They'd been arguing the entire time.
The 'why' and 'what about' weren't important – they'd touched on everything from the weather to the condition of the backpacks – it was just the sort of petty, pointless, bickering that tended to bubble to the surface after days spent stewing in minor irritations. There'd been no shortage of them on this journey, and they were long past the point where an offhand joke or clever quip could ease the tension. Now every jab was delivered with the full intent of making things worse on purpose.
Solas could find fault in just about anything, if motivated, and Ellana never hesitated to give back as good as she got. If a point was capable of supporting two sides, they found a way to take opposing ones; arguing circles around each other and yet somehow gaining no ground. The more sure he was about something, the deeper she dug her heels in. And once she'd succeeded at getting under his skin she refused to let go. She would sooner beat a point to death before she let him win it.
Solas was very good at falling into this pattern with those he bore no particular affection for, but with Ellana he was a master.
There were a few theories as to why she went so far out of her way to rile him up – and why he so readily engaged with it – but none anyone was willing to speak aloud. Especially this far south, where any suggestion of bed-sharing would've had to be a matter of survival over seduction. There was a point at which the cold could discourage even the most clever innuendo, and that point was the border between the Dales and the Highlands. They'd spent the better half of ten days in it, picking their way across the frigid wastes of Emprise du Lion at an agonising pace on their way to the recaptured Suledin Keep.
This high, this cold, no one was volunteering to shed layers. Not even as a joke.
Not that it would've made a difference – the problem was never the tension. Rather, it was that Ellana had vowed (several times now) never to return to the area, and she was not particularly pleased to see that promise broken. Everyone had their least favourite locales. Hated for a wide variety of different reasons. The Iron Bull came down with the flu every time he'd visited The Fallow Mire, Solas was extremely reluctant to return to The Hissing Wastes after several brushes with death, and Dorian never stopped complaining about the shoes he'd ruined stomping around the Hinterlands' muddy lowlands.
For Ellana, the worst was anywhere that required the use of winter gear.
It had been said before, and often: the lower the temperature, the shorter her temper. She did not do well with the cold. Emprise du Lion was the one of the few places nobody wanted to accompany her to (and nobody would've, had they any say in the matter). Unfortunately, it was out of their hands.
The Inquisitor had been tasked to travel with a party made up of anyone who possessed even passing familiarity with red lyrium. Their knowledge was required to help look into some unusual activity near one of the mining operations previously controlled by the Venatori. Since liberating the area, the Inquisition's forces had been hard at work dismantling and destroying what was left behind… but had hit an unexpected snag.
Work was slow-going with respect to the risk of being in such close proximity to lyrium. There were rules limiting group size and hours spent. A nearby hall was repurposed into a community lodge where workers gathered at the end of the day for food, warmth, and company. Anyone with symptoms of exposure were required to leave the site immediately and find a bed there for observation. Yet in spite of the precautions, reports kept coming in of strange behaviour: fever, delirium, paranoia, and memory loss.
While the effects of red lyrium were well documented, camp medics began to doubt it was to blame after a pair of soldiers – neither of whom had been anywhere near it – went missing while out on patrol. It took days before they were found stripped of all their belongings, huddled together, dying of exposure in a cave leagues from camp. So addled by exhaustion and hypothermic delirium that it took a week to stabilise them.
Neither could speak to the circumstances of their disappearance. From their perspective it was as though they'd been walking the route one minute, and lying in the infirmary the next, with no memory of what happened between.
It made for an interesting mystery, but not one that required the Inquisitor's hand to solve. That changed once someone suggested there may be a connection to some local folklore about old spirits, caves, and 'the vengeance of the Elves'. Immediately the entire operation ground to a halt, with everyone convinced 'haunted caves' were to blame. What began as quaint superstition quickly spiralled into prevailing theory.
To assuage workers' fears, residents of a nearby settlement were questioned about the stories, but what little they were willing to share was vague. They were told to honour old traditions by bringing offerings to any cave they could not avoid (presumably, to appease whatever occupied them), and then move on as quickly as possible. "Do not linger carelessly," said the elders, "or pay disrespect to those who came before, lest you fall into a dream from which you cannot wake."
In lieu of any better option, agents of the Keep followed the advice: gifts of gold, food, and wine were left nearby. Some particularly enterprising volunteers even played music. But no measurable result was ever seen. Meanwhile, clean-up efforts continued to fall further and further behind. Eventually necessitating a message sent to the Inquisition begging the Herald's aid in case lyrium exposure (or lyrium-empowered demon) was truly behind it all.
Her hand was forced. There was no way out of it. And since setting out from Skyhold's gates hardly an hour had passed without complaint or argument. Most, aimed squarely at Solas.
For their beleaguered audience the only reprieve was in the entertainment value. No one could pull rank above the Inquisitor (not that she'd have listened), and any attempt to redirect them resulted in being dragged in. Listening to the pair snipe at each other for hours at a time was enough to drive even the most patient to the brink of violence, but at the very least they tended to stick to the same patterns… making it predictable enough to allow for a creative outlet: gambling.
It was reasoned that if neither of them had a chance of emerging victorious, someone else might as well get something out of the experience.
Bets were especially valuable on afternoons like this one, where it was clear Ellana had been provoking Solas on purpose. Picking fights, ignoring advice, or choosing paths (be they of conversation or travel) that she knew he did not care for. While she never set out with the intention of making him a target, Solas was always happy to become the most appealing one by grace of a short temper only ever on display with her. He never failed to rise to the occasion.
Fortunately, their journey was nearly at its end. After nearly two weeks of tense, miserable, frost-bitten, travel led by a pair perpetually on the verge of coming to blows, there was only half a day's trek left to the lodge. Mere hours from the comfort of a warm fire, soft beds, and most importantly, a reprieve from the noise. They'd stay at the workhouse the first night to connect with the labourers, then move on to the Keep the day after.
By all estimates they should've been there already. And would have, if not for Ellana's sudden and bewildering insistence they take a 'quick detour' to follow up on a shard sighting.
It took an hour to pick their way down the icy walls of a ravine and carve a winding path through the snow capable of being followed back. Thirty minutes more to reach the site of an old, buried, mine where she was absolutely sure she'd seen a shine from. Another twenty (and counting) spent trying to actually find the damn thing.
All of it complemented by a heated argument about whether or not it was worth stopping for.
Solas had suggested – in turns politely, and then not so politely – that they turn around and come back later. Ensure they arrive at the lodge by sundown to avoid spending another night in sub-zero temperatures. In all likelihood their investigation would take them here anyway, he argued, and there was no reason not to simply wait until then to search the area. Additionally they'd all be in much better condition for it after a night or two of proper rest.
Ellana argued that they look now because no one was going to want to do it later. Which was also a fair point.
Support swung overwhelmingly in Solas' favour once they passed the thirty minute mark and still had nothing to show for it. It was Dorian who finally broached the idea that what she'd seen could've just been the sun reflecting off a particularly shiny patch of ice.
Or a dropped canteen.
Or a piece of armour.
Or one of dozens of other possibilities that didn't require a search this thorough.
She was surprisingly receptive – if only because it was Dorian – and very nearly gave in… until Solas turned the issue into a matter of pride by accusing her of having concocted the whole thing just to punish him for getting on her nerves.
At which point even Varric's patience with him was wearing a little thin.
For his drain on morale Solas was banished to the back of the party, barred from both participating in the search and offering any further suggestion on it. He stood with arms folded and one hip cocked against the rock wall, watching in silent disapproval as Ellana roped Dorian into giving her boosts up onto his shoulders.
A good climber on any day, spite had made her into an expert. She'd managed to get half-way up the ravine wall in a matter of minutes, aiming for the wooden supports high above the mouth of the old mine. It had been intentionally collapsed and abandoned long ago, citing safety reasons, but the supportive scaffolding around it remained. Over the years a layer of ice had formed, thick enough now to nearly encase it, impeding her ascent.
Low on options (and patience), Ellana was reduced to blindly waving her marked hand around, trying to detect the low hum of magic that would tell her if a shard was near. Varric and Dorian stood on the ground nearby, half-heartedly directing her to better handholds during breaks in conversation. Another ten minutes passed before Solas deigned to break his silence and remind her of all the time she'd wasted. Going as far as to call the whole thing, 'folly'.
"I could see the mine from the upper plateau and the glint was right above it!" she snapped back at him. "I'll let it go once I search the rest of this area!"
"If you cannot reasonably climb any higher, then the search has already concluded," he reasoned curtly.
Unnoticed by the pair, Dorian offered quiet lament. "I really thought they'd make it half an hour that time." Varric could give him only an exhausted look in reply.
Solas started pacing again. What thin patience he had for the venture was long spent. "This is absurd. Dally here any longer and we will be forced to set camp. We are too near the caves. Without knowing what truth there is to these rumours, if any, stopping here would put us all at needless risk. Aside, the integrity of those supports is dangerously poor. Even if there were something here, which I sincerely doubt, it's unlikely you could retrieve it without risking further damage."
"It's held up this long already – my weight isn't going to make a difference," she countered. "Varric, help me out here, you said you saw something when I first pointed it out?"
Rarely did she resort to pulling others in. She was losing steam.
He threw up his hands, "Hey, I said maybe!" he protested. "And that was almost two hours ago. The longer we spend here the more convinced I am that it was just a shiny rock."
"Back me up and I'll give you twenty sovereigns."
Under his breath, "Why not a hundred?" muttered Solas. "A thousand would not change the fact that there is nothing there."
"Varric, come on."
"I'm not taking sides. You two have been at each other's throats all week and I'd like to keep my head, thanks."
"Coward."
He sputtered a laugh, the first among them that day. "Better a coward than thrown in a rift!"
Ellana could not spare a hand to give him the response she meant to, as both were needed to secure her position, and so merely made a series of grumbling, frustrated, noises before returning to her task. With chest pressed flat to the wall and her fingers jammed into the crevices as an anchor, she pulled herself along on her toes. Inching, slowly, along the thin ledge toward a section of scaffolding that hung just low enough to reach.
When the next gap proved too wide to cross she was forced to switch tactics. With her bow held in one hand, she stretched it out as far as she could to use it as a sweep to clear the frozen beams. Aiming to find her prize beneath. Unfortunately, all that did was disturb a row of icicles far above, which in turn displaced a dump of snow. When it fell, some found a way under her collar and melted down her spine. She wriggled uncomfortably, letting out a strangled yelp that was immediately followed by a quiet huff of laughter.
Solas' laughter.
She grit her teeth, "Go on you insufferable, self-righteous, know-it-all," she muttered. Low, so not to carry to his ears. "When I finally find this fucking thing I will make you carry it all the way back to Skyhold around your neck, you absolute–"
Something caught her eye. Just above the area she'd just cleared, where the snow had fallen away: there were deep grooves carved in the stone. While she could not quite see their shape, there were too many that were too evenly spaced to have been left naturally.
It might not be a shard, but it was interesting.
"I think I found something!" she called over one shoulder. She pointed with the bow. "Over ere, in the rock. What is this? Is it writing?"
Varric and Dorian paused their conversation. They looked at Ellana. Then back to each other, standing in expectant silence. Each hoping the other would take it upon themselves to be the one to volunteer their opinion.
Once it was clear neither intended to, Dorian rolled his eyes and heaved a loud, long-suffering, sigh. He cupped his hands around his brow to block the sun's glare as he approached the wall beneath Ellana's position, near enough to get a better look at where she'd indicated.
A moment passed before, abruptly, his arms, face, and shoulders fell. "Kaffas," he cursed, and turned a sour look on Varric. "I think she's right. It's writing. Maker, we'll never get her down now."
The dwarf rubbed the back of his neck and laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it wasn't. With a sigh of his own, "Alright Freckles – you win!" he conceded. "What's it say? Can you read it?"
Ellana glanced between him and the wall, frowning. The angle was too sharp for a complete picture, and with her literacy still developing what little she could make out was not enough for a confident guess. "No – I can't get a good enough look to even tell what language it's in."
"What do the letters look like?"
She considered. "Loopy?"
"What kind of loopy?" Dorian piped in. Varric gave him an incredulous look, which he answered with a quick, "I mean, does it look like the loops are connected? Like cursive?"
"Who would go through the trouble of carving into a wall in cursive?"
"I– nevermind, that's a fair point," he conceded. Then, to Ellana, "Could you try drawing it? In the air – large enough that we can see. Perhaps we can figure it out without having to send anyone else up there with you."
Ellana anchored herself to the wall as securely as she was able; and moving in slow, deliberate, strokes, she began to trace the characters in the air. There were a few false starts – pausing, reversing, and correcting as needed – but soon enough she got the hang of it and a clear pattern emerged. Each letter repeated three times before she moved on for the next.
She didn't get far enough to need a method of differentiating letters from words before Varric interrupted her. "Wait, go back one," he cut in. "Yeah – that one! Do it again." He turned to Dorian and drew the same shape for him. "Does this look like an 'a' to you?"
Varric repeated it three times, as Ellana had, before, "It looks like a cat," Dorian remarked. And to his bewildered expression, clarified, "The way someone would draw a cat's face, I mean. With the ears here… and the loopy mouth!" He demonstrated with his fingers.
At first Varric didn't say anything.
Then, "What kind of cats do you have in Tevinter?" he asked.
But before Dorian could reply there came another sigh. This one from somewhere off behind them, deep and world-weary.
Solas cut between them, muttering a dark, "It is Elvish," as he passed.
He marched to the base of the wall with all the petulant disdain of a punished child. Tucked his staff into a loop on his pack, picked a suitably clear spot, and started climbing.
Ellana watched his approach with guarded interest, but frowned deeply once he started an ascent. "What are you doing?" It was more of an exclamation than a question. "There's no room up here!"
His response was ground out between handholds. "Then I suggest you move aside."
From there, things quickly descended into another argument. This time on whether it was better to have her continue to try and convey the writing of a language she had almost no ability to read or speak in, versus having Solas simply switch places with her and attempt the translation himself. A relatively simple problem with an otherwise obvious solution, only complicated by the fact that she had no desire to move now that her search had actually uncovered something. The find was interesting and represented a win for her; she was hesitant to cede the claim to someone else.
Back on the ground, Varric chuckled thinly, the sound trailing into a sigh as he sidled up next to Dorian. He gave his hip a quick tap for attention and gestured with his chin. "You think maybe if we threw them in a locked room for a few hours things might work themselves out?"
Dorian scoffed. "A common target might work better than a duel. Wasn't there a report of a dragon around here somewhere? Let's throw them at that. Surely they can't argue while they're dying."
Varric gave a quiet hum. "Not quite what I was getting at."
The two exchanged a sideways glance.
He continued, "Remember that banquet we had two months back? With the Orlesians? That one guy with the lisp talked about his pet lizard the whole night. After dinner Chuckles bumped into her in the crowd. Spilled his wine on her sleeve. And, being such a gentleman, he apologised by offering to escort her to the scullery to help clean up." Varric glanced meaningfully at the pair and back. "I was thinking something more along those lines."
Dorian raised a brow. "You want them to do the laundry?"
"Something tells me 'the laundry' wasn't what was getting done."
Dorian went quiet. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Then, cooly, "That blouse was made of raw silk," he said. "It would've been a crime to let the stain set. It had to be cleaned immediately."
"They were gone for nearly an hour."
"The material alone probably cost more than a new set of leathers. Even Solas could appreciate that."
"Oh, I didn't say he didn't appreciate it."
Their eyes met briefly. Dorian shifted his weight. "And you didn't? The detail work was exquisite. There were cameos carved in every button. Abalone buttons." He pointed at the centre of his chest, where the largest of them had laid on Ellana's – "The one here was carved with the Inquisition's sigil," – then waved dismissively. "Of course you didn't notice."
"I think he did enough noticing for the both of us."
There was a pause.
Eventually, "Mr. Tethras, I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Dorian said. With great care not to give any indication of either his understanding or agreement.
"Right."
They spent a few minutes in companionable silence. Watching Solas' slow, begrudging, climb while Ellana tried her best to discourage him with increasingly vehement protests. Once it was clear they'd been at it long enough to forget they had an audience, Dorian leaned nearer to Varric, raising a hand to stroke his moustache so it would obscure his mouth.
Beneath it he muttered, "But if I did know, I'd say that the atmosphere is a bit chilly to hope for a miracle. At this rate they'll be at it the whole way back, as well."
"The Keep's warm," Varric replied off-handedly. "And who's to say we don't arrive and find there's been a mix-up with the rooms? Only three were prepared, instead of four. Someone would have to share."
"I'd say that's quite the bet you're making."
Varric gave his chin a scratch. "I think I've got enough to bribe a steward…"
Dorian scoffed. "They wouldn't last ten minutes in a room together."
"That'd be the point, Sparkler."
"And you'd never be able to speak to the steward ahead of her. Even if you did, it wouldn't work: it's too brazen!" He shook his head subtly, flicking his eyes between the wall and back. "They wouldn't take the risk."
"In my experience, those are the types who tend to like taking it the most."
The quip took him off guard, and Dorian gave a startled bark of laughter before catching himself. Coughing into a fist to hide the smile. When he'd recovered, "My point still stands," he said. Quieter now, in case other ears had heard him. "Currently they hate each other."
"Sure," Varric replied in such a way as to convey no real agreement, "but I think they'd find a way to work it out, if given the chance." He paused for thought. And dramatic effect. "Care to make a real wager out of it?"
They gave each other an appraising look, eyes meeting only briefly before turning back to the pair in question. Ellana, making wild, one-handed gestures at a wooden support while Solas tried to fit a lecture in each brief pause for breath.
Dorian tilted his head in interest.
Varric's smile widened into a grin. "Fifty says it quiets down before we even get to the Keep."
"Ludicrous."
"Is that a bet?"
"Absolutely."
They sealed it with a handshake. Dorian needed only wiggle the fingers of his hand slipped under the opposite elbow to discreetly extend the invitation. Varric grasped it, shook once, and they locked eyes and dipped chins in acknowledgement of the terms.
But the moment the deal was struck, Dorian's smile turned wicked. One brow playfully quirked as he cupped both hands around his mouth and shouted, "Check that ledge there! To your right! I think I see…" He squinted very convincingly. "Are those marks there, too? Solas, check that side!"
The argument stopped.
Both of them turned – wearing two very different expressions of curiosity and incredulity – to watch Dorian vaguely gesture to an area somewhere northeast of her. Wide and ambiguous enough to encompass anything within a twenty foot radius.
Ellana's cheeks brightened with a triumphant grin.
Solas gave him an absolutely rancorous look.
Varric was giving him one too. "That's cheating," he whispered.
Still smiling, Dorian made a grand, sweeping, gesture with his staff. "No, no, your other right! That's it, somewhere in there!" Adding, under his breath, "You never said we couldn't interfere."
But before Varric could offer a rebuttal there was a sudden, loud, crack that brought the whole scene to a halt. The sound echoed through the ravine, bouncing between the rocky walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once, before finally fading into silence.
For a long moment no one dared to break it. Only listen, without breath or movement.
There were a few quiet tinkles of icicles cracking. The muted thump of some snow falling from a higher edge. But beyond it not a stone was out of place. The scene remained as quiet and still as it had been upon their arrival.
Ellana was the first to break the tension. Letting out a peal of involuntary, nervous, laughter. She got as far as, "I thought that might've been–" before there was another snap. This one very clearly from the beam directly above her. There was a split straight down its middle, the rotted wood bowing outward as it buckled under the weight of ice and rock.
Solas saw it too.
If she moved quickly she could make it to the ledge he was on and they'd be able to dive clear of the worst of it. "To me! Jump!" he cried from below, and gestured frantically. "Now, Inquisitor!"
But when she turned to him her face was blanched a bloodless white. Lips parted, eyes wide – she was trembling. Clinging to the wall with her feet rooted to the ledge. She couldn't move. Paralyzed by a fear he'd never seen in her before.
It made him hesitate. Just for a second. His arms falling slightly before picking back up again, but too late.
There was a rumble. Another crack and snap. The beam gave way, showering Ellana in a spray of splinters and snow ahead of the deluge. There wasn't even time to flinch before it all came down on top of her.
From the ground, Dorian and Varric could only watch in horror as the entire upper shelf of the cliff collapsed in a great, white, storm. They turned and ran, crying out warnings as they retreated up the pass for safety, but if either Solas or Ellana had answered it went unheard over the roar.
They did not stop for breath, to look over their shoulders, until the rumble of earth and snow had ceased. Full minutes had passed. Minutes more, before the thick cloud of snowdust settled well enough to allow them to make their way back down. Picking their way over piles of debris and packed snow. They called out as they neared, looking for light or movement or the muffled sound of voices, but all they heard in reply was the echo of their own voices.
When the last of the fall settled they saw why: the entire landscape had changed.
Both ledges the pair had stood on, as well as most of the wall around them, had been completely destroyed. Not just gone, but buried. Crushed under tonnes of ice and rock. Worse, where the blocked mine had stood a moment past was now nothing but a gaping, black, sinkhole. Opened by the weight of the cliff crashing through as it fell.
It had swallowed the avalanche, and everything caught in its tide, into the dark, deep, belly of the mountain.