's thumb began to stroke along the edge of her blade once more. "And the demons?"
He was tired; his response was curt. "We have spoken of this before."
"Yes – you said a spirit only becomes a demon when it's twisted from its purpose," she said. "I remember."
"Then why ask again?"
Silence. The sweep of her thumb along the blade. "The spirit, or the Divine, or whatever she was," she said at last, "she said the Nightmare might've started out helping people. She called what it did a mistake born of compassion." She rounded on him, expression strained. "Could that happen to Cole if we don't find that amulet in time?" Her knuckles were white around the grip of her dagger.
Ah.
"Venavis, da'len." Solas stepped forward, grasping her gently by the shoulders. "Ma'him atisha sahlin." She took a breath that shook slightly, and he waited until her eyes rose to meet his to continue. "Cole came through the Veil willingly, under his own power – he remembers his nature and his purpose. It would be difficult to twist him from it." He spared a thought to hope Cole hadn't shared his entire history with the Inquisitor before forging on: "The Nightmare became what it was through centuries. Cole will not become that."
The Inquisitor lowered her eyes, considering his words. She exhaled deeply before she looked back up. "I – "
"Hey, Inquisitor! Can't you two go be elfy somewhere else? Get a frigging room!"
Lavellan tensed beneath his hands, then turned her head to glare murderously at Sera, who was hanging out of one of the tavern windows and regarding them both with a cheeky grin. Solas cleared his throat as he realized how their current position must look, quickly releasing the Inquisitor's shoulders and stepping back as every eye in the vicinity turned in their direction.
It didn't stop the Herald from making an incredibly rude gesture at her fellow elf. A gesture Sera cheerfully returned.
The thought of their ambassador's horrified expression when she heard of this moment brought an unexpected chuckle to his lips; when Lavellan glanced at him in bemused surprise, it only fueled his mirth. After a second or two of open staring, a smile cracked her face, as well – and then she was laughing with him.
And for a moment, Solas forgot...everything.
The Breach. The stolen orb. His weariness.
All of it.
All that existed was the sound of their laughter, their proximity, the way the skin crinkled at the corners of her eyes when she smiled.
It felt right – it felt real, in a way nothing else in a thousand years had.
It shook him. Still.
"Serannas, hahren," she said after their laughter had tapered away. Unaware of his inner turmoil, she smiled up at him. "So what was that ruin in the forest? You never said."
"An ancient fort," he heard himself say, as if from a great distance. "Abandoned and ultimately forgotten during the Divine Age, in the chaos of the Second Blight."
"Ah. Not quite the enchanted castle you'd imagined, then?"
He blinked, focused on the slant of her smile, mirrored her wry expression with his own. "I was very young."
Her expression grew pensive as she lowered her gaze to stare at her marked palm. "The stories say all elvhen once had the gift," she said, drawing the words out slowly.
"More Dalish tales?" Solas said, though the question lacked its usual bite.
"Yes," she said shortly. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin, staring him down as she waited for him to answer.
"...In this, at least, the Dalish are correct," he admitted.
She stared for another heartbeat before she snorted. "I can't imagine what it cost you to admit that," she said, a grin tugging at her lips.
"Indeed. We'll have to plant a tree to mark the occasion," Solas said dryly.
The glint in her eyes could only be described as wicked. "Oh yes, Sera would love that."
Solas laughed again, turning and falling into step beside her as she launched into a series of questions regarding the elves of ancient Arlathan and their relation to the Fade.
Yes, there was a danger here - and if he made a single misstep, the dagger's edge would cut them both to the core.