He hadn't slept.

It wasn't the noise of the party, nor the near-constant interruption of someone attempting to come through either the door leading into the great hall or the door leading out onto the main courtyard. This was a sleeplessness borne of frustration and misplaced anger, giving way to ridiculous thoughts like it should have been me.

As if the Trevelyan patriarch would have thrown such a lavish affair for his daughter's union with an elf, suspected apostate or otherwise.

He channeled his roiling temper into the unfinished wall space, haphazardly slapping another layer of plaster onto the frame and scraping at it irritatedly with his trowel. It took the better part of two hours to create a fresh new blank canvas, Solas stepping back at the end to gaze critically at the space. It would take a full day to dry, plenty of time to decide on the motif.

So he began to sketch, his hand flying over the paper as he added tiny details to the scene, frowning deeply at each new pencil line as if the scene offended him.

It did.

The darkness had begun to fade, sending dirty grey streams of light through the windows of the floor above. In the hall, the party had died down and people were beginning to mill about in the courtyard. Most would depart this morning, with a few stragglers staying in the guest wing. He wondered if he would be able to perhaps reclaim his room later in the day. He was beginning to feel the weight of his exhaustion, and to draw the curtains close and collapse into a soft bed would be welcome. It was unlikely anyone would miss him.

Which is why the soft click of the door opening surprised him so. He could tell Evelyn was tired in the way she carried herself, and the bleary look in her eyes. She still wore her gown from the night before, and he could see evidence of a small wine-colored stain on her sleeve. The party had clearly been a rollicking success.

"Can I help you, Inquisitor?"

"No," she shook her head. "Well, yes. Perhaps. I need to tell you something."

He said nothing in response. Evelyn opened her mouth to speak, her eyes darting about the room, looking everywhere but at him. Then, she froze.

"You've covered the last panel."

Solas followed her stare. "I thought I would finish it properly."

"Corypheus wasn't a proper finish?"

"I planned to add your wedding."

Her mouth snapped shut, lips pursed, and she nodded. "I see. Can I-?" He stepped aside as she approached the table, staring at the rough sketches laid atop it. "You've made him shorter than I am. He's not."

"An oversight. I will fix it before I commit it to the walls."

"I think I would have preferred the Corypheus scene to this."

He felt his heart thud dully against his ribs. "I am not sure I understand why."

Her gaze then was sharp. "Don't you?"

"No," the word came out barely a whisper. "Tell me."

She glanced back down at the drawings. "I was never a dutiful daughter. I cannot understand why they thought they could turn me into a dutiful wife." Evelyn pushed back from the table, noticing the wine stain on her sleeve for perhaps the first time. She covered it with her hand as if it were something shameful. "I should go."

"You said you had something to tell me?"

"Later," she sighed. "I shouldn't have come here. I've had far too much to drink and far too little sleep. And besides, my guests..." she trailed off, lost in thought for a moment. With a weary shake of her head, Evelyn strode across the room swiftly, then paused. "You will still be here?" she asked cautiously. "You won't leave me with another half-finished wall and a bucket of questions?"

"I promise."

She snorted, an undignified noise. "For all that's worth."

"I suppose I have earned that."

"I suppose you have," she stared at him, and her expression was not unkind. "Until later, then."

"Until later."

The noise in the hall faded to the sound of dry sweeping, the fortress again cast in its eerie pre-dawn calm. Solas was no longer interested in sleep, finding the puzzling exchange he'd just shared with Evelyn too persistent to let pass by unanalyzed. The drawings had been shoved aside so that he could rest his hands on the solid wood, turning over each word she had spoken as if he could divine deeper meaning from the inflection alone. There was the hesitant sound of shuffling footsteps, then the door behind him creaked open. Evelyn. He couldn't imagine who else would be stalking the halls at this early hour. She had always had trouble sleeping, rising long before he did to stand and gaze out at the horizon. It was often his first vision upon opening his eyes, her hair and shoulders silhouetted against the dawn. However those days were gone and now he woke to a cave, an open field, a patched ceiling, sometimes a single spider. He rose slowly, attempting to quell the nervous churning of his stomach, and turned to face whatever it was she had come to tell him.

It wasn't The Inquisitor who had entered, but rather a thin boy. Edge of manhood, still quite young, tasked with a man's work. He wore the garb of a simple messenger, but his stance betrayed him. Flash of silver in his vest, eyes twitching from the elf's face to his hands. Solas reached his hand forward before the boy could move, the electric spark of blue from his fingers arcing as the youth lunged at him. He had meant only to wound, not mortally, but the boy was eager and quick and came into full contact with the mage's fingers before the power could release and dissipate. He fell into Solas like a stone, knocking the wind out of the elf as they tumbled, his last breath wasted on an inept cry of pain and fear. Oh, how Solas wished he hadn't done that. Even now he could hear the boots on the stairs, likely the Nightingale and her companions, running to the rescue far too late.

The look on Leliana's face told him that he would have to explain himself. He rose into a sitting position, which he found strangely difficult, opened his mouth to speak as she set her mouth in a firm line and dropped to her knees. "It's too late," he tried to say, but the words lost themselves somewhere in his chest, unable to come out. He couldn't produce the air, somehow. Couldn't take enough in his lungs to expel simple words. Maybe the would-be assassin had hit him harder than he thought, a bony shoulder jabbing in just the right way. There would be a bruise. Leliana was saying something but her voice sounded far away, echoey. His ears were not working properly, much like his lungs. He opened his mouth and produced a sickening gasping sound, then a cough bubbled in his chest, painful and searing hot. Leliana's hands came away arterial red. Solas looked down.

The hilt stood at an odd angle from his stomach, right beneath his ribcage. Silver, ivory, carved intricately with a crest surrounded by roses. Vael. Such knives were common gifts among the nobility. The perfect way to thank someone for an act of generosity, or perhaps to celebrate an engagement.

Of course. The flowers. The same man had sent him a gift, a celebration of betrothal. A message.

Solas would have laughed, had he the breath. "

Stop fighting, you have to lie back, let me see."

He wasn't aware he was fighting. How could you fight when everything was so heavy, so exhausting? His hands were roughly shoved away, a man he had known only as Carter was holding one of his arms down. Solas stared at the imprisoned hand blankly, his mouth open. Why was everything so damned cold? It was like being underwater, the whole world gone hazy and slow, filtered light.

"Give me your damned hand. I need you to press here while I remove it."

Please do not remove it. It is mine. He gave it to me. Pain like hot iron and the breath filled into his lungs. He expelled it in a red mist, driving Carter back in horror. Leliana did not flinch. She was good like that. Stalwart. A battleship in a sea of softer things.

"Don't just stare at me. Fetch the surgeon. We can't move him. Not like this. And bar the door, the last thing I need is some hysterical Orlesian woman fainting in the passage."

Snowflakes swirling overhead, catching in her firebrand hair. Her fingers grasping at his coat. She presses against him, warm and his. Unequivocally his. Mine. Somewhere, birds were singing and the world washed green and blue. Then black.