The watchtower horn stood on the easternmost rampart, used to signal arrivals of dignitaries (two low long blasts), shipments (three short blasts), friendly forces (three sustained blasts), opposing forces (two short blasts), and their leader (one sustained blast). Whenever it sounded, Solas found himself freezing in place. If the noise lingered, the gooseflesh appeared on his arms unbidden, the electric prickle of static on the back of his neck. When only silence followed its call, he found himself gravitating toward the nearest exit, singularly drawn to the courtyard. He had to catch the first glimpse of her arrival. It was silly superstition, the fear that his failure to appear at the moment she dismounted would somehow lead her to believe he was not worthy of her affections. That he had to remind her of his existence, lest her measured gaze fall on another.
Today the signal came as he was seated deep within Skyhold, his legs folded beneath him as he sat in an overstuffed armchair, lost in another history book. For centuries he had ignored the story of the Fereldan nobles, finding it droll and inconsequential to his own pursuits. Yet this was the bloodline that had produced that which he now held most dear. He devoured each story, each line of reign, each battle and glory; for every victory that led to a life lived, a life shared with another, a life born anew led to the life of Evelyn Trevelyan. The odd assortment of random chance and fate that had culminated in her perfect being was a story he could no longer dismiss. It was the only story that mattered. At the moment of the signaling, he was halfway through the legacy of Vailance Trevelyan, one of her great-great-great uncles who built the waterways that irrigated the farmlands of Fereldan's rocky (and previously thought to be barren) coastline. He was an impressive figure, producing nine sons and seven daughters before felled by a cave-in on one of his excavations. Vailance was a man of the people, one who relished being alongside his working men, seeing the rock hewn from the walls. The etching drew Solas' eye, searching the man's features for some hint of hers, wanting to know where the strong brow originated, if her father's line gave her that perfect aquiline bridge of her nose, the slightly protruding lower lip, her perfect jaw. His finger traced over the page before turning, pausing as he heard the horn sound.
The call lingered in the air, fading slowly before becoming nothing more than a faint ringing in his ears, heart catching in his ribcage. The silence that followed brought him to his feet, the book forgotten, tumbling to the floor and disturbing the dust that settled no matter how many times she ordered the room cleaned.
The hall had already emptied, most everyone crowding to the front entrance to watch the return of The Inquisitor. Solas silently slipped through the door to his study, seeking the exit through the adjacent alcove. Cullen was the first to her, his greaved hand catching her mount's reigns, steading the beast as she slipped off one side. Her helmet removed, mass of hair spilling out, wild in the wind. She smiled slightly at the Commander, a friendly and empty expression that nevertheless set Solas' elf blood aflame. Jealousy of the former templar, his broad shoulders and effortless charm, ran deep; an unpleasant crack in the deeper recesses of his self that he could not close, no matter how hard he might try. She bent her head as she removed her pack, tossing it to one of the stablehands who crowded 'round her horse. With measured grace she nodded to each of her advisers as they hurriedly spoke in turn, teeth worrying her lower lip as she stole a glance to where Solas stood on the upper stair.
Their eyes met and a moment of infinity passed between them, the slow lazy warmth spreading through his limbs as her slow blink acknowledged the question in his own eyes. It would be hours before the duties of the day were settled, the maps marked, the plans set in motion for the dawn. There would be a run-down of the things she missed, the updates which needed her full attentions, the decisions she would make. She would dutifully disrobe and assume the garb most suited to her position and rank, hair perfectly coiled atop her head to keep it from her face as she bent over the war table, studying each movement of her forces. And through it all, he would wait, wiling away the hours as he attempted to busy his mind, keep his thoughts clear of her.
It would not work.
They would dine apart, separated by both their status and the numerous attendees jockeying for her notice. She would make her rounds to check on the stores and the riders for tomorrow. She would say goodnight to her advisers, making a great show of returning to her quarters. It would be an hour and a half after that, when the hall emptied and the lights extinguished, before he could safely make his own way upstairs.
Then she could be his, wild and unfettered in his arms. Dawn always came much too swiftly.