I'm out of town this weekend, so don't expect anything until at least Monday.
Bravery in the Face of Mud
Solas's spell got me back to my tent the next morning without anyone hailing me, so it had probably worked. He was right when he said it was unlikely we would be able to hide our relationship for long, but it wasn't something I wanted to deal with this morning. Or ever, really - there were far too many considerations - but definitely not this morning.
I dressed in fresh clothing, brushed my hair, and generally made myself presentable before I went looking for Dorian.
It turned out he wasn't awake when I started asking around, but eventually I was sent to the Herald's Rest - it seemed a tavern was among the "must-haves" at this early stage of Skyhold's development - where he was eating breakfast. The barkeep directed me to him: a dim corner on the second floor. I found him sitting with his shoulders hunched against either the cold or the morning, his back to the room.
He was paying no attention at all, and so it was a simple matter to slip in behind him and throw my arms around his shoulders, even allowing for my inability to move silently.
He flinched at the unexpected touch, his hands going to my arms - likely to fling them away or otherwise defend himself - before he recognized me and relaxed marginally. " Fasta vass, Inana, what are you doing ?" he demanded.
"I love you, too," I told him, giving him another squeeze before I took the chair next to him.
His eyes widened and he spent a moment sputtering while I grinned at him. "Have you," he said at last, "somehow mistaken me for a bald elf with appalling taste in clothing?"
"No," I told him, drawing the syllable out and rolling my eyes. "I remember everything you said to me on the mountain before I passed out," I explained. "And...I love you, too. Lathan ma, not ar lath ma - in a family or clan way."
Another long moment passed as he stared at me - and then his eyes cut abruptly away, though I thought, as they did, that I saw a suggestion of moisture. His voice, when he spoke, was thick with emotion: "Well, that is a relief. I would hate to think this was the prelude to propositioning me for some sort of group sex arrangement. Neither of you is my type."
"Elves?" I asked, letting him deflect since he seemed to want to.
"No," he said slowly. "A man with a wardrobe that is the stuff of nightmares, and...a woman."
He said the last two words hesitantly, as though he expected some sort of reaction from me. "That's fair," I told him. "I would be thrown off by the 'human' thing, I think. Dalish are taught that romantic attachments to humans in particular - but anyone who isn't an elf - are a profound betrayal of our culture and history."
Dorian cleared his throat delicately, and I wasn't actually certain he had heard my words. "It doesn't bother you?"
"Your obsession with fashion? No more than it bothers me about Josephine and Leliana," I said, knowing that probably wasn't the part he had meant simply based on the way he had phrased it. It seemed equally absurd to take issue with either of his two objections, though.
He fixed me with a flat stare. "No, Inana - the other part."
"Why would it?" I asked. "You like men and I like older elves without hair who could probably stand to throw out at least pieces of clothing they never bothered to hem. Some of his tunic sleeves are unraveling at an alarming rate. Bull likes redheads. Sera likes women, I think. It's all the same."
"Every piece of clothing that man owns is an affront to good taste, and I will not back down from that position," Dorian told me with a little more equanimity. "And...thank you."
I took his hand. "Don't thank me. It's - there's no forbearance on my part. It doesn't affect me at all, and so having no opinion on the subject is an incredibly low bar to clear."
"It is entirely too early in the morning to be speaking of this," he declared, though he made no attempt to take his hand from me. "You at least seem much happier than you have...recently."
"Since Haven," I specified for him. "I talked through some things that, it turns out, needed to be said very badly. I wouldn't call things fixed , but they are better."
"Good. Have you had breakfast?"
"No," I answered.
"Then for goodness' sake, go get something to eat!" he ordered me, pushing my hand away.
I smiled and did as he instructed.
Unfortunately, I only got through half the meal before a runner came, asking me to join my advisors in the war room.
That wasn't a summons I could refuse, so I wished Dorian a pleasant morning and hurried off to learn what sort of disaster had befallen us this time.
The answer was: more missing soldiers, this time in the Fallow Mire. They had actually been missing for most of two weeks, but no one had been able to find any clues to their whereabouts until Scout Harding had arrived two days before, and I didn't want to think about how she had managed to get down to the area so fast. Changing horses often had probably helped, but I imagined she had slept very little. A message had arrived from her early in the morning: she believed she knew where the soldiers were being kept, but I was being challenged to personal combat by some Avvar chieftain, and our soldiers' lives hung in the balance.
"We know you have only just returned," Josehine said hesitantly.
"I'll go," I reassured her - reassured them all. "There's not much choice, is there? That far south, though…" I studied the map. "It will be cold, and wetlands are inevitable breeding grounds for illness. I'll need a large team in case some members become incapacitated."
"Agreed," Cullen said swiftly. "Wetlands are the worst place for...most things, really. Take anyone you think will be of use."
I made a mental list in Josephine's office as I waited for runners to arrive: Bull, Cassandra, and Blackwall should all be there. Varric I would leave behind simply because I didn't want to deal with his inevitable complaints, but Sera and Cole should go. Vivienne - ha! No. Dorian would go if I asked, but Solas and I would probably be sufficient for mages, and I knew how much Dorian would hate slogging through a freezing mire. I decided to spare him the trip.
After sending runners to all the relevant people, I went back to my tent to begin packing things that had only been unpacked for me the day before. At least all of my clothing and armor had been cleaned - Skyhold had a working and apparently very efficient laundry set up.
I was shoving things into saddle bags when Dorian came to find me.
"I see how it is," he said from outside my tent. I poked my head out to find him standing with crossed arms. "This morning it was 'I love you, Dorian' and now you're planning a trip without me."
I blinked at him for a moment, trying to decide if he was actually offended. "You...do know where we're going, right?"
"I hardly see how that signifies," he sniffed.
"The Fallow Mire. It's ten days south of here." I paused for the implications to sink in. "I actually thought I was sparing you and your impeccable wardrobe. You're welcome to come if you really want to."
He frowned, maybe considering just how much he really wanted to traipse around a muddy, freezing mire when he had been offered a way out, but then his chin came up. "I want to."
"All right, pack your gear. We leave in an hour," I instructed him.
I was third to the stable, behind Blackwall, who was apparently sleeping there, and Cole, who had no need to pack anything. Dennet was waiting for me, not quite bouncing on the balls of his feet, but certainly moving somewhat restlessly. "I have something to show you," he said without preamble, and led me to a stall that was a least four times the size of Solas's closet room.
It held a hart.
"Oh," I breathed. "Is he for me?"
Behind me, Dennet chuckled. "I thought something more...regal, surer-footed, with some ability to physically defend you was more appropriate for the Inquisitor - especially the elven Inquisitor - than a horse, no matter how good my stock is."
I held out my hand to the beautiful animal, and he deigned to snuffle it. "Does he have a name?" I asked Dennet.
"No, choosing one is entirely up to you. Let me have one of the kids saddle him for you. Just leave your bags here and they'll get distributed."
After depositing my bags, I wandered back into the stable's main room, wondering if riding a hart would be very different from riding a halla or a horse. Some clans, I understood, kept them as riding beasts, but mine didn't.
"He likes the way you smell," Cole told me helpfully as I began assisting Blackwall in putting away what looked to be woodworking tools. I hadn't known he liked woodworking. "Like old trust transposed from populous palaces packed with people to the fresh, fragrant fields and forests where his foremothers frolicked."
"The hart?" I asked Cole.
"His blood is as old, and yet as fresh and new, as yours," the spirit told me, jerking his head in an affirmative I could only see because he still radiated spirit so strongly.
"Never understand a damn thing he says," Blackwall muttered.
"It's said by my people that the first harts were tamed and bred by the elves of Arlathan," I told the Warden, handing him the last of the tools and watching as he tied their pouch closed. "I think maybe that's what Cole is referencing? He needs a name - the hart I mean," I added.
"Shouldn't put that off," Blackwall agreed, shooting me a small smile. "Never ride an unnamed horse, myself. Something goes wrong and you end up trying to catch it, somehow it's that much worse when you don't have a name to call it by."
I grinned. It wasn't a point I had considered, but I imagined it was true. If the hart liked the smell of wild places on me… "Maybe Sylalhan," I said after trying out a few other arrangements in my head, searching for a rhythm I liked.
"Oh yes," Cole said approvingly. "It still breathes in him - he wants to believe it breathes in him - even though he and his kind have left it behind for the warmth of gentle hands and good food."
"I guess it's Elvish," Blackwall said, shooting me a smile. "Elvish always sounds like - like wind in the trees or running water. What's it mean?"
"Breath of the Wild," I translated.
Blackwall gave a grunt and a sharp nod. "That is the kind of thing a creature like him would appreciate - if he actually understands any of it."
"The words she whispers match the shape of her lips," Cole said in a murmur. "Delicate, dainty, delightful - "
Bull and Cassandra arrived together, then, arguing amiably - and loudly, on Bull's end - over something, so it was easy to pretend I hadn't heard Cole's final words, which I suspected were from Blackwall's thoughts, given the redness of his ears. Sera was next, somehow both grumpy at being dragged along and also pleased that I was headed out to personally rescue a handful of captured soldiers. Solas was on her heels, apologies on his lips - he had been doing hasty research on what herbs we might expect to find the Fallow Mire, and he had several bags of alchemical supplies to bring along. Drying wouldn't be a particularly viable preservation method if the area was as wet as it sounded. Dorian was last, walking with Varric, who radiated smugness, even though I was too far away to see his expression with perfect clarity
"Hope you have a spell to get ride of mud stains, Sparkler, because you're probably gonna need it," he teased Dorian, leaning lazily against the entry before deigning to notice the rest of us. "Anyone wanna place bets against undead being involved somehow?"
"With rifts and demons involved?" I replied. "We're not idiots, Varric. What odds would you give me on a plague?"
"Absolutely not," he scoffed. "It's a swamp - there's always a plague in a swamp."
"Not technically a swamp," Solas protested quietly from the other side of the stable, where he was fiddling with the burdens our packhorse was already carrying - presumably tying some of his gear on, though I couldn't see what it was from that distance.
"Do I even want to know about the distinction you're trying to draw, Chuckles?"
"Probably not," I replied for Solas, "but a swamp has a forest canopy. If the Fallow Mire lacks that, it's probably either a bog or fen. Maybe a marsh."
"Bog, based on the plants found there," Solas said.
"Oh good," I sighed, "then it will definitely be wet. Bogs form because of rainfall rather than the collection of groundwater."
"I'm so disappointed to be missing out," Varric said, his voice once again revealing his smug pleasure at being left behind. "Someone keep track of how often Sparkler complains about his hair getting messy, and we can work out afterward how many complaints he averaged per hour. Anyone want to put down bets?"
"Sovereign on four - no five times," Sera said without turning around.
"Oh come now," Dorian protested, "five times an hour! I don't think you're taking into account the number of hours I'll be sleeping an unable to complain about anything!"
"I am," Bull rumbled. "Two royals on six."
I had mercy on him. "I'll take one royal on four."
"Two royals on seven," Blackwall called out.
"I hate you all," Dorian grumbled.