Warren was saying something, leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. She reclined in response, arms crossed across her chest, attempting to rearrange her face into a facade of seriousness. "I said," Warren waggled his eyebrows dramatically. "I didn't think you'd be one for the older types."

"He's not an older type."

"Evelyn," he wheeze-laughed. "The man is completely bald. How old is he, anyway?"

Evelyn frowned.

"Oh my heavens," Warren set his cup on the table heavily. "You don't know?"

"It hasn't exactly come up."

"Not once? Not when talking about your childhoods, or your family? Never once did you bother to ask, 'say, how long ago was that childhood?'"

"We don't talk much about his childhood."

Warren frowned. "But he knows about yours?"

She shifted. "Somewhat."

"Somewhat? The fuck does 'somewhat' mean? Evelyn," he stretched his arm across the table to clamp a hand on her forearm, drawing her closer. "How well do you know this person?"

Evelyn quickly finished her goblet. It was a question she'd begun to ask herself, late at night. Lying beside Solas in the dark, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest and wondering who he was before her, before any of this. He seemed eager for any story she would tell of her own childhood, but vague and quiet when asked of his own. He was from the north. He didn't have a clan. He was largely self-taught and often alone. She glanced up at her brother, who was starting to give her that famous concerned stare when a tray plunked down between them.

"Compliments of the crew," the dwarf winked, hooking a thumb back at a table where three men sat. One stared over with particular interest.

"Come now, Evelyn," Warren grinned broadly, their conversation instantly forgotten. He raised one of the glasses to his lips. "We don't want to appear rude."

Another round appeared almost as if by magic. The bard struck up a tune, something lively that made those in the bar area stand in their seats. Someone was patting her on the back, another tankard filled before her. Warren was shouting something across the room. Laughter rang out in response. Another song. Another round. Warren rising from the table and whispering something to her as he passed. Another round.

What time is it?

There was something she needed to do, but it was slipping away. Evelyn settled back into her chair, trying to remember where and what the urgent appointment entailed. The room around her was a noisy swarm, singing somewhere in the near distance, laughing, sounds of an argument rapidly growing heated. She turned her head, blinking slowly, and saw Warren was leaning in to whisper in a young man's ear, his smile too broad, his hand resting on the other man's lower back. It was one of the mercenaries they'd picked up in Crestwood. Or was it some other -wood? It was all blending together as time pressed on. She half-laughed, half-hiccupped. Warren was clearly drunk. In her peripheral vision, there was a little flutter of activity. She turned again, shifting forward to lean heavily against the table. Sera stood off to her left, a slow-spreading grin of evil delight overtaking the lower half of her face as she excitedly waved her hands. That was when Evelyn realized.

Fuck. I'm drunk.

She attempted to stand and found the ground beneath her was now the deck of a ship in a treacherous storm. Evelyn's head swiveled as she leaned against the table. Warren's seat was now vacant, as was the mercenary's. Typical. It was the Bann Sturvant's second wedding all over again. Warren had left her inebriated and trapped in the world's most boring conversation on the merits of local hunting grounds while he'd stolen away with the Bann's horsemaster. He'd emerged early the next morning, straw still clinging to his shirtsleeves, completely mystified by her sour demeanor. She'd not spoken to him for two full days after, until he managed to worm his way back into her graces with an overwrought apology and a fair bit of gossip he'd learned from said horsemaster. It had always been the way with them: her the sturdy, reliable sibling and him the complete disaster.

He was a fun disaster, though. She did have to give him that much.

There was a woman at her side then, one of the scouts, a redhead, Marnie? The woman took Evelyn by the elbow and led her toward the door. "It's all fine, your grace. Just a bit too much sunshine yesterday, and I do believe the fish was bad. I'd heard two others say it gave them terrible spins."

That wasn't right. She hadn't had any fish. Had she?

The sunlight outside momentarily whited out her vision before her eyes adjusted. Another woman at her other side, a hushed conversation. "The Inquisitor is not feeling well."

"I'm not sick," she tried to say in response, her voice sounding thick and slurred.

"We'll just get you inside. You can rest up there."

At the top of the stairs, Evelyn wrested her arms free. "I'm not sick," she insisted, the two women stepping back a bit in response. "I just..." she staggered backward through the door. "I just need a moment."

Solas glanced back over his shoulder as she shoved her way through his doorway. "Is your brother staying for awhile, then?"

"Warren," Evelyn said, drawing out the "ahr" sound. "Is making himself quite comfortable." She slumped against the couch arm.

"Are you drunk?"

"Yes!" she lifted her hands up. "Thank you! I am very drunk! They kept saying I was ill or that I'd had too much sun."

"Who kept saying?"

"The... people. In the bar."

"Ah," Solas stood, taking one of her outstretched hands in his own. "I think they were perhaps trying to protect your... reputation." He guided her onto the cushion of the sofa, pausing to relocate several stacks of books and scribblings to the floor.

Evelyn made a very unladylike snort in response. "My fucking reputation. Don't say the wrong things. Play the game. Don't drink too much. Be the right person. Don't blaspheme. Don't sleep with the elf. Marry at your station." She fell onto her side.

Solas tugged one of her boots off. "All things to worry about later." He pulled at the other boot. "You should have some rest now."

"Ugh. Rest," she grumbled, but her eyes were already blinking heavily. Solas laid a blanket on top of her.

"Yes. Rest."

"Solas?"

"Mmm-hmmm?"

"How old are you?"

"The honest truth?"

"... yes?"

"I'm not quite sure. By the time I was old enough to understand a concept such as age, there was no one around to confirm exactly how long I had been alive."

"And that was in the north? In your village?"

"Yes. There and beyond." He sat in his chair, watching as she tucked a hand under her head.

"Was it sad? Is that why you don't talk about it?"

"It was, at times. It was always quite happy at times. Lie back down."

"But you didn't have a family."

He shook his head, "Not like yours. But we make our own families sometimes."

"You're lucky," she sighed, tongue heavy and unwieldy. "No one told you who to be. Who you could love. Told you who to marry."

"They tried."

She laughed, another hiccup.

"Just relax."

She nodded. "Solas?"

"Mmmm-hmm?"

"I would say yes... if you asked me."

He turned away quickly, feeling the first prick of tears. "Try to sleep, vhenan."