CW: brief, non-explicit sex.

Dalish

"Ah - greetings."

It was the same dream of Solas I had been having for weeks, though it had changed slightly since its first several repetitions. His skin was still wrong, somehow, but now it seemed to flicker on the edge of my vision with patterns I could nearly make out, at least until I tried to focus on them.

"Solas," the dream went on as I tried to understand what I was almost seeing in his face. "It isn't all you are, you know."

"I am quite sensible of that fact. I have left all chance of such purity of purpose in the past."

"Yes - when you grew beyond your childhood and became a man." Then I added a relatively new statement, one that I had only heard once before, the last time I had dreamt this: "You say it as though purity of purpose is somehow inherently desirable."

"Childhood?" he asked. "Is that how you see it? Though purity of purpose may not be inherently desirable, neither is any increase in complexity. Both have their places - but when one's character is suited to simplicity, it shouldn't be bent toward complexity."

"But our characters are naturally malleable," I argued right back. "I know, in your case, it wasn't your choice, and that is tragic - but many are thrust into maturity by circumstance rather than choosing to step into it, aren't they? The result can still be worthwhile. Beautiful."

"It wasn't maturity," Solas snapped, the argument ending up in the same place despite the additions, before composing himself and taking a breath. "You cannot possibly appreciate what I lost."

"Can't I? I am on the point of taking that step myself."

"As long as she asks it of you." For the briefest moment, on the word she , a branching pattern seemed to spread itself across his face - and then it was gone and, though I remembered finding it familiar, I could no longer recall its exact configuration. I could have wept with frustration.

My head tilted, and I repeated his words back to him: "Is that how you see it? She didn't - doesn't," I added as his eyes narrowed. "She is, in fact, terrified by the idea, especially now, but I think it may be time for both of us to grow up, before she becomes so reliant on me that - that I forget who I am instead of growing into it."

He stared at me with dawning horror, though I still didn't know why. My dream-self evidently did, and reached out a comforting hand to brush his cheek. For the first time, I was so focused on his face that my hand's insubstantiality hardly even registered.

It seemed to take a long time for my fingers to reach his skin. "I'm asking for this, Solas. She won't let me be - "

I touched him at last, and Mythal's vallaslin seemed to spread from my touch, until his face was covered with the familiar branching tree pattern. Though the pattern was one I knew very well, the delicate blue-silver shimmer of it was unlike any vallaslin I had ever seen.

That shocked me awake.

I sat up in bed, breathing hard, mind spinning. In the next moment, Solas was sitting up beside me, and though I could tell by the way his head kept trying to settle on my shoulder that he was at least half asleep, he still gathered me close - assuming, no doubt, that I had had a nightmare. He said things in soft, fluid Elvish, and I didn't know all the words he used.

All at once, the weight of everything I didn't know about him threatened to crush me.

"Solas, were you born Dalish?" I asked in a rush, wishing desperately that it could be that simple.

His arms froze around me as he came all the way awake. "No," he answered quietly. "What would make you think such a thing, ma vhenan?"

For the first time, there was a hint of bite in the endearment. I had to tell him part of the truth, at least - he would no doubt sense a lie as easily as I could. I pulled my knees against my chest, clinging to them and trying not to consider the difference between arms enfolding me lovingly and caging me in place. "I had a dream of you wearing vallaslin," I explained.

"The Dalish were not the first to wear vallaslin, nor are they the only ones to do so now," he told me a little stiffly.

"I know that," I replied, hiding my face against my knees. "Are you - are you ever going to tell me who you are and where you're from?"

"Is it important? Must it be?" he asked bitterly. "Regardless of my past, I am who I am. What weight can my place of origin hold?"

"I don't know!" My nails bit sharply into the skin of my arms. "My dreams seem to think it matters. It isn't as though I asked them to taunt me with your secrets."

He exhaled slowly, his breath stirring my hair. "No, of course not - ir abelas." His hands found mine, coaxing my tense fingers to relax and then passing a whisper of healing across my arms where my nails had dug in. "I don't imagine I will get free of this life without revealing most - perhaps all - of the truth to you," he told me. "Nor will I blame you if discovering it changes your view of me past hope of repairing."

The despair that I knew he struggled to keep in check tried to break free, and I found I regretted bringing it up at all. It had been a moment of thoughtlessness on my part. I already knew that no matter how it hurt him - and it did - he wasn't going to tell me anything unless forced, and I didn't want to force him. Not really. Not outside of…half-awake moments of fear and frustration. "Thu avy tua i'tel ma vhenan?" I asked, turning toward him to lay my head on his shoulder.

He choked, a shudder passing through him, and all at once he was pressing me back down against the bed. My words had only made it worse, somehow. "Jutuas," he whispered. "Ryan dhrua jutuas. Tel'rosan'sule'din dana sast alin rahn lathan." He slid down my body as he spoke, and before I could even begin to form a reply, his mouth was fastened between my legs.

"Solas," I gasped as his tongue began to stroke me, "I - " I hadn't been finished with that conversation, even though I didn't know what I might have said, beyond apologizing. I didn't even know how I had hurt him. But - perhaps he already understood, and was doing what he needed to calm himself. Tasting me and feeling my pleasure echoing across our bond seemed to be steadying him. Despair began to recede, which was, after all, what I had wanted. "Ar lath ma," I told him instead of protesting. My fingers caressed his bare head and the edges of his ears. "Ar lath ma."

It was near dawn before he let me drift back to sleep, held tightly to his chest, and I didn't dream again.

When I woke he was gone, but easy enough to find: once I had bathed and dressed, the first servant I met directed me to the rotunda, where he was either plastering another section of wall or painting it - I didn't get close enough to see. In the kitchen they told me that he hadn't yet requested breakfast, so I brought up a plate of jam pastries and two peeled eggs with my own breakfast and quietly left it for him. He didn't seem to notice my presence, and I didn't draw attention to it, content to know that he was doing something he enjoyed. Then I went to Josephine's office to start my day by hearing about which disasters my advisors required my input on.

There were a number of items to go over. Someone was writing in Varric's name, using his Hard in Hightown characters, and making a mess of it, which wasn't new, but was a problem with new developments. I didn't strictly need to say anything about it - Josephine just wanted to ensure I knew what was happening, in case it came up for some reason.

Josephine and Leliana also wanted to make overtures to Serault, an Orlesian marquisate with an important glassworks, but they were divided on how to do so. Cullen couldn't possibly have cared less, so I had to be the tie-breaker. There was an additional matter about pursuing Orlesian nobles slandering the Inquisition as though they were being paid by the word - and spending enough money that it appeared they were being paid well, at that. Josephine assured me that exposing one would be enough - more would apparently constitute some sort of misstep within the Game. She and Leliana wanted my opinion regarding which noble they should pursue.

Sera wanted us to locate a man who sold bees specifically bred to be weaponized, a proposition that thrilled none of my advisors. I talked them into doing it anyway - Sera was occasionally mad, but usually good at killing things. If she thought weaponized bees were a viable strategy, I was inclined to let her try. It wouldn't cost many resources, though I told them to make certain she was given a bee-keeper's suit in addition to the bees. I wasn't entirely certain it was the sort of thing she would think of on her own.

By the time I left the war room, it was nearing midday. Though hungry, I again went to the rotunda first, to see if Solas had managed to eat anything yet. Had his breakfast still been there, I would have interrupted him. Thankfully, only crumbs remained on the plate, and so I didn't intrude. Instead, I took the empty plate and headed down to the kitchen to find meals for both of us, and then brought his back up, intending to leave it for him.

He was cleaning his brushes, though, when I returned. "On dhea'him, ma vhenan," he greeted me, and so I set down the plate of bread, cheese, and sliced fruit that I had brought for him, and then approached. It was only as I got close that I realized he had stripped off his shirt and tunic, and was bare to the waist.

"Savhalla, arasha," I replied, my eyes lingering on his shoulders, the planes of his chest, and the ridges of muscle cording his abdomen.

He glanced at me, amused, and I knew that he knew exactly where my mind had gone. I told myself that, given how much time we spent in bed together, it wasn't worth blushing over - but my cheeks heated anyway. "I'm surprised you don't have half a dozen servants in here admiring your work - or admiring you while you work."

"I was surprised when I observed two women watching me from above earlier while they knitted. Most servants typically have better things to do with their free time than watch me paint," he told me.

"So you did have admirers," I confirmed, grinning.

"I - yes," he admitted looking embarrassed, "though I confess it has been some considerable time since I was last referred to as a handsome young man."

His tone as he said it was so meticulously neutral that I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. "You know," I said after a moment spent composing myself, "if we had had this conversation yesterday, I wouldn't have had to ask if you were born Dalish."

"Oh?"

"You can't be that old, Solas," I informed him, rolling my eyes. "You may be my hahren, but no self-respecting clan elder would ever admit you were more than just past adolescence."

His eyebrows arched expressively, but he covered the sound he made by pretending to cough into his hand. "Shall we eat?" he asked, putting aside the brush he had been working on and wiping his hands.

I agreed, chuckling at his discomfort, and sat myself on his desk so that he could use the chair, resting my feet on his knee when he sat down. While we ate, I told him about Varric's publishing woes. At first I was surprised he hadn't heard about it, but then realized that Varric likely didn't want any of our companions acquiring the fraudulent book for the purpose of torturing him. It was something I wouldn't put past either Dorian or Sera.

After we had finished, Solas told me he had something for me. I tried to protest: "Solas, you're painting an entire room for me. You really don't need - "

"Hush, and close your eyes," he instructed, positioning my hand with the palm turned upward, ready to receive whatever he meant to give me.

I obeyed, and a moment later something heavy and cool dropped into my hand. My eyes snapped open and I looked down at it. A...key?

"For my room," Solas told me. "So the next time you are drunk in the hours before dawn, you may wait for me within."

There was no choice but to push him under his scaffolding after that so I could express my appreciation in fervent kisses. And I did - at least until Dorian called down from the library to loudly wonder what we were doing under there, forcing me to come out. At that point he informed me he was going to the Herald's Rest, and that I was joining him.

I looked helplessly back at Solas, who only responded by reminding me that he had a limited time in which to complete the section of the fresco he was working on.

Dorian laughed at Solas's defection - or at least the expression on my face - and then descended to triumphantly claim my arm.

"Do you often go to the tavern in the middle of the day?" I asked him.

"As often as I can manage," he replied lightly.

"All right - then why do you need me along this time?"

He didn't - or at least he didn't need me specifically. I began to understand when I heard Bull's booming voice and Dorian failed to draw me up to the balcony where he usually preferred to sit. Then Bull, to Dorian's evident satisfaction, called us over. "Hey Boss, come have a drink and officially meet some of my boys! You too, Dorian."

Dorian and I made our way over the corner they occupied. "What're you having? Just kidding - all we got is ale."

"Not the dwarven one?" Dorian asked with a shudder, pulling over a chair.

"Nah, some Orlesian crap. Tastes nice, but probably won't get you drunk," he replied.

Dorian tapped my shoulder and indicated that I should take the chair. "Oh, thank you," I told him.

"Well, let's see - you already know Krem-de-la-Krem - "

"Afternoon, Your Worship," the soldier greeted me, handing me a tankard of ale. "Sorry you have to be the one he hits with that joke."

"Well...I suppose there are worse places to go with 'Cremisius,'" I offered.

"Yeah, and the Chief has probably been to all of them," Krem replied dryly. "He loves his nicknames."

Dorian pulled up another chair and settled beside me - somehow he had acquired a cup of wine, which I might have protested had the Rest served good wine. The ale wasn't bad - smooth and just slightly sweet, though nothing like the fruit wines my people made. We didn't have grain to ferment.

"Hey," Bull told his lieutenant, "when I was growing up, my name was just this series of numbers. We all give each other nicknames under the Qun."

"They ever wear shirts under the Qun, Chief?" Krem fired back before I could ask any more about names and the Qun. "Or do they just run around binding their breasts like that?"

There was a ripple of laughter as Bull replied flatly: "It's a harness, Krem."

"Yes, for your pillowy man-bosoms," the lieutenant agreed sagely. Beside me, Dorian snorted a laugh into his cup. "Let me know if you need help binding. You could really chisel something out of that overstuffed look."

Something snapped into place. "Ah, you're an ishan'lan," I realized.

"What?" Krem asked.

"That's the Elvish term I'm translating from when I tell you that you have a man's spirit," Dalish put in from somewhere beyond Bull.

"It means...masculine, but with a woman's blood," I told him. "Or that's the best translation I can make, anyway - your blood dictates that your body grew as female, but your spirit is that of a man." I looked towards Dalish, though I couldn't really see her. "Did your clan play the game where you tried to remember whether you showed up as a boy or a girl or something else entirely in the Fade when you were a child?" I asked.

"Well, my Keeper didn't make it a game - but yes," she replied. "I've told you that there are five genders among the Dalish, haven't I?" she asked Krem. "Well - five or six, depending on how you count."

"'Equally male and female' and 'neither male nor female' both use neutral pronouns," I agreed, "so they're often placed together."

"That's interesting," Bull said. "In Qunadar, Krem'd be an aqun-athlok. That's what we call someone born one gender but living like another."

"And Qunari and Dalish don't treat those people any differently than real men?" Krem asked.

"They are real men," Bull and I said at the same time. Then he added: "Just like you are."

"Spirit is more important than flesh," Dalish added in a sing-song. "You don't have to be twisted and hideous to be an abomination, and you don't have to have a cock to be a man." She laughed through her nose. "Though you might have to be a cock."

"Fourth mage in your clan?" I asked Dalish. A few clans expelled extra mages, or did so if the clan's fourth mage received vallaslin more than a few years before an Arlathvhen was likely to be held. Exchanging clan members was riddled with difficulties outside of an Arlathvhen.

"I'm not a mage," she protested slyly. "That'd make me an apostate."

"You carry a staff, Dalish," Bull told her flatly.

"It's a bow," she insisted.

"A bow with a giant glowing crystal at the tip?" Krem asked.

"Yes," she replied crisply, "it's for aiming. Old elven trick. You wouldn't understand."

"I believe all mages are technically apostates now," I pointed out, "so if you were to discover you've been instinctively using magic in your archery, that really wouldn't be a problem. Not here, anyway," I told her, but didn't press the issue further.

"A Dalish mage as the Inquisitor?" Dorian commented. "Can't get much safer than that."

I asked about the rest of the members of the company who were present - Rocky, the exiled dwarf from Orzammar who acted as their sapper; Stitches, the healer, formerly a farmboy from Ferelden and an accomplished alchemist, though his magic was nearly nonexistent; Skinner, a city elf from somewhere in Orlais who enjoyed killing "shems"; and Grim, whose story was unclear and who answered questions mostly in terse grunts. I told Skinner she should probably talk to Sera, and immediately had second thoughts - but too late. I almost trusted them to direct their mischief at the proper targets, but decided I should, at some point, probably warn Josephine what I had done.

Dorian and I spent the afternoon with them, drinking and listening to stories of their adventures, until Solas came to find me and let me know I had missed dinner.

Thu avy tua i'tel ma vhenan?: How would I go on without my heart?

Jutuas. Ryan dhrua jutuas. Tel'rosan'sule'din dana sast alin rahn lathan.: You will go on. I must believe you will go on. I cannot endure destroying anything else I love.

On dhea'him: Good day

Savhalla, arasha: Greetings, my joy