"Where's Varric?" It was rather hard to understand the Inquisitor while Dorian held her face still, applying a potent poultice to her small wound. He bent over her while she sat on her bed, face angled up high to give him a good view.
"On his way. Cole needed his help. I understand you stopped acting so frosty towards him? Good, I didn't want to have to burn you."
Rhawlin would have laughed if Dorian wasn't squeezing her cheeks into her lips. Instead, her mouth flapped and she spat a bit, thankfully avoiding the mage's face.
He chuckled, releasing her and replacing the top to the poultice bottle.
"Yes, I know I was an ice queen. Don't tell Vivienne." They both laughed, comfortable in each others presence. Dorian and Varric made things feel so much better about so many things, just by being by her side and she was never too proud to accept their solace. Dorian traced the edge of her wound were the red goo had smeared, delicate, before moving away from her to sit at her desk.
"So, how'd you know I got wounded? And why such a special poultice? I have about four in my desk drawer." Rhawlin filled the silence, drawing in her feet to sit cross-legged on the comforter.
"Well, the poultice is to ensure no scarring. Not a good look, although Cassandra seems to pull it off." He seemed to disappear into his head for a moment, considering something to do with scars. "Ah, I was on my way to meet you. Cullen was afraid to leave you, all dumb-founded with your naked throne. He made me promise to make sure you were tended to. Such a dramatic man!" Jabbering and curious, he picked up an open book and began reading where she had left off.
Lavellan mentally kicked herself. How could she have allowed herself to wallow in the past? In the middle of her throne room no less. Groaning, she hunched forward with her elbows on her knees and watched the mark flicker eerie green in the dimness of her room.
"What exactly are you reading here, dear girl?" Dorian asked, looking up from the tattered pages that were worn with heavy use. Rhawlin's nose scrunched as she fought to remember, recalling the order of the many books she'd been reading in the past month.
"Ahhhmmnn.. Pursuit of Knowledge? The Genitivi one."
"Yes, but you've got some of the pages marked. The Emerald Knights? Elven guards?" Dorian scanned through the next page quickly, searching for key words. "Wolves?"
A light blush turned Lavellan's red skin almost purple, embarrassed at how silly her research seemed compared to his. He was tracing Corypheus' lineage and looking for creative ways to take him down, and she was still looking for some piece of truth or comfort from the beliefs she'd been taught.
"Ah yes. When we were in the Emerald Graves, there were so many of the wolf statues. I thought I would look into them a bit."
Dorian blinked up from the page and looked at the elf, head tilting a bit to the side. She was idly tracing the Mark with her other hand, watching the way the glow would shift. "Did your Keeper not tell you about them?"
"Umm.." Rhawlin stammered, looking up from her Mark to meet his challenging gaze. Yes, Keeper Deshanna should have told her more of her own people but even the kindness of the Keeper had its limits when dealing with the mutt. There was no simply way to answer Dorian. It was better to wait for the both of them, rather than try to explain the various twists and turns that had shaped her.
She was saved by the pounding on the door right down the stairs. She started to stand, but was waved down by Dorian who stood and headed down the stone steps to answer. Varric's laughter echoed up to fill her space, and she smiled. The two of them rejoined her quickly, exchanging teasing greetings as they always did. Varric did not waste time.
"Nice to see you, Scarlet. Now-" Varric grinned as he pulled a stack of papers from the bag strapped across his chest, moving to take Dorian's seat at her desk. He took the quill Rhawlin used, dipped it in her ink, and readied his hand. "-Who is Rhawlin Lavellan?"
The elf chuckled softly, far less distressed by the topic in the comfort of her quarters and the selected company. Still, it would be hard to explain, and she didn't completely remember it all. Nervously, she began to run her fingers through her mussy hair, as close as she'd get to trying to keep it in check. The light of her hand dimmed in the waves of russet, setting off an odd orange glow.
"Where to start.. I came from an alienage in Val Royeaux." She paused, waiting for harsh reactions. When nothing but Varric's light scribbling sounded, she continued. "I was still really young, its hard to remember. I don't think I ever had a family, but I remember the old woman who took care of me until she died. When she did, other elves took her home and they put me outside. I was.. four I think. But this one man.. sometimes he was there and sometimes he wasn't. He didn't care that I looked odd, and he fed me when he was there. He taught me to sneak, steal and trick so I could eat when he was gone. He taught me some elvhen stories, saying I should know who to hold responsible for life.
The story of the Slow Arrow was the first story he told me, and the one he told me the most. Essentially, the elven god Fen'Harel came upon a village that was plagued by a great beast, and they begged him kill it. He went to it at dawn, and knew he would die if he tried to battle it. Instead, he shot a single arrow into the sky. The villagers asked how he would save them and he said, 'When did I say I would save you?'- I always thought that was mean – The beast came at night, killed everyone but the children. When he went to attack them, Fen'Harel's arrow fell into his open gullet, slaying him before he could kill the kids. It took a couple years before I really understood. The Dread Wolf, he did what he could, saved who he could, knowing that trying to save them all would end them all. And those he did save, he saved with cunning, not strength." Rhawlin paused, listening to The Storyteller's now frantic scrawling, and sighed. She would have to make sure he didn't make this into a book.
"He raised me for the first part of my life, that odd man. He gave me a birthday when I couldn't remember mine. He was so... nice. I don't think I have ever known a nicer elf. Always smiling and making jokes. Always teaching me how to use my mind like Fen'Harel. I was in the alienage until I was around nine, while he raised me five or six times a year, for a week or so at a time. He didn't have an accent either. I think I used to, but I wanted to be like him. I don't think I ever knew his name, but I called him Fera. He had beautiful purple eyes.."
"I have a question." Dorian's voice pulled her from the struggle to recollect her memories, and she noticed he had moved to sit on the foot of her bed while she was speaking. Her pause was answer enough for him to continue. "What about the rest of the Pantheon? The Creators and The Forgotten Ones?"
"Ah, I asked him that once. A number of stories about Fen'Harel involved the other gods. He told me how Fen'Harel trapped them all away to stop the war, and only he was left, and only he had a chance to hear our prayers. I learned about the rest of the Pantheon when I went to the clan."
"And when did you go to the clan?" Varric then, never lifting his gaze from his mess of paper.
"Gosh, Varric, are you writing my memoir? As I said, I left the alienage at nine. There was unrest in Orlais, and Fera told me that I should go. He put me on a carriage with a bag of bread and dried meat and said, one day everything will be clear and I will be the only one who understands."
For several moments the only sound was from Varric, Lavellan losing herself to memories she'd abandoned after she'd gotten her vallaslin. It had been a long time since she remembered the violet-eyed elf who had cared for her, his lessons and her unending questions. How he had taught her to trap the mean-spirited kids in the alienage who would beat her for her differences, or frame them for some of the petty crimes she had committed for her survival. Or to believe in the Dread Wolf, because he was all that was left. Eventually Dorian cleared his throat, causing Varric to lift a surprised face from his work.
"What exactly are you going to do with all this information, Varric?" Dorian asked, leaning back into Rhawlin's bed with his hands braced behind him.
"Oh, nothing in particular. Its just always good to have. But now, the serious part." The dwarf pushed himself to his feet, leaving his papers to dry on her desk. Soon, the three of them sat on her over-sized bed, Dorian at the foot of the bed and Varric and Lavellan sitting on the side. "What happened that has got you so messed up lately? I know you and Solas-"
"Ugh, please, no. I don't want to have this talk." Rhawlin groaned, flinging back her body across the width of her bed. Her marked hand flung to drape her arm across her pillows, her hair falling over the other edge in tangled waves. The dwarf laughed as he turned his head to look at her.
"Relax. I know the affection of one elf isn't going to ruin you. But the timing is odd." Varric turned his body, moving his thigh onto the bed to watch her more comfortably. Dorian mimicked her, although carefully as not to hit her, to lay down with his head only a few inches from her right cheek.
Varric watched them both for a moment in silence. How stressful it was to have friends. He sighed, turned his back to them, and let himself fall into the plush of the Inquisitor's bed. They lay there on her covers, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for.. something. Rhawlin's voice came as a whisper, although perfectly audible in the quiet.
"Whenever I give my heart into believing something, the world tells me I'm wrong. Fera told me to pray to Fen'Harel, the Dalish told me that was wrong. The Dalish demanded me commit my heart and blood to worship the creators, Andrastians tell me I am wrong. Andrastians told me to believe it was Andraste who saved me, who made me holy. She didn't. I'm not. They were wrong. Solas.. I believed in him, and he destroyed my view of my people. I accepted this willingly. I want to know the truth, after all. But he called me his heart, puh, I believed that too... Maybe I'm simply jaded, and maybe there is something bigger that chose me for this.. but learning that something so.. so true as the meaning of the vallaslin is actually completely wrong, so very untrue, and everything is so uncertain.. the Qun almost looks nice.."
"Yeah, okay, time to drink." Varric swept his legs, using momentum to help him sit up. He grabbed her hand and tugged as he moved, pulling her reluctantly to her feet while she sighed. Dorian wrapped his arm around her shoulder, suddenly at her side, and squeezed lovingly.
"I agree. Its been too long, and you owe a soldier." Dorian grinned and guided her towards the door for a second time, followed by Varric after he took a moment to collect his notes on the Inquisitor.
Morrigan yawned quietly as the flickering veilfire in her torchlamp cast dancing shadows against the pile of books ahead of her. The library had been empty for most of the day, due in no small part to the Inquisitor's enforced training. The other part might have had something to do with the dirty looks she'd give to those who got too close to her. Yet she had accomplished much in the day's time towards sorting and organizing the flow of otherworldly voices that clogged her head. It was getting easier, though not in the way she'd hoped. Of course the voices had already told her she could not undo the promise she'd made, not yet anyway.
Solas' quiet approach did not surprise her, a small rustling in the back of her mind muttering awareness of his coming. The witch sighed dramatically, setting down her book with a thump.
"What do you need, Fadewalker?"
"I was content to read while most of the clamor is away. You drive them away in droves. However if you're uncomfortable with my presence I will simply pick a book and go." Solas spoke in his usual polite, enlightened inflection. Morrigan waved her hand in dismissal, returning her gaze to her book. He nodded once, regardless of whether or not she could see it, and continued passed the table she was sitting at to the shelves on the other side.
Solas stood for several long moments, one arm crossing his chest to hold the other elbow, other hand gripping his chin in speculation. Every couple minutes he would shift his weight, shuffling his clothes, and sigh softly. Morrigan knew he did this to bother her, polite revenge for her impolite attitude. Finally he picked a book from the shelf, looked at it for a moment, and slid it back onto the shelf.
"Ugh! You have some nerve, creature." Morrigan shouted, slamming the book down against its spine and bracing her hands against the table. He chuckled, a dark and pleased tone that the elf didn't usually take.
"Creature? Says the witch with a thousand voices in her head." Solas spoke without looking up from the shelves.
"Be silent. These voices know of you, but say little I can understand. Whatever you are, it is not who you say. I pity the Inquisitor who laments over a lying dolt."
Solas turned his head to look at her, eyes narrowed into a glare that might scare a normal man. Without looking back, he grabbed the book that was his actual choice and took two long strides towards the witch.
"Do not speak to me of the Inquisitor. Do not speak to me of lies. In fact, do no speak to me at all!" His edged voice was soft, but colder than the ice that covered Skyhold. The witch flinched, not out of fear but of surprise. As he began to walk towards the staircase to his space, his back to her, she growled out.
"Your lies will destroy the Inquisitor, and her army. I respect Lavellan, and would truly hate to see her succumb to the despair you've inflicted on her heart and her spirit. I should hope even you would consider the gravity of your choices."
Solas did not respond, but his mind did falter. He had always believed Rhawlin would be strong enough to overcome the sorrow from their ended romance, that her heart would survive and she would love someone the way only she could. Her spirit? Had he truly not considered her spirit, already strained from his nitpicking her beliefs? He continued down the stairs, shaking his head, reasoning to himself that surely his mortal love would hold herself together.