Author Notes: First up, a big THANK you to everyone who has been reading this so for, I adore you all! Next, no Solas in this chapter, unfortunately, but Dorian finally makes an appearance (as do Dennet and Dagna briefly), so it all evens out, yeah? Only one more chapter to go after this one. I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 3
Daleka is thankful that it is well past dinner when she makes it back to Skyhold. It means that the yards are empty of the majority of the Hold's occupants - the merchants closed down for the evening and the recruits dismissed for the day - and that the chances of her running into one of her advisors or companions are limited.
She knows well enough that they will be informed of her return in short-order. The guards will be certain to inform Cullen, and Leliana's eyes and ears will be sure to report on the Inquisitor's return to the Hold after a week's long absence.
Daleka is also certain that the absence of Solas by her side will be noted.
She can only hope that they will give her a moment to catch her breath before they descend upon her.
Weary, she leads her Hart over to the stables, stroking her fingers over his side in a light massage as they make their way with to the stall he normally occupies, trying to soothe some of the aches and pains she is certain the creature has acquired thanks to her demands for speed. He deserves all the pampering she can provide, having carried her a distance that should have taken them three days in less than two. "Ma serannas, Enansal'Ghilana."
He keens softly in appreciation, nudging her head with his own once he is settled into his stall, a trough of feed and water at the ready. Kind eyes blinking at her with more knowledge than any mere beast should have. She buries her face against his neck, taking solace in his warmth and scent for a minute more, before she sets to the task of brushing out his fur, and checking him for any scraps or parasites.
The exhaustion - physical, mental, spiritual - that she has been keeping at bay since departing from Solas at the glen as if all the demons in Thedas were nipping at her heels (she steadfastly refuses to think on what took place at the glen until she is safe, and secure, and alone) begins to take its toll, and she fumbles with the brush, dropping it to the ground repeatedly. She manages to secure it in her hand on the fourth try, but the tremors are noticeable in the way the object quakes in her grip.
A cough by the stable doors alerts her to the presence of Master Dennet; too tired to be startled, she turns to greet him with a nod, only to find his gaze focused on her shaking hands. "You all right, Inquisitor?"
"I'm fine, Dennet. Just tired."
"Mmm, well see that you get some rest. I can finish up for you here."
"Oh no, Dennet, I should-"
He crosses the distance between them and grasps the brush in her hand, giving her a look that speaks volumes regarding how ragged she must appear, "You should get some rest. Let an old man do his job for a change, yeah?"
Uncharacteristic heat suffuses Daleka's cheeks at the subtle admonishment. "I- Thank you, Dennet."
With a smile, Dennet shakes his head. "Nothing to it, Inquisitor. You do enough around here. Now off you go."
Not wanting to embarrass herself further, Daleka nods her thanks to Dennet, stopping to stroke her Hart's side once more before she departs, making her way for the main hall of Skyhold.
Upon entering, she is grateful to note that returning both well-passed the dinner hour and unexpectedly early from her travels, has resulted in the main hall being blessedly free of occupants. The tables already cleared of food, with only a lone masked Orlesian hovering over a glass of amber liquid and muttering incoherently to himself.
Not even Varric is haunting his usual place. Which, once she does the math in her head, she realizes is due to it being Wicked Grace night. Which would also explain Blackwall's absence from the stables - something she'd not even been of a mind to note until now.
She exhales a stunted chuckle, acknowledging the serendipity of such a turn of events - with luck, she won't have to deal with any of her advisors or inner circle until morning. Encouraged by the prospect, she makes haste towards her chamber door.
"Inquisitor!"
Daleka shuts her eyes against the sound of the title being called out in Dagna's sunny voice. Remembering all-too-clearly how she'd reacted last time, when the woman had done nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Daleka counts backwards from three in order to allow enough time to compose herself before turning towards the arcanist. She's been nothing but an eager employee of the Inquisition, and even something of a friend to Daleka during the long hours they've both spent in the undercroft; and for that, she deserves better than the treatment she last received. "Yes?"
With a little hop, Dagna comes to a stop a half-dozen paces from Daleka, and waves. "Hiya! You said to find you later, and well, it's later. I wasn't actually expecting to see you right now or anything, but, you're here! And I'm sorry for well, you know, before. I hope now is a better time?"
Daleka would like to scream out that no, no now is not a good time, could we perhaps bump all appointments and pending apocalypses until sometime in the next age, please? But instead what comes out is, "Now's fine."
Dagna's smile widens to the point of absurdity; glowing with repressed excitement at the Inquisitor. "Oh, great! I know that you're always so busy, so I'll keep this brief. The special stock that we've been trying to get? For months now? It's finally arrived!"
"I'm sorry? Special stock?" Daleka rubs a hand across her eyes, then moves on to rub at her temples in a futile effort to keep the perpetual headache at bay.
"Yeah-huh!" Dagna takes a step closer, eyes darting around the throne room as if she is searching for someone before she continues, her voice dropped to a hush. "For the, ya know? Thing?" Dagna looks positively gleeful, waggling her eyebrows at Daleka and making a rolling motion with her hand, waiting for the Inquisitor to catch up. But Daleka shakes her head, unable to follow; her growing headache the only thing she is able to catch up on at the moment.
Dagna puffs out a breath of air, ruffling a curl of hair that had fallen out of place over her forehead, and drops her voice even further. "For the staff that you've been working on? Ya know? For Sol-"
At the sound of the first syllable of his name, Daleka's heart jumps, and she cuts the other woman off with a raised hand. Her brain finally able to fall in line with Dagna's thought process. Quite clearly bringing into focus an image of the staff she has been painstakingly working on for Solas for months. The only parts that were missing were the focal stone, and the ornament that she'd been carving for the top to hold it all together. "Oh. That. Yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry, it's late, and I've had a long day. The stone is here then?"
"Yes! I can't wait for you to see it, it is exactly what you said you wanted! And well, it should be, given the coin that we spent - did I mention that I had to pay a little extra in the end? A smidge. Okay, double. BUT, it was so worth -"
"Dagna."
"Sorry. Sorry. I was babbling again, wasn't I?"
"Just a bit. Yes."
"Sorry. All we need now is the piece you've been working on for the top, and then I'll be able to set the rune - which is finished by the way - and voila! He's going to love it!" Dagna hops a bit, clapping her hands together, wide smile showing off pearly teeth.
Daleka tries to smile back at Dagna, and her exuberance, she really does, but she doubts she makes it much further than 'pained grimace.' She thinks on the staff, all of the effort that she has put into getting it just right; thinks on the figurehead that is almost fully carved - only one of the wings needs a bit of tweaking and it will be complete - and finds the thought of putting it together for Solas as planned, now, after what happened at Crestwood...
It is then, as Dagna's face falls into a questioning frown, that Daleka is struck with a bolt of inspiration so wild and mad, that it makes her shout out a 'Hah!' just this shy of a war cry in volume.
Poor Dagna jumps. "Inquisitor?"
"I'm sorry, Dagna. But I just had the most brilliant of ideas for how to complete the staff. If you'll excuse me, I think I shall get started right away. I'll be down to see you just as soon as it's ready." She twirls and heads back towards the entrance of the hall.
"But, Inquisitor! The pieces are all in the undercroft!"
"Not anymore they aren't, Dagna! I'm making something new. Special. Something so very, very fitting."
For the first time since Crestwood, she feels the corners of her mouth lift in what could be a smile - though she'd wager that by the way the one noble still lingering in the hall gasps as Daleka stalks by, that it's more of a snarl.
And right now? That suits her just fine.
~~~\/~~~
Dorian hums beneath his breath as he makes his way down the upper ramparts of Skyhold, the neck of a half-full bottle of Tevinter brandy clasped tight in his sweat-slicked fingers. His whole body still tingling from where Bull had-
Dorian's musings are brought to a grinding halt at the sudden, and entirely unexpected sight of the sight of the Inquisitor sat crossed-legged amidst a cord of massacred wood in the middle of the rampart, a lit lantern and a dozen well-loved and broken-in tools her only company - especially seeing as how she wasn't due back for several days from her little love jaunt with Solas.
"And what is my dearest friend working on so diligently, hidden away in such a remote corner of Skyhold as this, under the cover of darkness? Hmm?"
Lavellan makes a non-committal grunting noise, as she is want to do, and merely continues on with her work, head bent down over her lap where she is scraping away at a block of wood as he has so often seen her do in the past. Stopping here and there to wipe away shavings with the pad of her thumb. If not for the ferocity with which she is digging in with her carving knife, and the look of poorly contained rage upon her face, he might think this the same as any other night. Well, the rage fueled carving is actually not that unusual, when he thinks on it, but the fact that she's hiding in the ass-end of Skyhold, by a tower that has yet to see any repairs? And far, far away from any prying eyes?
That is somewhat disconcerting.
Dorian himself is only there on account of Bull, whose completely outlandish requests Dorian has given up on even pretending to not be excited to fulfill. He smiles to himself, remembering this evening's especially exquisite excursion...
He shakes his head, trying to push the goofy smile threatening to spread across his face away. Knowing by the body language of his best friend, that now is neither the time nor place.
"Lavellan?"
"Hmm?"
"What are you doing?" Dorian lowers himself to the stone walkway, folding his legs beneath him so that he is sitting across from her and the mess of wood explosion encircling her.
"Carving."
"Yes. I can see that. But it is well past when all good Inquisitors should be sleeping tucked away in their beddie byes with their bald bed-warmers wrapped snuggly around them." At the reference to her lover Daleka's hand slips on the carving, her knife slicing deep into the pad of her forefinger.
"Shit." She shoves it quickly into her mouth to suck on the bead of blood, but the slip-up shocks Dorian all the same.
Many hours he has sat with her while she has whittled a piece. The two of them arguing over politics (Her default response was always 'Have they considered how helpful a punch to the face might be?') or batting jokes of an ever-increasing inappropriate nature back and forth with nary a hitch in her movements as she laughed. He's seen her work on them in the midst of a packed dining hall, or in the blistering heat of the Hissing Wastes - and never, not once - has he ever seen her slip. In an instant his good humor flees, to be replaced with the fast rising waters of concern.
"What's happened?"
She lifts her eyes to his, finger still wedged between her lips, and shakes her head. She looks younger and more lost than he has ever seen her, and it takes him a shamefully long second to notice what is so clearly missing.
Dorian says nothing for the moment however, instead opting to pull the injured finger from her mouth with a soft pop. He curls his hand around the digit, sending a warm pulse of healing magic into it. He might not have much by way of healing ability - but even he can handle a cut as simple as this.
"Daleka…your markings..."
She closes her eyes at the sound of her name, and shudders when he mentions the missing tattoos. She pulls her hand back with a gentle tug, and picks up the piece she was working on; fiddling with the partially carved item. "Solas removed them for me."
"Why?"
"Because I asked him too."
"Daleka." She shrugs at the chastisement, but acquiesces all the same.
"Because the Dalish were wrong. They're wrong about so many things, Dorian." She looks up at the sky with a heavy sigh, before glancing back at the wood in her hands - anywhere but at him - and snorts. "Though not about everything it would seem."
"I'm afraid I'm not following."
"They were slave markings, Dorian. The Dalish wear them to honor the old ways, to honor the gods, but - but they're nothing more than the markings elvhen nobility used to give their property." She spits the last word, and Dorian feels his hackles rise, remembering - with utmost clarity - the way that they had argued at the beginning of their friendship over what it meant to be a slave. Knowing how she feels about the practice - detest isn't a strong enough word, loathes with the heat of a thousand burning suns would be more accurate - he can only imagine what it must have felt like to learn such a thing about her people.
To learn that she'd worn such marks with pride.
He feels bile churn in his stomach at the thought. Followed by anger that Solas would reveal something of such import, scrub away a part of her heritage from her face, and then leave her alone to deal with the emotional aftermath. Knowing it is of no use at the moment, Dorian does what he can to beat that feeling down.
Later, however...Well, Lavellan's feelings on the punching of faces had some merit.
He places his hand on her shoulder for a moment in comfort, saddened by how she stiffens at the touch. "I can't imagine how hard that was to learn, my friend. Did Solas say-"
"I didn't learn it from him. Well, I did. Sort of. But he really only confirmed what the well told me. I...I've known since shortly after we left the temple. I just didn't want to believe it."
"Oh." Because what else can he say? Did the mystical well of sorrows tell you anything else horribly distressing?
Which is apparently exactly what he does say, because she laughs, and answers the question. He really ought to keep a closer watch on his mouth. Or drink less so as to stop his tongue from being so loose.
No. No definitely the former. Let's not get crazy.
"It did, actually. I'm...I'm still sorting through most of it. Let it be known that when something is called a well of sorrows that the title is not a misnomer."
Dorian snorts, and is pleased to see that the sound rustles up something that could almost be called a smile on his friend's face.
She taps the side of her head, that same wry grin still in place. "There's a whole lot jumbled up in here. Like a bunch of puzzle pieces for an image I've never seen. Makes me feel for Gatsi, and his job with the mosaics in a way I hadn't before. The man deserves a raise."
She picks up a piece of sanding paper and starts smoothing one of the edges on the block of partially carved wood still held in her hands. "But the topics closest to me? Like...like with the vallaslin, and Corypheus? That stuff is starting to sort itself out. Like a cipher, I guess? I just need the primer to make heads or tails of it. So, yes, I knew before S-Solas brought it up."
Dorian hears the out-of-character stutter on her lover's name, but lets it slide. There's something she's not telling him, that much is obvious, but he knows when to press and when to alter the course. And now is not the time for pressing. "Even so, it was clearly a shock. I'm sorry for that."
"Hmmm."
She begins whittling again, and he settles in for the watch. Noting the size of the block of wood she is working on is quite large as compared to most he has seen in the past. "Bit bigger than your average chess piece, I'd say."
"A little."
"May I ask what this is to be, then?"
She pauses, her eyes glancing up to his for a moment, before she focuses again on her task. "A figurehead. For a staff."
"Ohhh! A present? And which, dashing, stunningly handsome mage in your acquaintance is this for, may I ask?" He flutters his eyelashes at her, and is rewarded with a half-smile and soft laugh.
"You may, but I don't think you're going to like the answer."
He slaps his hand to his chest, and tilts back and away from her, "Oh, how you wound me, Inquisitor! What must I do to earn a favor such as this, from your talented hands?" She glares at him, but there is a lightness to it that was missing before. He'd pat himself on the back for his success, if his shoulders weren't still so sore from Bull and-
Never minding that again! Focus, Dorian!
He shifts his position so that he is closer to her side and able to lean over her work a bit without blocking the light from the lantern settled near her knee. "What sort of a figure is it to be? Animal? Plant? Mineral? Phallus?"
She grunts, completely unphased, and continues working on the piece, her knife slicing clean and sure once more, and he lets it be. Content to watch the figure begin to take shape. He can understand why the act is so therapeutic for her, watching something come to life the way that the wood does for her is awe-inspiring. Long minutes tick by, and slowly the face of the piece makes itself known.
He squints at it though, because it looks like, like it might… "Did you mean for it to have that many eyes?"
"Yes."
"Ahh."
She continues to work, undeterred by his question, the knife sinking in to carve out a deeper space in one of the many eye sockets. His left eye twitches in sudden sympathy with a piece of wood.
"I know that I am shamefully under-informed regarding Dalish lore and tradition - an area that I fully intend to pursue with more scrutiny once time allows, I assure you - but neither am I completely uneducated. And, well, isn't placing that in a position of power on a staff a bit...blasphemous?"
"Only to some."
"Meaning that it won't be seen as such by its recipient?"
She slips the whittling knife towards the side of her hand, and rubs away at the arch over one of the creatures many eyes, using her nail to tug away a stubborn splinter in the grain. "Solas will understand the meaning behind it well enough."
And there, there is the opening he's been waiting on. "And what is the intended meaning of this...gift?"
She meets his gaze, and lifts a brow. "Do you have time for a history lesson?"
He bumps his shoulder against hers, careful not to jostle the work in her hands. "For you, my love? Always."
"Then tell me, Dorian, what do you know of the Dread Wolf?"
~TBC
Elvish Translations:
Ma serannas, Enansal'Ghilana: Thank you, Blessed Guide. (Which is Lavellan's name for her Hart.)
