Care to guess how many hours I spent reading about baroque dance and looking for examples on YouTube? I believe it came out to about six hours over the course of several days. Which obviously doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of the subject, but, hey, I got a little vocabulary and watched a lot of people dancing.

Translations, bottom, as usual. Sorry this chapter is so long, it just came out that way.

Dance

"What crawled up your arse and started poking your innards?" Sera asks as we lower the buckets into the spring. Keeper Hawen has assured us this one remains untainted by the rising dead, but everything in this Creators-forsaken land stinks of death to me.

"You do seem...a touch excitable," Cassandra adds from my other side.

"Is it truly my imagination?" I ask, feeling my lip curl. "Everything here smells like rotting corpses."

"I actually find this woodland area rather pleasant," Cassandra says, lifting her face to the breeze.

"Yep, it's for sure all in your head," Sera agrees. "But from what Blackwall says, you lot have been burning a lot of dead people. Smoke probably gets in your clothes. Hair. Places." She wrinkles her nose and steps away from me. "Maybe you need a bath."

I can't imagine any of the water here getting me clean. "There's nowhere secluded enough for a bath," I point out, pulling up my bucket.

"All us girls could go together, yeah? Look out for each other?" The twinkle in her eye suggests that by "look out," she actually means "look at."

"I'll...pass," I tell her.

"Me, as well," Cassandra adds, evidently thinking the same thing about Sera's expression that I am. We turn, hefting our burdens, and begin the fairly short walk back to camp. There are no obvious dead bodies on the trail, but I am certain some of the tree roots are a little too smooth and pale to belong to trees.

"No fun," Sera accuses, sticking her tongue out at us.

"Aren't you sweet on Dagna?" I ask her.

"Don't mean I can't enjoy the scenery, does it?" she retorts.

"I am not scenery," Cassandra says, leveling a glare at her.

"Maybe you are, maybe you aren't - haven't had a good look," Sera tells her with a glance that can only be described as saucy. "The Inquisitor there, though - " she makes an appreciative sound. "And that's even with being an elf!"

"Maker," Cassandra mutters, walking faster.

"Wouldn't mind a look at Vivvy, if she would ever bring herself down to bathing in a river," Sera goes on, and now I'm fairly certain it's just to annoy Cassandra. "Wonder if she keeps her you-know cropped as short as the stuff on her head?"

It works. "I am not hearing this," Cassandra says from in front of us.

I fall back a little, and Sera doesn't notice, now intent on getting reactions from the Seeker. That's fine with me - usually Sera amuses as much as scandalizes me, but my heart just isn't in it today. I swear I can smell something foul on this path. I pause, trying to get a direction on the source.

A dry branch snaps, followed by the soft but unmistakable sound of leaves under a foot - a bare foot if I am any judge, and I am. I drop my bucket with a clatter and a splash of water, and ready an arrow.

Then Solas emerges from behind a swell of ground, his expression mildly concerned. "Ea son?" he asks, "I heard - " Then he takes in my posture as the tension leaves me and my bow sags.

"What are you doing?" I ask, my tone sharp with relief.

"Seeking some rare herbs our people used to plant near places of rest," he explains. "I have found quite a collection. Ma delathe - I didn't intend to startle you."

I sigh, replace the readied arrow in my quiver and my bow in its strap across my back, and then walk forward until I simply run into him. "I hate this place," I mumble into his shoulder as his arms wrap around me reflexively. "I have no doubt you will also think I'm imagining things when I tell you the entire region stinks of death."

He rubs my neck in a soothing gesture for a moment. "It does stink of death," he says at length, "though not in the literal sense. I suspect you are, to a degree, sensing disturbances in the Veil here as a mage would, but without a mage's senses. You therefore interpret them as other things more familiar - smells, sights, perhaps sounds."

I close my eyes and press my face into his shoulder. How does he smell so clean? Woodsmoke, yes - but soap beneath that. Fresh herbs. Him. No sweat, no dust - no decay. "Can I make it stop?"

"I fear not," he tells me, voice sympathetic. "As you close rifts and dispose of demons, your discomfort may ease, though I cannot promise it. This place has seen so much death, the Veil threatens to disappear entirely."

"Well, don't give me all the good news at once," I mutter. "Do you know how hard it is to eat when everything smells of rotting flesh?"

Solas puts his hands on my shoulders, forcing me far enough back that he can look at me. "You aren't sleeping, either," he observes.

"Not well," I allow, not telling him about the hours I spend lying awake in my bedroll at night, certain I can hear the shuffling of undead feet just outside camp.

He looks away, his fingers stroking my shoulders as he thinks. "I will speak with Dorian and Vivienne. Perhaps together we may come up with wards for the camp, at least. Something to allow you a respite. And perhaps tonight," his gaze takes a swift inventory of my face, "perhaps you might join me in the Fade? I can find something more pleasant than your current dreams."

"You - I won't - it won't bother you, if I'm there?" I ask. He hasn't offered since that single night at Skyhold, which was more than a month ago - closer to two, now. I know how he treasures his time in the Fade, and I don't wish to intrude.

"No, arasha. Never. Would that I could show you...everything." His fingers find their way to my jaw, and he caresses my face, his gaze falling to my lips before he seemingly remembers himself and removes his hands entirely. "Do you want me to come with you, while you replace your bucket of water?"

"No, that's - " I begin, feeling suddenly, foolishly, like a frightened child. "Only if you particularly want to go. I don't need help." I am, in fact, surprised Sera and Cassandra haven't noticed my absence - and then I realize they have, and one of them likely came looking for me already, but stole away when she saw me with Solas. I consider embarrassment, but - Sera and Cassandra are my friends. Were it politically expedient, I would happily announce my attachment to Solas to the entire world. I like the idea that I at least need not hide it from my friends.

"I particularly want to go," he assures me.

He waits while I retrieve my bucket, and then walks beside me as I return the spring. We don't speak as I lower and fill it, but as we return down the path he says, "Do you have any preference? For tonight?"

I glance around. "Not really. Only - something utterly unlike what we usually do. No adventures. No monsters. No death."

"Then I shall endeavor to surprise you. Pleasantly."

I chuckle at his codicil, and then we fall silent again, and say nothing else before we arrive at camp.

Everyone pointedly pretends not to notice how late I am with my bucket of water, or that I arrived back with Solas. I find myself wishing we had been doing what they undoubtedly assume we were doing, rather than discussing the appalling stench of this place. Solas, I note as I hand off my bucket to Harding, immediately pulls Dorian aside, and a few minutes later Dorian asks if Vivienne will kindly be as free with her opinion as she usually is, and consult with them. They are trying to ward the camp and make me more comfortable, but dinner smells more like someone stewing unwashed entrails than like a real meal, and I find I haven't the energy to be grateful for a mere effort.

I manage to eat a few bites, and then pretend to eat a few more, before giving up entirely - Solas, Dorian, and Vivienne are all watching me now in any case, and the pretense doesn't fool them. Vivienne disappears for a moment, and then comes back, approaching me and seating herself next to me. "Perhaps something without meat, my dear," she suggests, holding out a pouch. "Something that cannot ever really go bad - not so bad it will make you dangerously ill."

I open the pouch and find candied nuts inside, and she is right - though the nuts taste a little off, perhaps slightly rancid, it's no worse than mildly unpleasant. "Nuvas ema ir'enastela - thank you so much," I tell her, my voice fervent.

"We will come up with something," she promises me. "Even if 'something' means sending someone to buy up every sweet in Val Royeaux. You could stand to acquire a few more curves, anyway," she muses. "Someday we will have the funds to take you to a proper couturiere, darling, but for the moment you should know that gowns never do look as they ought if they must be taken in or let out too much - and unfortunately the seamstresses of Orlais don't think of elves when they plan their designs."

I duck my head to hide a smile. "I'll keep it in mind."

"No, no, you have far too much to worry about," Vivienne replies, patting my hand. "We can both mention it to Josephine when we return to Skyhold, and let her worry about finding someone suitable to outfit you for court, and perhaps making your meals a little richer in the meantime."

The pouch is empty now, and I give it back to her. She gives me another pat and stands up, gliding her way back to her tent. I find, now that my stomach is relatively full for the first time in several days, that I am exhausted. It isn't long before I find my tent and curl up in my bedroll, wondering if Solas has thought of anything for us to do.

"You did ask for something different," Solas comments as I reach up to touch my elaborately coiled hair for the third time. His voice holds a touch of amusement, but I can tell he is concerned I don't like his surprise so far.

I let my laugh reassure him. "I'm only wondering how dream-hair can feel so heavy," I explain. "Where exactly are we?"

Ahead of me is a fortress or a small castle, lit up with thousands of candles and torches, hung with banners, with garlands of flowers adorning every surface. Overhead, fireworks occasionally boom, casting sudden light over everything, and delineating objects in oddly-colored shadows.

"You don't recognize it?" Solas asks, and I can't tell whether it's an honest question or a sly jab.

"There is something familiar…" I begin. "Wait," I tell him, putting my hand on his arm. When I turn, I can see down to the river and bridge, and across to the prosperous little town on the other side. I never learned its name - it doesn't matter, because in the waking world it has been destroyed. "This is the fortress where Celene's forces were dug in."

"Citadelle du Corbeau," Solas provides. "It looks different in this age."

"And without hordes of undead rising from every bare patch of ground," I add dryly. "All right, if that's where - when are we?"

"I confess, I am not entirely certain," he answers, taking my hand and tucking it beneath his arm as we turn back toward the Citadelle. "Sometime in the Steel Age, I believe. Tonight's banquet is for the benefit of Empress Merise's two daughters, returning to Val Royeaux after a summer spent in the countryside. The elder returns to be married, and so every noble between Chateau Lancres and Val Royeaux means to fête them in honor of her coming marriage."

"And no one will notice two elves among the guests?" I ask, amused.

"The spirits enjoy this scene," Solas explains. "So long as we do not attempt to break it, they will be happy to have us participate."

As we enter the edge of the light bursting from the Citadelle, Solas pauses and I take stock of our clothing. I am wearing a velvet gown in some dark color I can't yet make out, laced over a kirtle made of heavy samite dyed orange or red - and if that isn't enough, the samite is woven with gold thread that glitters even in the still-dim torchlight. Solas wears a velvet doublet with full, quilted sleeves - perhaps black, though it might be another dark color - under a leather jerkin dyed bright blue and covered in gold and silver embroidery. On top of that, he has a sleeveless overgown lined with fur - possibly wolf fur. He turns away from me for a moment, and I feel something shift - and when he turns toward me again he is holding two masks - simple blue-and-black dominoes without house crests or other ornamentation.

"It is Orlais," he tells me with a shrug.

I accept one and tie it on, minding my elaborate hairstyle, even though I'm not certain I could dislodge styled dream-hair. "What does one do at a banquet in the Fade?" I ask him, taking his arm again. "Can we eat?"

"You can," he says as we pass through the gates, past two guards carrying spears wrapped with flower garlands, "but spirits understand the idea of flavor only indistinctly, and only when it makes a particular impression on those they observe, so most of the food is likely to be uninspiring. I thought we might dance. You seemed eager at Halamshiral, and then there was only time for the one dance at the end of the evening."

"Not even in the ballroom," I agree, looking around the courtyard. It is much improved by the absence of undead, even before the decorations are taken into account. Music and laughter reach us dimly from within the structure.

"The politics were..." Solas shrugs. "I promised Josephine I would be discreet."

I stop walking and look at him. "Josephine asked you to be discreet?" I demand, outrage boiling under the surface of the question.

He laughs. "No, I offered the reassurance unprompted, when she asked how I ought to be introduced to the court."

"You asked to be introduced as my serving man?" I clarify. "I was furious with her for that."

"I told her tell the truth," he answers. "Do we not all serve you in some capacity?"

"We all serve the Inquisition," I retort.

"Which means serving you for as long as you remain at its head, does it not?" he replies mildly. "Come," he says, tugging me toward the Citadelle again.

I let it go and follow him.

The guards nod to us without interest as we make our way through the labyrinthine sequence of stable yards, courtyards, and training grounds to the main gate. It is open to receive all guests, with light, music, voices, and laughter all spilling out. I can see now that my gown is a deep, rich blue, presenting a sharp contrast with the kirtle beneath - it is the same shade as Solas's jerkin, merely more saturated in its pigment. His doublet is, indeed, black. The combination of colors somehow makes his eyes tip more into the blue side of their usual blue-grey.

He notices me examining him. "Is my mask straight?" he asks.

"Yes," I tell him. "I'm simply admiring you. I know nothing about Orlesian fashion, past or present, but I think you look charming."

"Well." He seems at a loss for a moment. "That is…"

"I believe 'ma serannas' would cover the sentiment you're seeking," I tease him, and he laughs quietly.

"Ma serannas," he says, "though I cannot take credit for any of the designs - I copied what the spirits reflected, with only a few touches of my own."

I am complimenting his appearance, not what he is wearing - but he draws my attention to the dancers already on the floor before I can correct him. "These steps are different than the ones we saw at Halamshiral. We should watch for a song or two, so we can mimic the pattern."

He's right - at Halamshiral, roughly half the dances were partner dances, in which partners dance only with each other, and the group moves in a simple pattern across the floor. The other half were group dances, like all these appear to be, in which couples maintain carefully-coordinated positions relative to their neighbors, and there are a fair number of brief partner exchanges. Luckily, the steps and rhythms I see here all seem to be versions of dances Josephine has already drilled into me: the allemande, the courant, and the gavotte, among others. No minuets, thank the Creators, because though I have memorized the official steps, Josephine says my improvised grace steps make me look like a bard, and only commoners who are trying too hard to fit in don't improvise. I have yet to dance a minuet in company.

I recognize the opening chords of a gavotte and take Solas's hand. "This will be the same as the last one," I tell him. "Have you seen enough?"

"I believe so, though I hope you will forgive me if I misstep," he says, following me toward the floor. "I cannot claim your grace of movement."

"It doesn't matter to me," I assure him. "Tonight I don't have to keep up any appearances, and I intend to have fun."

He only has time to smile before we take our places on the floor.

Solas is a better dancer than he gives himself credit for - if he does misstep, he only does it while my back is turned. We dance the gavotte, a courant, a bourrée, two gigues, and a rigaudon before a walzer is announced - apparently a minor scandal based on the blushes and titters of laughter hidden behind fans around the room. By then, I am ready for something with a simpler step. Solas's arm around my waist, his chest nearly touching mine, is also a welcome change, after touching nothing but each other's hands for - well, time is different in the Fade, but I am ready to touch more of him than just his hand.

"I confess, I did not anticipate how dance customs had changed in the last few hundred years," he tells me as the music begins. "I expected more of this, and less of - the rest."

"This is probably just a chance for us to cool off before a minuet," I warn him, relaxing into his embrace and the movement of the dance. "But I would rather not stay for that, if you would like to go somewhere...nearby, but perhaps more private."

"Yes," he says simply.

We are quiet as we dance - as we have been since we started, the other steps leaving little attention for conversation. This time, though, the silence feels heavy with unsaid words. When I glance up at Solas, he is watching me, his eyes still uncharacteristically blue behind his mask. He pulls me against him more firmly, and the thumb of his hand holding mine caresses my palm. I become almost painfully aware of the muscles moving in his shoulder beneath my other hand as we dance. He may not have the build of someone who carries a sword or shoots a longbow, but Solas's staff doesn't just help him focus energy for his spells. I have seen him break skulls with it more than once. Beneath my hand, beneath layers of clothing, there is hard muscle, and suddenly I am blushing as I think of it.

"Perhaps," he murmurs at last, "it is just as well there were no other dances like this."

I nod silently, avoiding his eyes.

In spite of our agreement on the subject, I am sorry when the music ends. I feel as a physical ache the lack of his hand holding mine, his other missing from my back, the warm mass of his body a breath away from mine. He offers his arm again, which is something, but I can't press myself against him as I wish to in the midst of this crowd.

Or - I suppose I could. They are all just spirits - but I don't know what would constitute breaking the scene, and no well-bred young lady at a ball like this one would act as I wish to act. So I take his arm quietly and follow him through the crowd, out a door at the side of the hall, up a flight of stairs, and out onto a section of wall that overlooks another small training yard. The air, I note for the first time, is cold - as though early fall is settling over this region, and the warmth of the day no longer lingers into the night. Over the crenellations and down a short drop on one side, a roof juts out from the wall - perhaps a covered area for storing weapons. Solas steps down onto it, and then offers me his hand so I can follow. A wind is rising - it whips my skirt around my ankles, threatening to tangle them, and I am glad of Solas's hand. Besides, it is still warm while mine are becoming chilled.

He notices, and chafes my fingers with his as he stretches out his other arm - and suddenly there is a large, fur-lined cloak hanging from it. He releases me long enough to throw it around his own shoulders, and then drapes one arm and a section of the cloak over mine, guiding me nearer the edge of the roof before pulling me down to sit beside him. I curl up my legs and lean into him, only to be reminded of my mask as the edge digs uncomfortably into my cheek. Thankfully, the ties come undone easily when I reach up, and it is gone almost as soon as I slip it off - as is his.

"Yes," Solas says. "They are unnecessary now."

With his free hand, Solas touches my jaw, tilting my head up, and then his lips find mine - tentatively, at first, as though he is thinking of pulling away after a single kiss, but he doesn't. He kisses me again, this time a little more firmly, and again - and then I allow my lips to part a little beneath his, and he wastes no time accepting the invitation, pulling me half into his lap as his tongue makes me think of things I really shouldn't, because - because no promises have been made, and we still don't know each other as well as we ought to before making promises.

Promises - no promises - I know I want him.

He pulls away, and I hear him take a shaky breath. "Ir abelas, vhenan. It is - easier to become carried away, in the Fade, but I know your people treat these matters with caution."

I don't feel entirely steady myself. "We must," I tell him, hoping he doesn't hear my voice trembling. "When you spend your life in a clan of, at best, perhaps a thousand people, romantic ties must be treated seriously. There is approximately no chance of getting away from anyone, no matter whether one of you feels wronged by the other or not."

"A fair point," he says with a smile. His fingers trace the edge of my ear, and my skin prickles with pleasant chills. "I am trying not to make you uncomfortable," he tells me.

I wonder what he thinks that word encompasses. "I - that is - ma serannas, ma'lath. But - what if - what if I want you to make me a little uncomfortable?"

He freezes, blinks, and then I see him start to shake his head - but I don't give him a chance to try to talk either of us out of anything. Instead I catch his face in my hands, and this time I kiss him. My reward is a frankly seductive growl as his tongue immediately picks up where it left off, teasing me with ideas of what it could be doing. Then his hand trails up my ribs, and it is my turn to make a wordless sound of frustration as he stops just short of touching my breast.

Again he pauses, though this time he only moves away a tiny fraction. "Silea," he says, and his tone combined with the use of my name manages to catch my attention. "In a moment, I will not be able to stop this, if you want it - so think carefully. Here, in the Fade, if there are any reservations you hold, they will be more easily overcome by your desires. Think carefully about what you want and what you might regret. As well - you may not remember everything when you wake, which you might understandably find disconcerting. Lastly, a dream like this isn't the same as reality, for both good and ill. Perhaps - it will not touch your feelings as deeply, but for that very reason, you may find it...less satisfying than you suppose."

I don't want to think, I want him to kiss me and touch me, and I want to know what it feels like to touch him - but I know he is trying to give me the benefit of his experience, and that I should listen.

Experience. That reminds me of something he said once. "What about demons?" I ask him.

"They need not worry you, you aren't a mage," he tells me. "And I can handle myself."

I release him and move away a little bit, sliding my legs off of his. Everything else he said - I don't know, I can't think clearly, not in this moment. But putting him at risk because I lack patience? No. Completely unacceptable.

His arm tightens around me. "Stay close," he requests, and then sighs, adjusting the cloak we share to make certain I am still covered. "Now perhaps you see why I have avoided inviting you again. I cannot trust myself, especially not here."

"Or me," I add ruefully.

A complex series of emotions flit across his face before he smiles down at me. "That is apparently not true. I feared you might be swept away, but as it turns out…" he hesitates. "You need not feel responsible for my safety, arasha."

"Of course I need to," I retort. "You feel responsible for mine. What kind of partner - what kind of friend - would I be, if I didn't prize yours just as highly?"

Again, he seems unable to settle on a single feeling or response, and this time he looks away as though he fears to let me study him. "Enaste," he says after a moment, but his tone is dissatisfied. "I fear I don't deserve your concern, and - I know I cannot possibly deserve you."

Deserve? As though - love is a formula or a series of measurements? How can he even begin to believe he knows how to calculate and assign the necessary values? It's...absurd. I don't even know how to tell him how absurd I find it. "So? Why does that matter?"

Solas laughs without humor, but when he looks at me again his smile is gentle. "Has anyone ever taken note of what interesting questions you ask?"

"No one has mentioned it," I tell him, uncertain what he means.

"Blind." He shakes his head. "This entire world must be blind."

"Because no one has noticed the questions I ask?" I wonder, trying to keep up, but I can't tell if he is even listening.

"How could I have prepared myself for you?" he murmurs, and in spite of his words and the fact he is looking at me, I find I am uncertain whether he is speaking to me at all. "You should not be possible."

"Well," I begin, my voice tart in response to the fact that we seem to be having entirely different conversations, "would you rather that I attempt to be less unimaginable or more nonexistent?"

"Neither," he says with a laugh, pulling me against his chest and back into his lap. "I shall endeavor to expand my imagination, as it is evidently too limited to encompass reality."

That is a much better response than his previous nonsense. I sigh and lean against him as we fall silent, and I know I need a new topic of conversation or I am going to start thinking about how warm and solid he is, how private the world feels on this roof, wrapped up in this cloak, and how much I want to touch him...everywhere. "Solas," I begin, asking the first thing that occurs to me, "have you ever been in love before?" Then I hear my own words, and the assumptions they seem to be making, and feel myself blush. "I mean - that - that is, if you are - " He did say it - only once, but it is seared so clearly into my memory that I feel it echoing through every subsequent conversation we have had. But perhaps he meant it some other way? What other way is there? Suddenly I feel like my grasp of my own language is very tenuous indeed.

My consternation seems to both amuse and trouble him. "Ar lath ma. I would not have said so if I didn't mean it. Ane...u'vun ghilal ma vhenan."

"I ane emma - sasha u'vun ithan," I reply, relaxing a little. Perhaps my grasp isn't so tenuous.

He bends to plant a swift kiss on my lips, and then answers the question: "No. I suffered through infatuations enough as a young man, as anyone might, but - no. The few times my affections settled on someone who might have been worthy, my feelings were not returned." He pauses, wraps his arms and the cloak a little more tightly around me. "And no one I have met has ever compared to you. Now - should I ask you, or can I assume your answer is similar?"

I laugh, a little embarrassed. "Similar enough, I suppose, except…" Do I want to tell him this? But now he is looking at me with interest, and I know I have likely already said too much. "Except for the part about infatuations. I - to be perfectly honest, even though I sometimes found people attractive - physically - the idea of having to bind my life to someone else's just - just to have sex sounded about as appealing as selling myself into slavery in return for well-made arrows. I appreciate a good arrow, but - not that much. The calculation never made sense to me."

"And it does now?" he asks, his voice unexpectedly somber.

"It's - beginning to," I reply. "The part I was missing was that declaring a bond isn't supposed to be a sacrifice. I - with anyone else I have ever known, it would certainly have been - more than a sacrifice really. A torture. I - value my autonomy highly."

"Don't give it away for me," Solas says, and I'm surprised by the anguish in his voice.

I sit up and peer at him. He might be pale, but the light isn't certain enough for me to know, and he isn't looking at me. "Not all of it - of course," I try to reassure him. "Just enough that I pause to consider what might be best for you, what you might want to know and be able to plan for, before I go ahead with arranging things as I like them. It isn't a burden - I like having reasons to think of you."

"You make it sound so simple," he says hollowly, "so sensible."

"Solas?" I touch his face, hoping he will understand what I am asking.

He swallows, and it seems he does understand. "Ir abelas, ma vhenan," he says quietly, and then turns to look at me, his expression sad but peaceful. "An old wound, and no fault of yours that this conversation reminded me."

"Will you tell me about it?" I ask.

"No," he says quickly. "At least not tonight. That is not the aim tonight."

"Why not?" I ask, bumping him with my shoulder. "If I'm thinking of your problems, I won't be thinking of mine."

"Yes," he allows, smiling in spite of himself, "but you will feel mine at least as deeply as you feel your own, and I would not give you that burden. Especially not now."

A short series of colored flares of light, followed shortly by resounding booms, interrupts whatever argument I would have made.

"Ah," Solas says in my ear, pointing me toward the fireworks display, "dawn nears. The fireworks are to mark the end of the banquet."

It doesn't feel as though it should be dawn already, but I am not averse to watching fireworks, especially leaning against Solas, with his arms holding me. The display is lovely, as I suppose it must be, to be fit for a pair of princesses. I am happy.

I am happy, and yet - I am coming to understand that Solas will not be open with me, at least not without a struggle. Well, not about events, anyway. Feelings he shares freely enough, which is just as well since he is terrible at hiding his, but his past, the things he has done and seen not related to his travels in the Fade, he is reluctant to share specifics about. The more they matter, the more reluctant he seems to be.

I hope it will change. It isn't entirely pleasant, being in love with someone I'm not quite certain I can trust. Worse, I think I may be starting to trust him even against my better judgment, simply because I want to believe in him.

Well - because I want to believe, and also because what I see of him day-to-day offers no reason not to trust him. He is here after all, when the most sensible thing for an elven apostate to do would have been to get as far away as possible at the first sign of trouble. He fits into my inner circle as well as anyone, which is to say there are those whose company he enjoys independent of me and our mission, and those he will likely never speak to again once all this is over - but that is true for everyone, except perhaps Varric. And with Varric - it's hard to tell who he wants around because he likes them, and who he wants to study to write into a future book.

Solas makes use of a lull in the fireworks to place a few soft kisses on my neck. "Have you enjoyed tonight, arasha?"

"Yes," I tell him - truthfully enough, though it isn't the full truth. Tonight has given me a great deal to think about. I find I have reason to be grateful that I am better at concealing complicated emotions than he is. "Thank you. I'm sure I'll place my arrows much better today, after a full night of sleep."

"I have some thoughts on ways to strengthen the Veil in our camps, at least," he says. "But we can discuss them over breakfast."

"Yes," I agree again. "How long do we have?"

He waits through the boom of another explosion. "A few minutes, no more."

I turn toward him, away from the display. "Then...not enough time for us to get carried away again," I say.

"I...suppose - " he begins, and then I kiss him - and what I said turns out to be a lie, because I am immediately carried away, and he is, too. But it is also true that there isn't time to go further than a few caresses, because I have been trained since earliest childhood to wake at dawn, and all the wishing in the world can't break the habit of a lifetime. When the sun touches my tent, I am recalled from the Fade and Solas's arms, back to the waking world, where I can't hold him, don't know if I can trust him, and which, on top of all that, still stinks of carrion.

Latha sighed, and for the first time it sounded ominously like a real sigh, like real lungs might produce. "Ane u'vun - "

"No!" I snapped at it, my voice cracking like a whip. The spirit flinched. "Those aren't your words," I snarled, my words emerging before I could even begin to debate their wisdom. Wise or not, I couldn't bear to hear this thing that wanted to be Solas to me repeat his words in his stolen voice.

Latha looked away, studying the ground for a moment, its hands clasped behind its back - a pose achingly familiar to me. It was beginning to look more solid, with hints of texture where clothing might eventually fit. And I - I was more repulsed by it than ever.

"Perhaps you are right," it said after a moment, looking at me again. "You deserve better words - better sentiments. I will do my best, ma'sa'lath."

My skin crawled, but this time I managed to bite back my response. "I am finished for the night," I told it - and fled before it could attempt to defile any more of my precious memories.

Ea son?: Are you well?

Ma delathe: My mistake

Arasha: My joy

Nuvas ema ir'enastela: May you have great blessings, a particularly fervent "thank you"

Ma'lath: My love

Enaste: Thanks, lit. grace/blessings

Ane...u'vun ghilal ma vhenan: You are...the star that guides my heart

I ane emma - sasha u'vun ithan: And you are mine - the only star I see

Ma'sa'lath: My only love