"The accent is on the 'ah' in the second part of the phrase. Not to change emphasis it is more of a… think of it like a pause for breath. Take a breath there. That will help it flow more naturally." He watched expectantly as she took a deep breath.

"Aneth ara."

Solas smiled, dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Ma serannas, Inquisitor."

"Why is it always 'Inquisitor?' So formal. I do not call you 'mage.'"

"It is meant only as a sign of respect. I did not mean to offend."

"You haven't. I had a question, if I may. You called Sera 'Lethallin.' I've read the texts in the library. 'Lethallin' is for a man. Lethallin, man, Lethallan, woman."

"Ah." He laid his fingertips on the edge of the table, tracing its fine carving. "That is a matter of time and semantics, I'm afraid. My Elvhen is closer to that of the ancient language than the Dalish dialect. Ancient elves did not feel greetings, endearments, needed to be gender specific. After all, ancient elves were not male or female, they were of the people. One heart, one voice, one spirit. 'Lin' means, quite literally, blood. Are women not also made of the same blood?"

"I suppose they are. When did it change?"

"That I cannot tell you, it happened without my input."

Evelyn laughed, her chinks flushing pink. As her head shook, he noticed the ends of her hair were still damp from her earlier bath, the overall aura of fresh cream and roses bore all the hallmarks of one of the Lady Ambassador's Orlesian concoctions. This strange intimacy of being in her chambers, seeing her so disarmed and dressed down was nearly overwhelming. She glanced up again, above his head, toward the elaborate mural. He had stayed his hand from keeping the image too flowery, too overly ornate. It was a constant struggle he had in his art, keeping his thoughts and heart out of what flowed from his hand. Years ago, someone with eyes not unlike hers had told him that he betrayed himself when he created. You cannot hide from me, not when I see the secrets in your mind in every petal of every rose. His eyes flicked back to her, surprised to find she now stared directly at him. A clatter from the stair broke their gaze, a young girl with a tray stopped at the top of the stair.

"It's my nightly draught," she said with an edge of dismay. Solas nodded and began to gather up his books. "Would you stay?" Evelyn asked, a little too quickly. "Just for a bit longer. I have things I've been meaning to ask you. About this place, specifically. You seem to have quite a bit of knowledge about it. Surely you have stories to share. She indicated the chairs by the fire.

"I do," he said cautiously. "You would want to hear them? Really?" She continued to surprise, especially when it came to her curiosity, her willingness to learn ideas and histories contrary to what her studies taught her. It was part of what made her an object of endless fascination.

"It was Elvhen, originally," Solas settled into his chair. "Not this structure, but the levels beneath, the foundation. The first Fereldans to explore this part of the mountains found it and destroyed it, ground the structure down to the foundation and built this fortress atop the remains. Almost nothing, save some foundational structures, is original, everything above has been built and rebuilt over the centuries. Despite the desolation and rebuilding, the layout has remained similar over the ages, something that has puzzled the historians who have studied such ruins. It is almost as if the fortress knows how it wants to be built. And it has been occupied, on and off, for ages."

He laughed, glanced over at her, "You're certain you want to hear this?" She smiled in response. "I could tell you instead of the legends. This place holds the clays and stones of multiple civilizations, many races and ancestries marks are on these walls. The Rivani called it 'Where Hold the Sky,' and it was a trading post during the Tan Empire. The stories of that time tell of a mysterious and unseen trader, granting goods like wishes. The Orlesians called it 'Skyholde' and their version was more a utopia than fortress, replete with flying nugs and rainbow-colored dragons blowing bubbles. There are even tales of Tevinter occupation, with some artwork uncovered that shows a building of similar facade piercing the sky. And of course, every notable ghost, highwayman, and banished disgraced nobleman has a connection to some version of this place. Built and rebuilt, as I said, in the same patterns throughout history. But the Elvhen structure that first stood here has never been replicated, not properly. In the Divine Age, ownership passed to an enchanter by the name of Ganot. Ganot fancied himself a scholar of Elvhen histories, and thought himself knowledgeable in both their structures and artifacts. He took it upon himself to restore the great spire that once stood in what is now your courtyard."

He paused before continuing, "The spires that Ganot constructed all burned and melted, for his attempts at construction brought about a mysterious storm. Ganot himself did not survive the attempt, he cried out in agony until he succumbed to his wounds, his limbs gradually turning to ash and blowing away in the wind. His apprentice scholar wrote his last words, to be included in one of the histories of this place. 'It does not want to be discovered.' Scholars have puzzled over these words for generations, but one thing is clear: whoever built this place did not want its secrets to be unlocked."

The bottle grew emptier and her questions about navigation and ancient ruins gave way to idle gossip.

"Did you know?"

He hoped she could not see his slight smirk in the half-light. "About The Iron Bull and Pavus? I had some… idea." Setting down his cup, he turned toward her with a conspiratorial look. "The rounded walls of that tower they do… ah, echo at times." He leaned back, with a laugh. "Do not look so scandalized. I heard whispered conversations, nothing more. Enough of the words came through clearly enough to realize I was not overhearing casual discussion of the weather or dinner."

The fire crackled as they each considered their next words carefully. Their silences, once comfortable and contemplative, had recently become… charged. Anxious, waiting, as if each were fearful of what the other might say. Or perhaps "fearful" wasn't the right word. Apprehensive? Expectant? Anticipative?

Longing.

"I…" he began slowly, clearing his throat. "That is, does it bother you? The Iron Bull and Dorian? To know that they are having this personal… dalliance? Either because it distracts from their duties or because it perhaps denies you something you sought in one or the other?"

The look on her face released a staccato laugh from him. "I am sorry. Sorry. I should not have assumed. I will admit I do not always understand what human women find attractive, and The Iron Bull seems to have his fair share of admirers. As for Dorian, I feared you might be misplacing your affections. I do not think his interests lie in your gender. I will not attempt to decipher your romantic yearnings in the future." She had turned in her position on the chair, legs tucked up in front of her in an almost childlike way, leaning to peer at him from just behind the wing. The silence held for just a second too long, the gaze lingering a moment longer than it should have.

Solas stood abruptly, upsetting the cushion from his chair. "You… you should sleep. I think that's quite enough for tonight. Besides, you likely have duties to attend to."

She followed, standing hesitantly by the stairs as he made his way down, calling as he opened the door into the hall. "But you'll come again tomorrow?"

He willed his hand not to shake as it clutched the knob. "Ma nuvenin, Evelyn."