AUTHOR'S NOTE: Chronologically, this chapter and the next take place before everything else in this vignette series. They're set immediately after the end of chapter 27 of Roses Where Thorns Grow, "The Storm", (where Sera rides all night to deliver news to Solas). The timing is a bit weird, but purposeful, because of the need to establish certain events in a certain order, and with different POV characters.


"He's an hour late."

Varric glanced up from his papers, peering over a pair of gold-wire spectacles perched on the end of his nose. Dorian stood on the opposite side of the table, worrying at his shirtsleeves and biting his nails. He looked… not upset, per se, but preoccupied.

It was early – which was odd – he was rarely up and about at this hour. Breakfast hadn't even finished. The tables in the hall were still littered with uneaten pastries and dirty dishes. Varric was usually at his favourite spot well before the porridge came out, but nobody tended to bother him until long after it was gone. Least of all Dorian, whom he was fairly sure had never seen a sunrise unless he'd yet to bed.

He glanced up and down the hall for any sign of something interesting – an event he'd forgotten or an unexpected visitor – but saw nothing amiss. Just his fellow early risers enjoying a typical, quiet, morning.

To underline that point he reached for the half-eaten meal by his elbow – a plate of bread and jam – and took a slow, measured, bite. Watching Dorian all the while. But he didn't seem to catch on, so he followed it with a lazy, "Good morning."

"Have you noticed?" Dorian pressed.

The fingernail he'd been chewing snapped in his teeth. He cursed under his breath, gave it a good frown, then moved on to the next.

Since divination did not rank among his specialties, "You're going to have to give me a little more information, Sparkler," Varric urged. "Who are we talking about?"

But instead of clarifying Dorian turned away and began to pace back and forth in front of the table, continuing on as though he'd not heard the question at all. "It's just that he's usually very punctual. Especially lately. It's a point of pride. Every morning he's at his desk well before I arrive with everything all set out. Papers and books and shards and other things all arranged very carefully so that he can look busy. To be honest I think he puts more work into the appearance of productivity than any actual project."

That narrowed it down. Varric raised a brow. "Solas?"

Dorian paused. Scoffed. "Of course 'Solas'! Who else keeps that kind of schedule?"

"I just wasn't aware you'd memorised it, is all. I'd say he'd be touched but I think we both know that's not true."

There was another snap of one of his fingernails. Another curse. He hissed and shook his hand out. "I haven't memorised it," Dorian countered. A little defensively. "It's only that the pattern he normally keeps has suddenly changed. His workspace is in the middle of the rotunda. Anyone working in it would notice."

"Right," Varric replied, without agreeing. "Then, to answer your question: no, I hadn't noticed." He let his eyes drift back down to the pile of papers in front of him. Making a show of shuffling them about to sell how busy he was about to be.

He barely made it through two sentences worth of review before the next interruption.

"Do you think he's ill?"

It sounded genuine, and so the question gave him pause. He lowered the page. "Are you worried about him?"

At first it looked as though he might deny it – all but recoiling at the suggestion of care – but then something changed. The pretext dropped. Dorian let his shoulders down, and the exaggerated outrage settled into something more like reticent embarrassment.

Defeated, "He's been beside himself since she left. Tell me you've noticed that, at least?" he pleaded. "I've taken it upon myself to peer over the rail from time to time to make sure he hasn't withered and died in a corner of the room like some neglected houseplant. It's a wonder how he ever survived her leaving before! Though in fairness I suppose the situation is rather different now... But the point is he just sits there all day. Looking miserable while pretending to get things done. He doesn't talk to anyone. He doesn't go anywhere. He barely even eats."

"He barely ate before she left, too," Varric noted. Getting him to join a group for dinner was like pulling teeth. "Not a big meat and potatoes guy."

"That's not the same and you know it." Dorian manoeuvred around the table and slid in next to him, cocking his hip against the edge. The stack of papers wobbled threateningly and Varric put a hand on top to steady it. "Someone should go check on him."

"And you're welcome to do so. You know where he sleeps."

"I meant you," he clarified. "You should go check on him."

It was an unexpected turn. He laughed. "Why me?"

"Why not you? You're his friend. He trusts you!" It seemed important to convey that these were two separate points. "You go. Just… knock on his door and see if he's alright. Anyone else he'd just tell them to go away."

"So, let me see if I'm understanding this correctly…" Varric slid the papers to the other side of the table, took off his spectacles, folded them, and placed them carefully on top of the pile. It was clear he'd get no work done until this was dealt with. "Solas wasn't at his desk at the crack of dawn, you think he's unwell because he's not moping about the way he normally does, and you want me to go bother him about it rather than let him be alone to recover?"

"Yes!" Dorian answered. Then, on second thought, "No," he corrected. "It's important we know if he's unwell. We're checking on him because he could be."

"I thought I was checking on him?"

"You know what I mean."

Varric gave him a crooked grin. "You want me to bring him some bone broth and a cup of tea, too?"

He scoffed. "No, don't do that. He hates tea."

"It's sweet you guys have reached the point in your relationship where you learn all those little things about each other."

"The point is–" Dorian pressed, ignoring the quip. "–you have to actually see him. As in lay eyes on him. Pretend you're bringing him a book. Something from his desk. Or maybe say a message arrived for him. Wait, no, don't do that – he'll think it's about her." His eyes darted around the room, searching for inspiration, and settled on one of the papers still in Varric's hand. He snapped his fingers. "There's some scrolls that have been sitting on the corner of his desk for a week now, still sealed. Grab one of those. Tell him Leliana is looking for his reply. Make it sound important so he opens the door."

This sounded dangerously close to a plan.

"And I'm doing all of this instead of you because you think he won't answer the door for you?"

"In theory," Dorian replied. And before Varric could get any more out of him, "Now, are you going to do this or not?"

Moments later they stood on the stone walk outside Solas' door.

Or, more accurately, Varric stood outside the door. Dorian stood back slightly to the right of it to ensure he could not immediately be seen by someone on the other side.

When Varric did not immediately set to work on it he made a wide, sweeping, motion with an arm and whispered sharply, "Go on!". At his urging he stepped up and gave it three firm raps.

Ten seconds passed.

Then twenty.

The rooms on this side of the fortress were small, draughty, and not even remotely soundproof. If someone was up and moving around inside they'd be sure to hear it. Varric always assumed that was why Solas preferred to spend most of his nights in the Inquisitor's room, among other reasons.

After a full minute had passed without an answer he stepped up and knocked a second time. Even going so far as to call out, "You there, Chuckles?"

At his side Dorian waved for his attention. He was gesturing between him and the door and mouthing something with all the urgency of someone conveying life-saving instructions.

Catching on, Varric tacked on a quick, "Ah, Leliana was asking for you! She has something she needs you to get back to her on."

Another thirty seconds passed in unbroken silence before he deemed the attempt a lost cause. Shrugging as he turned away. "Looks like he's not ho–"

"Pick the lock," Dorian interrupted.

There was a beat of silence before, "What?" he exclaimed. In his surprise he started laughing. "Pick the... Are you serious? You want me to break into his room?"

"You have the means, don't you?"

Of course he had the means. There was a leather-wrapped set of picks and rakes in his vest pocket right now. He never went anywhere without it. Handy for getting out of trouble when trouble had a habit of throwing you and your friends in irons. He didn't spend ten years with Hawke and learn nothing about emergency preparedness.

"The question isn't whether or not I can do it, Sparkler, it's why you think this situation warrants my making the leap from friendly concern to breaking and entering."

"It's not like you're trespassing," he argued. Looking at Varric as if he were the one out of line. "He doesn't own the room. It's part of Skyhold. Really it belongs to the Inquisitor. And if it's locked that means he's in there and not answering. He might ignore my attempts to speak with him but if he's not answering you that could mean he can't answer! What if he's seriously ill?"

Varric gave him a look. "All the more reason to let him be. Leave some soup outside his door if you want." Then, belatedly, he picked up on a piece of the conversation he'd missed before and narrowed his eyes. "Wait… you were here already, weren't you? You only asked me because you wanted me to pick the lock from the beginning!"

Dorian didn't even try to look chagrined. "Well I couldn't very well do it myself, could I? I'm not at all adept with the tools. I tried. And he's clearly in there! Who locks the door to an empty room? What if he's unconscious? Or dead? She'd never forgive us if he was dead." Varrric tried to cut in, to stop this from spiralling any further into absurdity than it already had, but Dorian pushed on with no regard for common sense. He pointed a finger at his chest. "When word finally comes you'll have to tell her you stood outside his door hemming and hawing over the ethics of breaking and entering while the father of her child lay on the floor dying of something perfectly treatable. If only help had gotten to him sooner."

An impressive amount of thought had gone into this scenario. And not all of it just for the drama.

"This actually has you worried, doesn't it?"

It was almost sweet.

"Just open the fucking door!"

He laughed, but good-naturedly now, and raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright! Twist my arm, why don't you." A few harsh words over a rude awakening wasn't so bad in exchange for putting Dorian's mind at ease. It was more about her than Solas, he knew, and the ask was no skin off his back. Lockpicking had turned out to be quite a high-value trade out in the middle of the Frostbacks – this wasn't even the first time he'd been called upon to use his skills this week. Though typically the request was in regard to some rusted-out old chest rather than a wellness check.

Tools in hand, and with Dorian hanging uncomfortably close over his shoulder, Varric bent before the door plate and went to work. It wasn't much of a challenge: the locks on these rooms were a late addition to the fortress' design and were not complicated. The bolt could be easily slid out of place with the right approach, and it took no more than thirty seconds to crack.

As it happened he didn't even make it ten.

There was a distant rustling sound. Quiet enough that he wasn't sure if he'd actually heard it or it was just the wind. He paused his work.

Dorian frowned. "Why've you–?"

Varric shushed him with a raised hand and then pressed his ear to the door. Sure enough, something was stirring beyond it. There was the sound of blankets moving around. A sigh. Bare feet hitting the stone floor.

Steps moving toward him.

"Shit." he scrambled backward, quickly tucking his tools back into his shirt pocket. In his haste he tripped over a cracked cobblestone and fell into Dorian. Who, having been standing so close, was able to catch and right him before he hit the floor, but it tangled their feet together in the process.

The two were still struggling to extricate themselves from each other when, "Hang on," came a voice.

A woman's voice.

There were many perfectly logical and innocent explanations for that, of course. Several of which occurred to them over the very, very long few seconds it took for the individual to approach and unbolt the door. But even the wildest guess couldn't prepare them for what they actually met when it swung open.

There, standing in the door frame, was Sera.

Looking an absolute mess.

Filthy as sin and wearing nothing but a mud-stained chemise torn to ribbons. She was covered in little cuts and reddened patches of raw, chapped, skin like she'd gone and crawled to Skyhold on her hands and knees. What modesty she'd preserved was granted not by meagre clothing but half a dozen pieces of parchment that were stuck to her legs and backside. The ink smears on her skin suggesting she'd slept on a pile of them all night.

The fact that she was here at all was a surprise given that they'd both watched her leave the fortress with the Inquisitor a month ago. She was not due back for another few weeks, at least. There'd been no word of the mission changing, and no party made up to relieve the one she was a part of. Additionally, if the group had returned early he would've known by now. Gossip travelled faster than horses in this keep. Even secret gossip.

Sera blinked bleary, heavy eyes and ran a hand through her mop of choppy hair that pointed in every direction but down. Drawling a laboured, "Whussit?" as greeting.

For a long, very awkward moment nobody said anything.

Then Varric's eyes slid to Dorian and, "Alright," he began. Slowly, and with meaning. "I'll admit this wasn't what I was expecting."

Sera gingerly plucked a piece of parchment off her left buttcheek.

"I'd say we were at the wrong door but that's definitely Solas' work," Dorian remarked of the sketch as it floated to the floor. Then the moment finally caught up with him and he gave himself a shake. There were much more pertinent questions. "Wait, what are you doing back? Where is Solas? Why are you in his room? And where are your pants?"

"Gone," she replied, yawning. When she stretched it lifted the edge of the chemise a little too high off her hip and Dorian shook his head in disbelief as he politely looked away.

"Your pants?" Varric asked.

"No, Solas." She pointed a thumb over one shoulder to a pile of things in the corner of the room, none of which were immediately identifiable. "Pants were too shit to keep wearing. Got ruined on the way. Plus I haven't bathed in over a week."

"I can tell," remarked Varric, at the same time Dorian stammered, "Gone where?"

But she'd already moved on to something else. Turning, she glanced behind her at the bed piled with a mess of papers and muddy sheets, and frowned at it. "Did I really sleep here all night?"

"You tell us!"

She was rubbing some dried dirt off her cheek, considering the question, when something snapped her from the sleepy daze to sharp attention. "Oh!" she exclaimed. More to herself than to either of her visitors. Chapped lips curled into a wide, toothy, grin. "Widdle!"

Dorian blinked. Opened his mouth, and began to ask a pointed, "Pardon?" but never finished. She'd already turned away before he could get the word out. Leaving the two men standing at the door exchanging bewildered looks while she began frantically rummaging through the room. Picking through the piles on the floor one by one until she managed to find some sort of sheet large enough to wrap around herself. She tied it at her hip. Looked up at them and smiled happily. "I gotta go!"

Varric started laughing, as amused as utterly lost; this detour turned out to be much more interesting than he'd expected. He touched a hand to her arm when she was near enough and, "Okay wait," he said. "Now I'm invested – what's actually happening here?"

"No time!" she answered, batting him away. "Already late!"

She slipped around them with the practised ease of someone who'd spent years honing their evasive technique. No waved hand or pressing question could find purchase. In seconds she was already well beyond the reach of either, bounding off half-dressed toward the Herald's Rest. Presumably for a pair of clean pants, but there was no way to know for sure.

Varric watched her disappear around the corner, down the stairs, and into the yard. Sheet flapping in the wind behind her. "Huh," he said. Then, to Dorian. "That was certainly… something. Any ideas?"

The mage stood another ten seconds in breathless silence, watching the space she'd last occupied, before he too suddenly snapped to attention. Drawing back as if struck. "Oh!" he exclaimed. Then turned, eyes wide, and grabbed Varric by the shoulders. Shook him a little. "Oh!"

"Yeah?" Varric prompted.

"Oh!" he said again, and clapped his hands together. He looked absolutely delighted now. "I need to find Cole!"

Then Varric was watching him leave, too.

Most of the time he was fairly quick on the uptake. Cleverness was something Varric prided himself on. But all the interesting twists of this morning had thrown him off his game – it took another minute of standing around outside the open door before it finally clicked into place.

Once it did, "Oh!" he exclaimed aloud. Delighted, just as Dorian had been. And then he was laughing.

The work on the new chapter would have to wait; something more important just came up.

He had to plan a birthday party.