a/n- So, a shorter chapter, but I doubt that will matter. For those of you who are no doubt reading this for the romance, feel rewarded, for after this chapter I think it should be quite clear where I am headed if it wasn't already. I'm very proud of this one for two reasons. The first is that I think I've managed to capture all of my characters perfectly. The second is that it has been one year to the day since I first published this fanfiction and have manage 31 chapters in 52 weeks. It is not my longest work, but this is by far my most consistent fanfiction to date.
Indulgences
By nightfall, they'd descended into the shadow of the valley. Enya was glad for the warmth of a fire and the shelter of a tent, for over the day clouds had stolen the peaks from their sight and a light rain fell on them, turning to snow as the light waned. In the darkness, they'd built campfires and erected tents. Leliana's scouts returned, drenched and shivering to drink ale warmed over the fires. The Inquisition's leaders met briefly and it was decided that if this weather persisted, they would have to remain here until it cleared.
Mug of ale clasped between her hands, she hunched by the fire, a blanket wrapped over her shoulders. Shedding her armor had been both a blessing and a curse, as it was each night in these mountains. A day of climbing in it made for bruised shoulders and an aching body. Even though she had grown accustomed to wearing it for days at a time, scrambling up and down peaks was far from the intended use. Now, however, she was cold in her simple tan leather shirt and pants.
Varric plopped to the ground next to her. For the first time since she'd met him, he did not carry Bianca with him, nor was the crossbow anywhere in sight. His cheeks were red, from cold or drink, Enya couldn't yet tell, but she expected it was the former.
"It's good to see you on your feet again, Clover," he commented, his hands outstretched toward the fire.
Enya stared down into the dark depths of the ale in her mug and then smiled over at him, "Why Clover?"
"I knew this Dalish elf, Merrill, I think I've mentioned her before. Used to call her Daisy. Flowers just seem appropriate for you Dalish," Varric chuckled, "and you keep getting lucky."
Enya let out a laugh and took a sip of her drink, "This is lucky?"
"Andraste's tits, Herald, you had half a mountain fall on you and you're still alive. I'd call that luck."
She shook her head, "Maybe it is luck. But that is not be the word I would use."
Enya took a deep draft of the ale and grimaced at its bitter pulpiness. Her whole life, she'd detested ale. It seemed a great conspiracy that anyone would like the sludge-like liquid that filled her tankard now, but she supposed it was better than nothing, especially when their resources were running so low.
"So, Merrill," She glanced at Varric, "Who is she? You talk about her like you were close."
Varric chuckled, "Not as close as you're implying, but yes. For almost a decade, she was one of the closest friends I've had."
"When you were with the Champion of Kirkwall?"
"Yes," he took a drink, "She isn't exactly like I mentioned in the Tale of the Champion. She was enough to drive a person mad sometimes, she was so naïve. Merrill'd wander down streets all by herself at night. Kirkwall's Lowtown is not a place where you should really do that. I had to pay off a dozen mercenary bands, thieves' guilds and a few…well let's just say that the guard captain got a few tips from anonymous sources that led to some profitable arrests. Couldn't bear to see her get hurt."
Enya grinned, "For all your talk, you really are just a softie aren't you Varric?"
The dwarf squirmed under her amused gaze and then a begrudging smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, "Yeah, but do me a favor and keep that to yourself. Can't let the Seeker know."
They shared a conspiratorial glance toward the Inquisition shield, which rested near Cassandra's bedroll and then took another drink.
"So what was a Dalish elf doing in Kirkwall?" Enya continued, enjoying the relaxation of such an idle conversation.
Varric raised an eyebrow, "You've never read my book have you?"
She shook her head.
"Well, I'll tell you a bit now and then you can read the rest of it. You could use something to take your mind off of the 'Herald of Andraste' duties now and then, I can imagine,"
"If you have a copy, I would enjoy the distraction," Enya replied.
"Well I don't make a habit of carrying all of my books with me. They tend to get a bit heavy, but I'll tell you what, when we get to this fortress Chuckles claims is hiding out here, I'll send a letter to my publisher asking for a copy. She'll be over the moon. 'Imagine, the Herald of Andraste, reading one of my books!'"
Varric's impression of his undoubtedly female publisher's voice, given his attempt at a light, airy falsetto, betrayed his borderline drunkenness. Enya was torn between laughter and frustration. She took a drink instead, opting out of choosing in favor of downing the rest of the vile liquid. Some of it went down the wrong way, and the dwarf reached over to pat her on the back as she coughed the offending drink out of her lungs.
"Breath, Clover," he commanded gently, "we can't have you die on us now."
She smiled and set her mug down on the damp rock next to her, "I would never dream of leaving you all alone Varric."
He chuckled and picked up her mug from the ground, "On a night like this, one should never be without a full tankard."
Enya opened her mouth to protest but he'd already swept up the mug and made his way down the hill toward where Adan was filling everyone's horns, flagons, tankards, mugs and, in Josephine's case, goblets, with the thick, warm ale. The apothecary's cheeks were flushed from the ale he'd consumed and his demeanor uncharacteristically gregarious. She shook her head. The ale she'd already drunk weighed on her stomach and she didn't think it was wise to drink any more.
Shivering, she drew that blanket that lay over her shoulders a bit tighter and stared into the depths of the fire that popped and cracked before her. The plume of smoke rose from it in hot, twisting curls, melting the snow that fell from the inky sky. Enya drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them to hold in the warmth.
The Free Marches had always been warm, even unbearably hot at times. At best it snowed perhaps a week out of every year. Even in Haven, she'd had the comfort of a home and a hearth. Sylaise, bathe me in your warmth.
When they travelled it had been cold, but she rarely strayed far from her companions' sides, or she was moving in some way. Even on the coldest of occasions, Solas had provided a ward that trapped the heat of the fire. She'd never seen magic used in such a way, but such was often the case when it came to her apostate friend, she supposed. Elven magic was more practical, more natural, he had once told her when she asked. His seemed the epitome of that, though there was an impractical artistry to the way he bent the world to his will, that added to the uniqueness of his casting.
Unbidden, Enya remembered a glance she'd gotten of him in the heat of battle, his lips drawn taught with urgency, his eyes narrow with focus. He had moved with the fluidity of water, sinking easily from foot to foot as he weaved a cage of light around himself with his staff. His grace flowed from his narrow hips to his broad shoulders as he bent away, avoiding the swing of a sword. She blushed, embarrassed by her own mind's wandering. She could ill afford such a distraction with the threat of Corypheus looming over her. She should definitely not have any more ale.
Despite the lateness of the hour and darkness of the night, the Inquisition's camp teemed with life. She distracted herself by watching the way the soldiers and Chantry members interacted. Some laughed with each other, much as she had Varric had, each chuckle a little moment away from the haunting tragedy that had so recently beset them. Others, those that had lost someone close were not so lucky. Their faces were drawn, expressions drained. In their eyes, Enya spotted the ghosts of memory that darted across the visage of the grieving. Mother Giselle was with these poor souls, helping them, one by one, with kind words and a gentle voice.
One such soldier's voice broke the din of snapping logs in fires, clatter of full mugs, and low rumble of conversation with a melody. His words were not loud enough to hear, nor could Enya find him among the crowd, but the quiet tenor of his voice reached her sensitive elven ears just enough to discern a melody. It was long and lanquid, notes open, broken only by the shakey emptiness of his melancholy timbre. He was untrained, and he did not possess the gifts June had bestowed on some members of the Dalish, but his notes were filled with honesty and pain. Staring into the embers at the center of the fire, she let out a sigh, the anguish of the song pricking her heart. Unbeknownst to her, tears blossomed in the corners of her eyes and trickled over her cheeks in slow, silent rivers.
One dripped onto the back of her marked hand and she hurriedly wiped them away. The sound of soft, steady footfalls in the snow alerted her to an approaching presence. Expecting Varric's return, she straightened and gazed toward the noise, yet the voice that spoke was smooth, familiar and low.
"It is interesting, is it not, the ability of music to shape our perception of reality?"
Solas emerged from the shadows and ducked under the overhang of the open tent where she had settled. The flames of the fire reflected in his eyes and settled in the hollows of his cheeks, softening his features. He came to stand next to her and leaned one shoulder against the pole of the tent on which she rested her back. Enya smiled up at him, a vain hope that it would draw his attention from the tears in her eyes.
"If that man were to sing a jig, for example, these fires would seem rosy, alive. No doubt these people would dance. Were he to sing a war chant, these fires would seem vengeful, each crack, the release of an arrow." he paused, and his light tone sank, "Instead, the song he sings bears sorrow in its notes. These fires, though numerous, appear cold, alone, abandoned in an endless night. We feel his pain and it incites us to weep."
Enya nodded in agreement, "My mother once told me that the magic of the People never truly left our blood, but instead manifested through our voices. Songs had a way of changing the living world in ways even magic could not. After all you have explained of the Fade, I imagine that it is much like the way emotions influence the spirits."
Something she could find no better word for than pride tugged at the corners of Solas' lips. He considered her through guarded eyes before responding.
"Your mother had a very keen view of the world, Lethallan," he commented, bringing his hands to rest on his hip, "One I am relieved to know she passed on to you. I confess, I had not thought of music to have similar effect on your real world as powerful sensations do on the Fade, but it is a comparison worthy of regard."
They lapsed into comfortable silence for a time. Enya's hand burned weakly, its light hidden beneath the cover of the blanket wrapped about her. She glanced down at his bare toes and wondered that they weren't red from the snow.
"Do you like music, Solas?" she inquired after their silence had grown to a companionable commonplace.
Solas started at her sudden utterance and she let out a soft, surprised laugh.
"Ir abelas, Solas," Enya echoed his common apology, a glowing with mirth.
If he was embarrassed at all by his startlement, it did not show. He bowed his head to her.
"Ma serannas, da'len," Solas shifted closer to the tent pole and swung his foot to cross over the ankle of the other, "To answer your question, yes. I find music to be quite pleasing, as are most forms of art. At least, as far as the intent of their creators."
Enya raised her eyebrows, "The intent of the of their creators? You make it sound as though artists intend their art not to be enjoyed."
"Art is meant to convey a message. The soldier's lament, for example, helped us to share in his pain. In a way, that is pleasing, however, one can hardly consider such feeling to be a desired state."
A smile touched the corner of his mouth, belaying the intensity with which he stared into the core of the fire.
"For most, at least." He added in a tone so quiet it was nearly a whisper.
Enya drew a breath, uncertain if he had even intended to say it out loud. Such words should have been bitter and regretful, spat rather than whispered. She gazed up at the hard line of his jaw in the dark. The amber firelight flickered in the indentation of his jugular. He swallowed and she watched the muscles of his throat tighten. The view was an odd one, to say the least. She looked down at her knees instead, led by his words to a distant memory.
Quietly, she replied, "My clan's craftsman, Durhadin, carved warnings into the rings he gave to Keeper Deshanna. A reminder for her of her duty to protect the clan from the Dread Wolf."
Solas's hand fell unclasped from his waist and he planted the foot he had so carelessly crossed over just a few moments before.
"I don't suppose such a warning is pleasing either, but Durhadin could carve beautiful things as well. On the day I became a hunter and swore to follow the Vir Tanadhal, he gave me this,"
Enya reached under the hem of her shirt and drew out the finely crafted pendant of Mythal. She untied the cord and held it out to him. Solas took the talisman from her in a ginger grasp and examined it with a calculating eye and deft fingers.
"Your clansman has a remarkable gift for detail. Indeed, I have rarely seen a carving of such quality outside of the Fade."
He extended his hand to her, returning the ironbark figurine with care.
"He must devote such attention to all aspects of his life."
Enya opened her mouth and then closed it, heart fluttering in her throat. She should have expected he would guess a deeper meaning behind the gift. She took the figurine back and tied it around her neck.
Even quieter than before, she replied, "He was a lover of my sister's, and an indulgence in which I should never have engaged."
She slipped it back under the hem of her tan undershirt and hid a wince as her hand throbbed.
Enya lifted her eyes to meet his. Far from shying away from the glance, Solas held it, nodding. He seemed about to speak again when the throbbing in her hand exploded in light. She breathed a soft series of elvish expletives, and clenched it into a fist in an attempt to quench the light. Solas' kind consideration of her admission had vanished by the time his fingers found her wrist and drew the offending hand toward him. Enya resisted the urge to pull away from him as the other elf touched his fingers into the center of her mark and loosed a pulse of soft, green-blue healing magic into her palm. The touch of the spirit he'd invoked sent goosepimples from her wrist to her shoulder, but the angry green light pouring from her hand ceased and the pain receded to a tolerable level.
So Corypheus had changed the Anchor when he tried to draw it from her. The last time Solas had tried to ease the pain, it worsened. He's said that his magic was incompatible, but now there was no explosion, no hiss of pain, nothing but the calm interaction of magic and spirits soothing away the pulsing ache.
"It's different now, isn't it?" she tipped her head to the side, trying to read his thoughts through the bowed dome of his head.
Enya curled her fingers over the mark. She lowered her eyes to her closed fist, following the ragged dry cuticles of her fingernails and then slowly rose from the ground to stand before her friend. Solas was lost in thought, gazing out over her head into the valley. Trouble tightened his ginger eyebrows. She cocked her head to the side and drew the blanket around her shoulders all the tighter.
"How is it that-"
"Chuckles!" Varric's exuberant greeting slurred across her question and quashed it, "Care to join us for a drink?"
Solas' smile was polite and patient, "Of course, Varric. But it seems you only have two tankards and I see three of us."
Enya bit back a laugh as an expression of utmost devastation spread over Varric's face.
"It's alright, Varric," She stepped forward and took a tankard from him, only to pass it back to Solas, "I shouldn't have any more anyway."
The drunken dwarf grew more genial after this and Enya settled on the ground with her two companions, basking in the warmth of the fire. Varric's words became less comprehensible as the night wore on. Enya still wondered about his Dalish friend, but it was clear any story she heard now would be a tale spun from outlandish yarn. She enjoyed the gentle back and forth her friends established as the ale took effect. Solas pointed out the more unbelievable aspect of each story, his words low and pointed. Varric, however, had grown used to criticism over the years and asked Solas to tell each section of the story better. Enya retired for the night when her sides ached from laughter and her eyelids crept closed. She bid them both a good sleep, though she had little doubt they would sleep well. When she finally sunk into her bedroll, it took her no more than a few minutes to fall asleep, comforted by the close-by rumble of their low voices.