It was clear she'd expected this to go differently. There was no plan when she stormed in.

Patience was not her strongest suit. A gentle woman, when she meant to be, but not one to suffer a fool who wasted her time. And this had wasted her time. The threat of travel had been brewing for weeks but it was clear she'd put considerable thought into how to broach the matter with him. Enough to leave it until the last minute. His refusal of her invitation would've tested an already-thinned virtue… but worse, it had embarrassed her. He understood that risk as sure as he knew she'd ask him in the first place, though it still caused an uncomfortable twist of guilt to see it so plain upon her face when she marched on him. Red-cheeked and white hot, a parchment clutched in one hand, she crossed the rotunda in ten quick strides and threw it at his desk.

If there'd been any doubt it was that which had angered her it was answered by the briefest glance at the ball as it skittered to a stop next to his hand. On a crumpled corner he recognized his own handwriting — the letter he'd delivered to Josephine hours ago — and that knot in his stomach tightened a little more.

He did not have a plan, either.

There was no reason to believe a confrontation would've followed. Rather, he'd been confident his strategy would defer the matter long enough to make an argument impossible. Josephine had announced arrangements for the journey days ago, but the request for his escort didn't arrive on his desk until yesterday morning. Ellana had put it off on purpose. For his reply he chose a similar tactic: instead of give his answer verbally, as was typical, he'd carefully timed the delivery of a written one in order to ensure Josephine would have no opportunity to follow up on it. It would be too late to pass it to Ellana, and by the time she came to know of the loss a replacement would have already been chosen and he already in bed. Were she to somehow discover it early she wouldn't come to his door for it — not in the middle of the night — and he'd be sure to arrive late to the rotunda the next morning in case she thought to catch him there before the party left for Redcliffe. Ideally she wouldn't even know until they were at the gates readying the mounts.

It was a layered plan. A bit underhanded, not flawless, but he'd been reasonably sure of its success.

What he did not expect was for Josephine to turn around and deliver his response direct to the Inquisitor without acting on it. Gifting her both the means and the motive to challenge him immediately. A particularly ill fate, as up until this point he'd managed to avoid a face-to-face with her since their last meeting.

A confrontation was inevitable after the… encounter. Words would need to be exchanged at some point. Boundaries set. But he'd hoped to delay that conversation long enough for the memory of the kiss, and its effects on him, to cool. At this stage he did not trust himself alone with her. If he could force a separation — obligations away from the fortress, for instance — he would have the opportunity to strengthen his resolve. Redouble his efforts. The missive couldn't have come at a better time. That journey would grant him the time needed to allow the chilliness to creep back into their interactions. Ensure that, when able, he could confidently give no indication of wanting to resume a romantic relationship with her.

It might be a lie, but the kiss was a mistake — a momentary lapse in judgement — and to move past it she needed to gain perspective, not cultivate hope.

And he needed time to forget what she tasted like.

Fortune favoured that distance in the days following: she'd been too busy to track him down and demand an explanation. Multiple deliveries for work orders were overdue and caused a small panic when part of a damaged wall finally collapsed and there were no supplies on hand for repairs. She was roped into negotiations with the quartermaster and several merchants to acquire all their available wood and stone in the interim. Later, two dracolisks arrived with a group of scouts returning from the Western Approach and they were so unsettling to look at nobody was willing to volunteer for the job of acclimating them to the stables. For whatever reason Ellana took the task upon herself. Surely she didn't need the extra work but he was hardly in a position to complain. The same afternoon one of the windows in the great hall cracked and Josephine leapt at the opportunity to discuss an entire set of replacements. For days Ellana barely found a moment free to grab a snack let alone a conversation. He'd never been so thankful for a series of small disasters.

For his part, he buried himself in work. Waking each morning with a list of tasks to complete. Excuses, if he was honest. All tedious busywork and pointless organization he'd been putting off for months. Anything to keep himself busy. He'd alphabetize the entire library if he thought it would not raise the question of his sanity.

The last few nights he had taken the additional precaution of retiring early to his quarters in the hope of preventing any attempt to seek him out in the evenings. It had not gone quite so well as he'd hoped. Not insomuch that it didn't work — on the contrary, he barely glimpsed her in the halls — but because it left him far too much time alone.

Alone, with only his thoughts, and nothing to do but lie in bed and think them. Listening to the sound of the wind whistling through the cracks in Skyhold's ancient walls, stirring up the scents that lingered on his clothes. Lavender and citrus: Ellana's bathing oils. It was fresh on her hair and hands when he kissed her. Then on the jacket he'd shrugged off and slung over the back of a chair that night and somehow forgot to send for laundering.

Each time he reached for it something would still his hand… he'd pull back, clench his fist, and let it remain one more day. The smell greeted him each morning he woke, each afternoon he returned from a walk, and when he readied for bed — a little fainter each time.

He had hoped his desire would fade along with it but, of course, it did not. The weaker it became the more of it he craved. Searching for it in the rooms she'd left. Until he found himself bewitched with his nose buried in the coat, thinking of her fingers delicately applying it to her throat and recalling every instance he was close enough to kiss her there… and didn't. The temptation haunted him.

In spite of all the experience he boasted of, his sleep had been just as troubled since their parting. Though in the wake of their kiss, and with the smell of her hanging in the air as he slept, it was not Despair that stalked him… And his weakness left him all the more frustrated.

With himself. With her. With everything.

He'd been counting on a quiet reprieve to bleed that fire from his veins. But, clearly, that was not working out. Instead, the person he'd planned on being the furthest from presently loomed over his desk. Furious, silent, and very clearly expecting an explanation he had no want to give. One she would not leave before receiving. He'd never refused her before.

He sighed, but did not look at her. Careful not to give any indication that he would engage in a debate. "There is no need for me to accompany you on this mission," he said plainly.

"I don't believe that's up to you," she countered. "I've requested your presence. That should be enough."

He risked an upward glance and was met with anger flashing in her eyes. Such pride and defiance. They stood a desk apart, her with her arms crossed and he seated before a stack of papers. She stared him down, all poise and confidence with the stubborn streak of a mule. He was loathe to start a fight with her when the threat of a headache pooled at the base of his skull. Tension sat uncomfortably in every part of his body. If there was a chance of getting out of this unscathed, it would require careful diplomacy and sound reasoning. A tactical retreat.

"I would be a poor choice. You have no need of my skills — this is a simple diplomatic meet, is it not? We've made the trip a dozen times and the Highway is well-travelled. Unless your scouts have given warning of any changes, we can safely assume the way is clear. Additionally, you would be pulling me from my studies. This work is vital to our eventual understanding of the shards and their purpose."

It wasn't. He'd spent the evening making charcoal rubbings of the specimens they'd collected on their last excursion to the Emerald Graves. They had three copies already.

"If you truly have need of a mage I would suggest taking Dorian."

"And yet I didn't ask Dorian," she replied through grit teeth. "I asked you."

He could feel her stare burning a hole in him as he carefully inked a line of runes. "You should not have."

"Excuse me?"

Too sharp, he chided himself, too much bite in his tongue. He took a moment to think. To focus. Close his eyes, and draw upon the well of patience he knew was far deeper than her own.

Not quite as gently as he'd intended, "On any other occasion I would trust you to weigh the needs of the situation and make an objective decision," he said.

She raised a brow. "But not now?"

There was an inflection in the question that edged dangerously close to mocking. As if she knew precisely what implication he'd meant to lay beneath the words and was using that attempt at a power play against him before he'd even managed to show his hand. It was maddening.

He dipped his quill into the pot with far too much force. "Clearly."

The reply amused more than wounded her, and her mouth twisted into something neither smile nor sneer. "You'd do well to remember that for as long as you remain a part of the Inquisition I have say in how best to utilize your skills in its operations — and I've asked for them here. This is my objective decision. If the request wounds you I could just as easily make it an order."

It was a bluff: threatening rank was beneath her, but that wasn't the point. It was the delivery that raised his hackles. One might use this tone when speaking with a petulant child. A firm scolding to bring him in line. It was not a way he had been spoken to in an age.

A sudden spike of pain from a headache reminded him to unclench his jaw, but did nothing to slow the thundering beat of his heart. Or the unmistakably harsh scratch of his notes as he answered, "One I would refuse."

As soon as the words left his mouth he knew they were a mistake. He knew it even before he finished saying them, in that last, desperate, second before strained hostility darkened to outright war.

It started with a sharp inhale — the same one that always preceded a truly spectacular flare of her temper — and he was already cursing the hubris had him believing there was a chance to win this. For whatever reason her attempts to needle him were working: instead of ignoring her he was rising to the bait. It would be embarrassing if he weren't too wholly consumed with indignation to bother with humility.

His eyes slipped closed and he leaned heavily into his palm, bracing himself.

She did not disappoint.

"Refuse? Really?" It was a proper fight now. In rare form she'd given up on discretion. "Tell me, if I cannot depend on you to answer the most basic requests why are you even here? Why stay, if you do not trust my judgment, recognize my authority, and no longer hold enough respect for me to even be a fucking escort without argument? Is there any purpose for your presence here? Is this just personal enrichment for you? Are you having fun?"

He took a slow, measured, breath — gaze firmly fixed upon the work before him. There was still a chance to pull this back. To be the bigger person. "My respect and loyalty for the Inquisition has not wavered since I first arrived," he answered carefully. "And I take care not to assign a level of importance to my relationships to those within it that might put that at risk. Corypheus' forces endanger all the peoples of Thedas, not just those in Skyhold, but by remaining its own power it offers a far better station for me to assist in fighting them. It's unlikely I'd be granted the same freedoms elsewhere. I have unique knowledge and experience to bring to this cause, it is why Leliana accepted my offer in the first place, and why it is in the best interest that I continue serving it until our course is done."

"Unless, of course, I request your actual, physical, presence or cause you minor inconvenience," she spat. "Then your interests serve only yourself."

"If the request is trivial and there are better tasks, yes! " He pitched his voice low, to ensure the next point was for her ears only. "You are allowing your personal feelings to cloud your judgement. This choice was not made with the needs of a mission in mind, but in selfishness, and that is unbecoming of a leader. I will not humour it."

She laughed — but bitter, and mockingly. "Is that all you think this is? I didn't realize you were so well-versed in Ferelden ecology and risk assessment! I should be running all our travel plans by you. Perhaps I can get your opinion on the composition of the team headed out to study the effects of red lyrium on the vegetation in Emprise du Lion? Should I skip the researchers and front-load it with soldiers instead? What good fortune to have an expert around — whatever would I do without you?"

"Clearly not your job!"

The words tumbled out before he could think to stop them, and his mouth snapped shut a second too late. Upon hearing the echo of his own raised voice returned to him there came a question of his control over his anger, and whether that might've begun to slip. Between his pounding heart, pounding headache, and her infuriatingly condescending tone he was struggling to reign it in.

Do not engage with her, he told could leave. Pick up his papers and walk away. There were better tasks, as he'd just said. Stop this at once. This is childish and—

"Truly, what motivated you to wait until so near the time you're scheduled to leave to make the request? To do so by letter? Such careful deliberation for such a 'basic request'. You've rarely needed to do so before, and I imagine the others weren't given the same treatment. Had you any belief my inclusion was truly necessary you would have requested it immediately." Somehow he was on his feet, palms pressed flat to the desk and leaning over her, though he did not recall when that had happened.

The challenge in his pose was immediately answered with her own: shoulders forward, teeth bared and fists tight, she stood firm. Though considerably shorter, she was no less intimidating when her fire was alight. That anger gifted her nerve and she made good use of it. She would not cow to him easily.

Worse, this near to her he could not help but notice how the apples of her cheeks pinked. The way her chest swelled with breath. A hair out of place. And the uncomfortable awareness of how a part of him — some deep, forgotten, adolescent part of him — found the use of her authority alluring.

Maddening.

"Or, I might have assumed this wouldn't be an issue and therefore felt it unnecessary to run it by you a week in advance. I had no reason to think you'd be so antagonistic toward the request, which I delivered by letter to everyone due to poor timing! I'm not sure if you noticed but this last week has seen me running all over the fortress. I didn't have time to wine and dine you in preparation of such a menial task. But you're right about one thing: we're not expecting to encounter resistance, and that did impact my choice. Your bottomless sense of self-importance non-withstanding, I hardly need use of Vivienne or Dorian's 'flair' on such a trip." She threw a hand into the air in emphasis. "Did it not occur to you that I may favour your skills as a mage for this because of your adept use of defensive magic? Or your ability — on any other day, apparently — to talk down a situation? Why would I need to bring a party of offensive fighters for a journey to fucking Redcliffe? Any magic we used on the way would be preventative only!"

He bristled, but refused to concede. These replies were too practiced. "That would be far easier to believe if your behavior supported it."

"How would you even know what my behavior has supported? Between your brooding and invented work you've barely said a word to me all week. If you want to throw out accusations don't be coy, just come out and say it."

"You are being unreasonable and childish," he obliged — yelled — his fingers digging into the table. It was outrageous how far under his skin he'd let her get. This began with a promise not to give her the pleasure of seeing him unnerved, and yet…

"Childish? While you're dragging your feet over the expectations of your role? Fenedhis lasa! Far be it from me to question your professionalism, hahren."

So rarely did she speak the language, even with the help of his tutelage. What she knew of honourifics and titles she did not use lightly. To hear them levied as insult cut far surer than it should have.

With a huff, "How sporting," he quipped in return. Adding a pointed, "Da'len," before he could stop himself.

Wonderful, a better part of him lamented, we've stooped to name-calling.

"I'm so glad you could join me in the mud, Solas," she said with a thin smile. "Regardless of your opinion on the matter I am the Inquisitor and when you are given an assignment by your betters you are expected either to take it or provide sound reason why you cannot."

He dipped his chin in a feigned bow, eyes locked on hers. "Ir abelas, Inquisitor, this has been an enlightening conversation and reminder not to argue with tel'sil da'lin. In the future I shall endeavour to better endure the hardship of serving an organization made of them."

Ellana recoiled as if struck. A mix of shock and fury on her reddened face. In the brief silence that followed the insult, he felt the sting of regret: this may have spiralled slightly out of control.

But before he could claw it back, "Dread Wolf take you!" she screamed in return. "Nuvan ise or Elgar'nan nuisa!"

He pressed his mouth into a hard line, a slight twitch in his jaw the only trace of the battle he fought against his own anger. The righteous kind that came of knowing that curse drawn in scars and blood. It would be too easy to respond in kind. They'd get lost in this match and drag each other down.

For a long moment they were quiet: staring daggers, waiting for the next cut drawn by something worse. Then Solas closed his eyes. Drew a deep, shuddering, breath in through his nose and let it out. Slowly — though in spite of thee effort it still came out a hiss. He lowered his shoulders. Leaned back, and flexed his fingers — learning too late that he'd been holding his fists so tight there were crescent-shaped wounds in his palms.

He could not put out this fire — they'd thrown too much on it — but he could try to wrest some control back.

The barest attempt of an apology was made, pushed through clenched teeth, but got no further than a curt, "My—" before he was interrupted.

"Diana a'av'in. Diana a'av'in! Don't you dare try that if you're still going to hold your ground. Don't throw out an apology you don't mean like it's a bone to distract me. Do you still think you're in the right, here? Then diana a'av'in! Honestly, the depth of your arrogance is matched only by your maddening need to continue toying with me!"

Those last words she yelled loud enough to carry through the rotunda. Loud enough to travel into the hall and up into the rookery, where Leiliana's birds cried and fluttered. Those not caged escaped through the windows or flew in helpless circles. Others rocked their cages until the chains that held them clattered and shook.

When the cacophony faded an oppressive silence took its place. The typical bustle and murmur of the atrium had fallen into a tense hush as they'd argued. Looking up, Solas saw above them a line of faces peering over the edge of the banister. A colourful array of expressions ranging from curious to chastising. All of them drawn from their conversations and duties to the spectacle their fight created.

His eyes sheepishly scanned the crowd, finding Dorian among them. His eyes were cold and hard, and he held that icy glare for a long and deeply uncomfortable moment before stepping back and disappearing from view. A few others followed suit. Most stayed to see how the scene would turn out.

A shameful burn crept into Solas' neck and face, and when his eyes met with Ellana's he did not see it shared. Instead of shamed, she looked emboldened. It surprised him — though perhaps it shouldn't have. Her fury was righteous. Anyone listening to the exchange without the context of what had caused it would surely cast him the villain. It was a role he'd played before.

He sighed. Hung his head, and pressed his fingers to his temples where a headache pounded now. Shame measured his anger better than pride, though it still took significant effort not to snap out a suggestion of discretion. "This is not the most appropriate place for this discussion. If we intend to continue it, we should move somewhere more private. For the sake of those disturbed by the spectacle, if nothing else."

She scoffed but mercifully conceded the point. Still, "Come to the tower then," she spat, and did not wait for his reply. She spun on her heel and stalked out of the room, assuming (correctly) that he'd have no choice but to follow where she led.

The hour was late, but not so much that the great hall was empty when they entered it. Evening staff still at work on clearing tables and sweeping all but leapt from their path. Skittering into corners with their heads down and backs turned trying to appear as though they'd not just been eavesdropping. A poor cover, as even Varric seated at his usual table had his nose buried in a conspicuously raised book. Eyes not-so-subtly peering over its edge, concern weighing heavy on his brow as he tracked their path toward the tower.

Fevered whispers and furtive glances resumed the instant they moved out of earshot. Human earshot — for humans so often forgot that elven ears were keener. A wave of covered mouths and knowing nods followed them out, remarks amplified by the unnatural hush. Distain as one condemned his gall, a giggle of amusement over his dressing down, while another opined the coarse manners of the Dalish and wondered if one could ever truly be expected to conform to this duty. In Orlais they know how to behave.

Typically he had no mind for gossip, but with all his reserve so publicly reduced to pettiness the whispers cut deeper. He'd allowed her under his skin — under his mask — and with his defences stripped away her room was the last place he wanted to be. Yet he had no more argument to brook, no excuse to give, she'd chased him into a corner and then dragged him out by the ear to demand the explanation she was owed. He had no choice but to give it now.

TRANSLATIONS

Fenedhis lasa, hahren = fuck you/fuck off, elder.

Tel'sir da'lin = Thoughtless children

Nuvan ise or Elgar'nan nuisa = I wish Elgar'nan's fire would burn you.

Diana a'av'in = shut your mouth/stop talking