The Duke was as good as his word, and the accommodations at what he had deemed his "hunting lodge" were substantial. Their party arrived the night prior to the ball, exhausted and dusty from the ride, and were sorted into individual rooms. Solas found his own more than ample, with ceilings arching high and reliefs etched in gold foil lining the corners. He stood in the direct center, bare feet flexing against the plush rug, wondering at the absurdity of it all. The Inquisition had gone from sleeping in wooden outbuildings to the decrepit fortress, and the idea of opulence had seemed absurd because of these arrangements. Even the colors hurt to look directly at, this messy display of wealth. Gaudy, really. How he wished he could be more offended by it. Right now, all he wanted to do was sink into the expanse of expensive linen and silk on the high-piled bed and lose himself for a few hours before dinner.
Beds were a luxury he was still adjusting to, having spent more than a few months sleeping alternately on ground or bed roll. His new perch in Skyhold had a couch, which seemed downright decadent - lumps and stabbing springs and all. The Inquisitor had one day appeared in his doorway, a devilish gleam in her eye and dragged him up the stairs to the second floor. He had protested - things to do, items to sort - and also felt a strange unfamiliar bubble in his chest at her hand on his arm, pulling him to somewhere secret. He feared and marveled at what she could possibly have planned.
It turned out to be a room of his own. One she had painstakingly arranged herself, that much was obvious. Simple furnishing, with a fire burning bright in the wall opposite the door and the floors freshly scrubbed. She'd presented it with a grand flourish of her arms and looked quite satisfied with herself.
"You want me to sleep here?" he'd asked. She looked positively crestfallen, and he'd felt himself instantly feeling a desperate need to please her. And so he attempted to sleep in the room. The first night he'd laid awake, dealing with the unfamiliar sounds of the courtyard below, the strange rustling creaks the bed made when he rolled from one side to the other. The next morning, weary and stiff, he'd made his way down to the dining hall to find her waiting for him. She was so eager to hear how he'd slept, what dreams he'd had, if it had been different to wake under that ceiling instead of his own.
Unable to lie to her, he'd instead stretched the details of his restless night. How he drifted to the sounds of the workers in the courtyard, bedding down the plants to protect them from the frost. How he heard the songs of Mother Giselle, how her voice was more raspy and wisened than Leliana's. How he rose to the calls of the ravens, returning from their night flights with messages for the castle. Despite his sore neck, he smiled at her and thanked her for the gift. The smile she returned made his heart thud painfully in his ribcage.
He was in love with her. Hopelessly, stupidly in love with her. It always hit him like an arrow to the stomach: knocking the wind out of him and forcing him to believe he might die at any moment. That he had other duties was irrelevant to his heart. That she was the Inquisitor meant nothing to the pulsing blood that thundered when she drew near. That she would panic and claw and run when she learned the truth was shoved down and buried beneath hot flushes of lust and adoration that consumed him when he so much as thought of her.
Never let the Dread Wolf catch your scent. The Dalish did get some things right, even if they misinterpreted what exactly the warning meant. It was meant to bring mercy, but not to his prey. When he fell in love - and it had been quite some time since he had fallen so - it was total devastation. Wars had been started over less. He knew this, for he had been the one that started them.
Dinner with the Duke was relatively mundane. He found himself disinvited from the main dining hall and had his supper with the other elves, where elves belonged: in the kitchen. It was a slight he was becoming painfully more and more familiar with. When one followed The Inquisitor, one became accustomed to standing in the shadows. If she were truly as uncomfortable with her position as she claimed, she never betrayed this. She carried herself with every pretense of royal blood, a statuesque vision in either armor or finery. How could he compare to the shining ivory tower that was their Inquisitor? No, it was best to bow and defer.
Don't forget your place, elf.
He excused himself before the game of Wicked Grace began, choosing a back hallway to return to his quarters, up a winding stair, into the darkened cavern of the upper floors.
"Solas." Her voice had this unnerving quality that felt as if she were shaking him by the spine. This is what it was like to hear your love speak your name, he thought. As if they were slowly undoing you from within.
"Did you tire of the party, Inquisitor?" he asked quietly, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Or simply the company?"
She was dressed in floor-length silver, a white snowfleur cape draped around her shoulders. Someone had combed out her hair with great delicacy, leaving thick waves spilling down her back. "I…" she trailed off, made a useless gesture with her hand, slumping suddenly against the railing, as if the weight of being her had become too much to bear. "Do you ever feel as if you'll never truly have a moment to yourself? Never be really alone again?"
"I am sorry," he responded, bowing stiffly. "I should leave you."
"No," she said a little too quickly. Something in her tone gave him pause. "No. Will you walk with me for awhile? There is a gallery. We could just walk."
He nodded once in acquiescence.
Later, with the lights extinguished and the hallways outside grown quiet, Solas lay awake in his bed, replaying the hour they'd spent wandering the abandoned gallery. Her laughter echoing inappropriately in the stately room. The moment where she'd paused, her hand finding his arm before she pointed out a particularly exquisite carved wood. The way her cheeks flushed before she pulled her hand away, the breathless moment where something passed between them, heavy, electric. It almost felt like anticipation. It was not the first time he had felt such a moment with her. There was an evening in the library, right after they had moved into Skyhold, that she passed too closely behind him. Startled, he turned and they ended up with their faces only inches apart. She looked up at him, let out a sudden puff of air that he felt against his lower lip. The reaction in his body was the same, the dizzy feeling of his circulatory system reversing itself, all of time standing still.
Solas turned to one side, fell into a restless sleep. He dreamed of the woods outside of Haven, in a time where they were still unspoiled by blood and fire. The snow fell lazily around him, soft and blanketing. And, as if the dream were a wish, she stood on the edge of the trees, still in that silvery dress.
"So much for time alone?" he quipped, finding himself by her side in that wonderfully instant way dreams had.
"Is this real?" she asked, looking up at the sky, blinking against the snowflakes that battered her eyelashes.
"Of course it's real," he said, shaking his head. "The question is which reality it is."
"Earlier…" she began, her voice faltering as she frowned. "That… I don't know what that was."
"You felt it too."
"Yes. I believe I did."
She reached up then, hesitantly, fingers cold against his cheek. Carefully, as if she would break him, she raised her lips and pressed them against his, sighing softly against his mouth before she withdrew. With a wordless apology, she turned from him and against all better judgment, he found himself grabbing her by the waist, pulling her back to him. He forced her lips apart roughly, his hand tangled in the hair at the back of her head, the other holding her hip in place. If they were to be damned for things done in dreams, he would make it such a fall.
They broke apart, her face turning to his shoulder, breath ragged.
"That was…" she breathed against his shirt.
"Yes," he said, his own voice rough in his throat. "And I think it best we both wake up."
His eyes opened, sunlight poured through the crack in the drapes.
The day was busy with preparations, and he didn't catch a glimpse of Evelyn through all the bustle. At five, a porter delivered a ridiculously formal army uniform for him. All red coat and blue sash and a ludicrous hat that made him look like an overdressed onion bulb when he donned it. For all the Inquisition's pomp and circumstance, their fashion did leave much to be desired. He hoped that he would at least be in good company, with the other strange assembly of companions wearing suitably clownish attire. With great relief, he saw the other male members of his party dressed similarly uncomfortably - although they seemed to have dodged the hat part. It made him wonder if his own hairlessness somehow offended the citizenry of Orlais.
Not that it would surprise him.
All of his snark disappeared when they met in the grand foyer, Inquisitor Trevelyan waiting to lead them. Her hair, usually a long and unruly affair, was carefully coiled on top of her head. A small crown of grape leaves flanked the coils, matching the gold leaf belt at her waist. The gown was pale blue, like the sea on an overcast day, delicately woven into vine and branch patterns that seemed to cover her as if she were the cause of their sprouting. The fabric gathered and clung in ways that defied the laws of nature, moving and shimmering with her more as an extension of her form than a cover. She would be the envy of all in attendance.
And the desire of many, he realized with a dry lump forming in this throat.
Her station had garnered her attention throughout her life, and the elevation to Inquisitor had expanded her reach farther still. Yet he could not deny that even without title or position, she would turn heads wherever she stepped. Inquisitor Trevelyan was a great beauty, and no amount of battle grime or blood or tarnished armor could disguise that. Seeing her so adorned was completely breathtaking. He feared he was not the only one who noticed. There were likely courtship candidates already clamoring throughout Ferelden, and now the suitable suitors of Orlais would join them. How long could he hope to vie for her attention when the world came calling? Men of status and stature far above his own. Men who would bring her love and happiness and not mar her good name with their mere presence.
He had already noticed Commander Cullen's long stares, the nervous way he rubbed the back of his neck when she entered a room. The vision of the Commander carrying her down that slope, her head resting on his shoulder, had haunted Solas every night since. That should have been me. The nagging thought that wouldn't abate. Cullen, with the broad shoulders and the perfect lion's mane of hair. Cullen, sitting by her side, worrying about her health. Eventually, she would realize that the Commander was a more appropriate choice to bestow her affections on. Cullen was the one who stood beside her now, in a place fitting. They did make an attractive couple - he in his military dress, she a vision in glimmering blue. Solas wondered idly if they would dance later this evening. If perhaps that would be the moment that she would see her adviser in a new light, a warmer light. The thought caused him to sneer slightly, eyes narrowed. Leliana handed the elf a cup of wine just then, looking at him with concern. He regained his composure. "I… do not care for social affairs," he offered as the party prepared to depart.
This, of course, was a most vicious lie. He could not deny the thrill approaching the palace gave him. The sight of the burning lamps, the sound of distant music, the polite conversation all around a dull roar. It was a life he had once known and sometimes missed terribly. The intrigue and the drama, the heady mix of sex and betrayal that filled such gatherings. It was intoxicating. Ahead of him, Cullen Rutherford leaned in and whispered something to the Inquisitor that made her laugh. Solas felt his jaw clench and hoped that he would be able to enjoy himself.
The ball was a standard affair of overblown formality. They were introduced individually as they entered the grand ballroom, his own title, "elven servant," filling him with both irritation and giddy delight. Solas pushed past the noblewomen gathered at the top of the stair, trying to get a better look at the Inquisitor and her entourage, and headed for the garden. He told himself that this would be a better place to eavesdrop, to gather information that might be of use, not wanting to admit that he simply didn't want to watch her be wooed. He plucked a goblet from a passing serving girl and settled into his new vantage point.
At least the food and wine was freely flowing, even if the party failed to entertain. And although he had listened, unnoticed, to many private conversations, all he had gleaned was idle gossip about who was wearing cheap imitation couture, which noblemen were bedding the servant girls, which noblemen were bedding the servant boys, and where someone named Lady DuFomphe had spent her summer (in Valeance, can you imagine?). Just as he was about to find the nearest fruit display, Inquisitor Trevelyan entered the side garden, stopping all conversation. She smiled demurely, made her way past the small groups of gathered guests, and placed both hands on the marble railing. Solas finished the cup in his hand quickly and moved to join her.
"This is exhausting," she sighed, turning to place her back against the rail, hands tucked prettily behind her. It was a coquettish pose he was unaccustomed to seeing from her. Sometimes it was easy to forget that she was a lady, but then again he generally saw her hacking the heads off beasts, or hauling her battered and bruised self back to her quarters. They had little time to observe one another in more polite settings.
"It is, but it is important to play. It is what they expect of you. You have to be everything, to everyone. It is all they want," he smiled slyly. "Not too high a demand."
"You almost sound as if you're enjoying yourself."
"I am," he straightened the hem of his jacket, reclining on the rail beside her. "Wandering the woods, alone, does not exactly compare to playing at intrigue over fine Antivan vintage."
"Well," she sighed, laughing slightly. "At least one of us is having a good time."
In the doorway, Josephine appeared, looking disapproving. She gestured to the Inquisitor to come back inside.
"It would seem I am being summoned."
"It would appear so. Do not look so worried. They generally will not eat the guest of honor alive until after the dancing has concluded."
"Oh? That is a comfort. Thank you, Solas."
She pushed off the rail, heading back inside. Then she paused, turned.
"Would you care to dance?"
Solas felt his mouth grow dry, forced his face to remain impassive. "I care for dancing a great deal, but I think you might need to find a more suitable partner. Being seen dancing with the 'elven servant' does not do you many favors in this crowd."
"I hate that they called you that."
"It is, more or less, my title. Preferable to 'apostate mage,' at any rate. Now go, before you fall from favor."
She hesitated again, as if wanting to say something more, then thought better of it and headed through the glass doors. The orchestra began to play, someone laughed in a high-pitched way, almost hysterically, somewhere a bird trilled, woken from its evening slumber by all the noise. Solas noticed all these things faintly, beneath the clamoring thunder of his own heart.
Later that night, they would meet again, in the same garden. She was a bit paler, the whole elaborate scheme clearly taking its toll. She stood beside him once again, silent. "I must say, Inquisitor, you do have a way of livening up a party," he quipped. She smiled slightly, still staring off into the distance.
"This place was Elvhen? This palace?"
"The place, yes. Not the palace. This was built later, on top of the ruins of Halamshiral." Solas raised his arm overhead, making a grand sweeping gesture. The towering white castle above crumbled like sand and faded away, leaving only the dark and the green. "Halamshiral was the capital, and it was something to behold," he spoke quietly, moving his hands in arcs and whorls. Beneath his fingertips, and ethereal framework began to take shape. Great silver and crystal spires rising overhead, stretching toward the heavens. They swirled like smoke, one moment clear and defined and the next fading away. "All was lost during the Exalted March." Solas fluttered his fingers, and the smoky cityscape fell to the ground at once. "The Dales forgot what once was, and the memory of the glory of Halamshiral was reduced to piles of brick and ash."
She shivered beside him. "This is a dream."
"It is. It was the only way I knew I could dance with you. Without ruining you completely," he extended a hand to her.
He woke with the smell of fresh lavender and vanilla all around him.
May the dread wolf never catch your scent.
It was a warning, yes. But not to her, not to his intended prey. It was a mercy. He was in love, and it was the type of love that could destroy. It was the scent of her hair clinging to him even now, the way she always smelled of the outdoors when she pushed her way into the hall upon a return, the feeling of her weight in his arms, even in a dream. May the dread wolf never catch your scent. Like Halamshiral before, all the walls of his heart would come crumbling down.