The walls of the tent positively rattled as Knock released another quaking snore. Outside, the birds had begun to softly chirp. Dawn was but a few hours away. Solas lay on his back, staring at the canvas above. Sleep had not come, no matter how he tried to empty his mind. The smirk on that Pavus' face, the slow sinking dread of realization, the horrific knowledge that she had been attempting to tell him she knew. He had believed himself long past the days when such an embarrassment would feel this sharp, and yet: there it was. Even now his ears burned hot to remember the way she picked at the cuff of her sleeve, eyes looking everywhere but at him. He wondered if the journal's description had been that horrifically detailed, or if Dorian had simply embellished it to lurid ends. Knock made a choking sound and rolled to one side, directing a noisy breath toward the center of the tent. There was no point in trying to get any rest now.
Solas emerged to the grey of predawn with his rucksack in hand, intending to strike out early. There was a path through the woods that might buy him an hour, perhaps more. With any hope, he would arrive in Haven before the others and have a few moments to himself before he had to confront the Herald. Finding himself at the gates to the village with still no shred of idea what to say, he made a path directly for his cabin, where he could slip inside and feign busywork for awhile.
He was surprised to find her directly in his path. This gave him even less time to properly formulate his confession, to choose the words he would artfully weave together to explain his embarrassment at what had happened in that alternate world.
And also to stop wondering what her legs looked like beneath her under-armor.
"Herald," the word seeming a breathless explosion from his lips. At that moment, he realized just how small Haven was. Leliana was practically breathing down their necks as they stood, the Commander standing only a few paces before them. And all around where people he knew even less well, carrying blankets and saddles, warming themselves by the fire. "Perhaps this is not the best place to discuss my... " he regarded her solemnly, with a dip of his head. "What youwere trying to tell me." The flush on her cheeks told him that she already knew of what he spoke. "Perhaps we should...?" she nodded, following him down the path, toward where the newly-constructed war engines rested in the snow. Once they were out of earshot of that damned merchant, he paused. "I wanted... I needed to apologize. I'm not sure of how aware you are of the machinations of demons; desire demons, in particular. I wanted to assure you that despite the particular... ah... fantasy that one constructed for me, that I bear no intentions... that is to say that I do not harbor any... any unseemly thoughts toward you." She crossed her arms and stared back at him in confusion. He feared he was not making his point.
"I was trying to explain that I now know why... why you sometimes look like... I was simply attempting to tell you that... that my bedding of a facsimile of you while under extreme emotional duress was not some harbinger of hidden feelings run amok. That I am not shirking my duties while lusting after you in secret. That I would not do anything to compromise your position, nor your mission here. I hold you in the highest respect, after all, and despite what I did to defile your image... I..." She continued to stare at him, practically gaping at this point and he felt his heart sink. "Red lyrium does have an effect on the judgment of the infected, I'm afraid. I apologize if my behavior under its influence left you with any unsavory feelings toward me."
"Solas," she said firmly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
His stomach now resided somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. The wind whistled across the valley. In the distance, the shout of target practice and gentle clang of the blacksmith's hammer. She stared at him, arms still crossed, eyebrows raised as if waiting for an explanation. There was a sudden short laugh of derision that snapped his attention to the platform adjacent, where the Tevinter mage reclined. "Is everyone in the Inquisition this thick? I have to say, this performance is not helping my doubts about our chances."
Solas frowned. "I believe I should take my leave. Herald. Master Pavus."
The table in his cabin was littered with rough sketches, a few jotted down words whose meaning had been lost to the ages, dotted here and there with coordinates of possible artifacts. hands clasped behind his back, and surveyed the collection of knowledge. This room had served him well, providing both shelter from the elements and a place where he could work more or less uninterrupted, squirreling away all the little thoughts and clues he encountered as they journeyed. He would miss this space, once their quest was over and he had returned to his primary mission. It was an uncomfortable thought, this realization of attachment. So long outside the confines of anything resembling society and he had believed he was now immune to its pull. The Inquisition had provided him with compatriots, the comfortable hum of people and noise he had not realized he missed, and the ability to remember what it felt like to be close to someone. To yearn for more closeness, to desire something he thought he no longer needed.
Dorian's interruption had been a good thing, he reminded himself. Once again he felt himself on the verge of letting a piece of his facade fall, giving in to a baser urge that would do nothing to further his cause. These little slips in judgment were happening more and more often, and all due to the proximity of Evelyn Trevelyan. He settled in his chair, shoving loose pieces of paper out of the way until his hand found a small, green, leather-bound journal. This is where he kept the notations he took during her convalescence, the pages proving less than useful in the days that followed, but he was still unable to discard them. With two fingers he flipped the book to the center, where it fell open naturally, the spine creased from frequent visits to this page. There was the place where he sketched her face as she slept, her features in shadow. He had thought of her then as a mystery to be deviled out. How could he know how that mystery would deepen, blossom?
A knock then, he hastily pulled a large stack of formulas to cover the open page, turning slightly toward the half-open door as he did so. Evelyn Trevelyan stood with her hand on the door's edge, pushing it open as she stepped inside. "Herald," he said with barely-concealed surprise. "Please, come in. I apologize for the clutter. I've been... working."
"I wanted to check on you, make sure that you understood. Dorian didn't intend to cause any problems, I'm sure. He only told me what he thought I needed to know about your imprisonment. About everyone's, imprisonment," she emphasized. "I never would have pried into further detail."
"Yes," Solas worked to unclench his jaw. "I certainly appreciate Master Pavus' respect for my privacy. Perhaps I should have a word with him. Thank him personally."
"Remember," her voice carried an edge. "He is simply trying to help. As you are. Try to remain civil with one another. For the good of the Inquisition." Evelyn paused. "Solas? I am sorry if they used me... that is to say, my image to cause you any pain." She took a breath. "I hope I am not overstepping my bounds. I simply wanted to say that so we won't need to discuss any of this again. Just know that I am sorry if I inadvertently hurt you. It was never my intent."
Her words were so carefully chosen, so perfectly tiptoed around the giant hanging maybe between them that it made his heart ache. "Not overstepping," he corrected, gently. "I dare say there will be many more... stumbles on the road ahead. This is complicated. The situation we find ourselves in." Solas stared silently for a moment too long. "The Breach, I mean." He didn't mean the Breach at all, but that was hardly important now. That was a conversation for another time and place. One he wasn't certain they would ever reach.
She turned toward the door again, and part of him screamed and railed against her leaving. Was it possible that she didn't know the ways of desire demons? Or is that a problem for mages alone, in her world? Perhaps they were something the Chantry protects their virgin daughters and sons from, something to be dealt with in the Circle like most other shameful things. Desire demons, after all, can project destructive illusions. All demons can, provided there is something there to work with. Sloth demons know what will make you comfortable, placid, for example. To keep you in thrall. Perhaps a room you loved as a child or surrounding you with puppies. Desire demons, on the other hand, feed off the deepest, darkest wants of your secret soul. He found he desperately wanted her to hold him accountable for what the demon brought forth, to come to him again screaming and demanding that he tell her what that meant if it meant anything at all. That part of him wanted her to know what it meant and wanted her to know. He wanted to her to know that what he was, in that terrible future, was a soul flayed raw, unable to cover its wants and needs any longer beneath a veneer of propriety and calm.
That part of him also wanted her. Here, in this place, in the room the very essence of temptation has conjured to push him over that treacherous edge. That part knew how easy it could be to slip, to close the distance between them, to take her wrist in his hand and pull her to him, to show her what he felt and what she meant. That part would willingly and happily pull her to his bed and let the rest of the world be damned around them.
Most fortunate for the world that it was not the part that prevailed. Instead, he managed a quiet smile, lips pressed together and a small nod. "Thank you. Goodnight, Herald."