As much as Ellana hated the cold, she had to admit travel underground was worse.
What navigational equipment they'd brought along for the journey did not survive the fall, and without sun and stars to guide them it was impossible to tell the time or distance crossed. More worryingly, they had no way to know if the path they walked would even lead to the surface at all. For all their effort they could end up lost in The Deep Roads.
It didn't take long to realise the plan to follow running water would not work out as well as they'd hoped. The cave was not a single, linear, path to the surface – that would be too easy – instead, a seemingly endless labyrinth of interconnected tunnels, fanned out like the branches of an ancient tree. The mountain was a warren. What water ran through it came from a multitude of places.
A dozen times they followed a promising-looking stream over mountainous rock and narrow crevice only to find themselves at the base of an underground spring.
Or drainage through the porous rock.
Or collection of overflowed pools.
For a while they tried measuring distance in water consumption, as it was the one resource in steady supply. Months of regular travel in the Inquisition's early days had instilled in them a natural schedule consistent enough to use as a basis for estimate. But, either due to stifling heat or the prolonged exertion, they were going through their supply much faster than usual, rendering the method useless.
Ultimately, they were forced to abandon the idea of tracking their progress altogether and instead focus on keeping it moving in a generally upward direction. An equally frustrating endeavour given the confounding layout of their path. Half the time was spent going backwards: doubling back and retracing steps after running into a dead end, natural blockage, or just coming to the conclusion that the way they'd chosen was taking them further down. They'd lacked both the supplies and foresight to map the journey – and had gone in too many circles to start now – their only option was to keep moving. Keep faith that they were not going to end up as a peculiar pair of unarmed, half-dressed, skeletons to be discovered decades later by the next hapless wanderer.
After hours of gruelling march, and seemingly no closer to their goal, the idea of reaching the lodge began to feel like a fever dream. Or fantasy borne of mental torment. Apathy had become less a risk, more an imminent threat – and from that soon arose another problem: boredom.
There was little life in the cave beyond insects and bats, and the features weren't that interesting. A thousand miles of limestone rock broken up by the odd mineral deposit or stagnant pool. It all blurred together into one long, endless, tunnel. A journey so frightfully dull that they would've welcomed an encounter with Darkspawn just for the break in monotony.
That was the trouble with boredom: not fatigue or low morale, but desperation. With enough time spent in that state the restless mind would jump at any opportunity to relieve it. Running headlong into whatever new, interesting, thing presented itself without the faintest regard for mission relevance or personal safety. It was why parties were never made of only one or two; why some turned to singing, debate, or play to entertain (and annoy) while they travelled. There were schedules to adhere to, rules about how long a group could spend on a march. A balance was required to ensure focus stayed sharp; risks, low.
Solas was remarkably good at resisting the tedium. His patience was practised, well-honed over a life that once moved at a very different pace. But Ellana struggled with attention at the best of times and was slipping within hours. What she needed was a goal. A purpose. A problem to solve. Something more readily attainable than the nebulous concept of escape.
Options were low, so she quickly became fixated on the only one realistically available to her: the mystery of the scent they'd picked up by the lake.
Solas went along with it, at first. It would keep them occupied – keep them talking – and so he graciously entertained her attempts to probe his memory for the vague familiarity he'd attested to. But just as quickly he came to regret it. She hardly allowed him a breath between questions and was not satisfied with any answer lacking in an exorbitant level of detail. Eventually, forcing him to admit that being immortal had not also granted him the gift of perfect recall.
But rather than discourage her, his lack of assistance only strengthened her resolve.
More than once he had to stop her from wandering off down some random branch of the tunnel, absolutely convinced that the source of the smell lay just beyond. Whether a camp or a garden or some giant, rotting, corpse covered in flowers… there had to be something nearby. It seemed impossible that after all this time they'd encountered nothing to explain it. No flora, fauna, nor evidence of demon trickery. Days had passed ("Hours," Solas corrected) and yet they were no closer to understanding.
At the very least, he did eventually agree that they seemed to be getting closer to it.
Whatever it was – wherever it was – it had grown well beyond the occasional, passing, whiff to being nearly ever-present. Fortunately, time (or perhaps olfactory fatigue) had also made it much more pleasing. Over hours it had gone from a cloying, sickly, rot to something more robust and fruity. Almost sugary, like the syrups served with pastries in Orlais. Evoking memories of banquets: long dessert tables covered in sweets, cakes, and honeyed wine. Laughing voices and smiles from across the room. To herself, Ellana wondered if that meant the cause was not only benign, but edible, which made her all the more determined to find it.
She had also not eaten in some time.
The most vexing part of the mystery was its intensity, fluctuating wildly between extremes of dizzyingly overpowering and virtually nonexistent. Stranger still, the two of them rarely agreed on their perception of it at any given moment.
There were times Solas found it so strong he'd have to pause to stretch his eyes – as if he'd walked through a cloud of smoke – while Ellana went on completely unaware. She'd follow a wave around a corner only to find that it had all but disappeared there, while he asserted the opposite once he caught up. It seemed so arbitrary that she began to wonder if it actually existed at all or was merely some shared delusion brought on by the prolonged state of boredom.
Without a resolution (or, really, any progress at all) it couldn't hold her attention indefinitely. Eventually, another fixation began to overtake it. This one slightly more problematic.
At first, and for a while, she blamed it on the kiss they'd shared at the water's edge. More accurately, the dearth of intimacy that led to it; tension, unspent, over a long and difficult journey. Her wounded pride mixed with the desire that first made her reach for him. The rejection left her frustrated, in several ways, and her thoughts kept circling back to it.
She played the scene over and over in her mind as they walked. Recalling each detail individually; from first, soft, smiles through to his hands on her wrists. Initially under the guise of penitence, to find where her control had begun to slip, but eventually for the thrill of allowing it to play out as though they hadn't stopped…
If nothing else, she reasoned, it helped pass the time.
But once she allowed her thoughts to wander to salacious places she found them firmly anchored there, and the fantasy slowly grew from harmless escapism to overwhelming obsession. She couldn't stop thinking about it even if she wanted to. And with that smell so thick in the air it was impossible not to be reminded of its association. The kiss in the orchard, months ago, and all the wonderful things that followed. She hadn't realised how starved she was until she got a taste of sweetness. Denial only made her hungrier.
She tried not to focus on it – a little – but it was nigh impossible. Each time a fleeting glance was cast in his direction her eyes would land on the apples of his cheeks, flushed with exertion; the shape of his mouth, the curl of his smile, and all the places his clothes clung to his skin. Dry now, but her imagination could fill in for what was missing.
When he took her hand to help her over a gap she was struck by its warmth, his grip, and thought of it slid along her jaw. Her hip. Over her breasts and between her thighs. The very idea had her heart beating faster, and she felt the ghost of touch upon her skin. At first tingling, then buzzing as it grew. She was burning: for a pinch, a twist, or even just to be held.
He turned and smiled at her – as if they'd connected somehow, over this unspoken thing – and she felt heat rise on her collar as she returned it. She waited until his back was turned to pull, urgently, at her clothes. Running her hands through her hair and roughly down her thighs to glean some semblance of relief.
Later, when he'd stopped to take a drink she admired the way his lips parted around the spout; throat moving with each swallow. The exhale after the skin was drained. A drop of water, missed, upon his chin. Exertion made his voice low and breathy, and when he spoke she could hardly listen, thinking only of the soft exchanges they shared in the afterglow of lovemaking. She nodded along, not in agreement, but in the hope he might keep talking.
It seemed to work. Charmed by her attention, he'd been going on for hours. Observations about their environment and old, rambling, stories about dreams in the area.
She didn't catch a single word.
Fatigue had forced him to dismiss the light spell not long after they set off. They pulled a pair of torches from their packs and lit them with Veilfire; no need for fuel, no risk of burning. Under the cool light his skin glowed, luminous and beautiful. When held high, shadows played in the hollow of his cheek and under bottom lip; accentuated the curves of muscle in his arms and neck.
He was lovely, and hers, and it seemed a terrible waste not to appreciate it every chance she got.
Out of respect (and lingering embarrassment) she kept the thoughts to herself. He'd said his piece at the water's edge, and while he greatly enjoyed being pushed from time to time as one who played at the bounds of propriety, the caution was warranted. As much as it pained her to admit, she could agree it would be unwise to indulge without knowing the area. No tryst was worth their lives.
And yet, as the hours wore on she wondered if that line would hold. After all, he did not outright say that he was disinterested. In fact he'd returned her passions eagerly, at first. Moreover, since finding themselves down here she noticed quite a few glances in her direction. At first it was almost oddly – as if she were a puzzle he was trying to work out – but then softly. Affectionately. With a smile that brightened his eyes. Head tilted just so.
She dismissed it as wishful thinking, lest a part of her try to use it as justification to push where it wasn't welcome. They were alone down here and there was no one else to engage with, of course he would look more often… But that denial seemed less plausible once she caught him looking.
The first time was when he took the lead on a difficult climb, up a partially collapsed wall. The last section was nearly vertical, and took clever use of ropes and pitons to scale. Once he'd made it to the top he turned and crouched, extending a hand to assist. As she neared, she saw his gaze wander down the loose collar of her shirt – lazily, as if caressing her – and there, linger. The outstretched hand drifting in his inattention. The instant she took hold his eyes were back on hers, sharp as ever, and she was pulled up onto the plateau with him.
She stood. Brushing the dirt off her clothes and sharing a smile with him that was just on the other side of bashful. And there hung a moment of tension, unspoken, between them that stretched on long enough that she'd actually decided to offer a kiss… but as she took that first, tentative, step toward him he spun away. Setting back off none the wiser.
Still, she wondered if there was a part of him that wanted to take the risk, too.
But, don't be an ass, she told herself, he said 'not here'. And so kept her mouth shut.
The next time they encountered a subterranean stream he called for a stop to replenish their water supplies. Ellana was grateful for the abundance – her ongoing battle between longing and better judgement had her fighting a near-constant state of dry, cotton-mouth. Drinking had also become a safe way to occupy it: the more she yearned the closer she got to outright begging, and started to worry it might all come tumbling out if she wasn't careful.
It was far worse now that they'd worked up a proper sweat.
She could smell him.
She could taste him.
She could almost touch him.
Just a few, short, steps would do it. Close the walking gap between them so all she had to do was reach out, run her hands up underneath the back of his shirt, following the curve of sweat-slick skin around his waist, over his stomach, down, and then…
She hurriedly brought her waterskin to her lips, remembering belatedly that it had been empty for some time now. "Shit," she swore.
Smiling, Solas offered his torch to her in exchange, and she handed it over along with the spares she carried. Once he'd collected them all he brought the bundle to the stream's edge, and crouched there to fill them. He talked all the while, but as before she had no idea what he was saying. The words floated by without purchase. She absorbed nothing but the sound of his voice. He might as well have been speaking Qunlat.
She was watching his hands instead.
Two fingers (the same two fingers) dipped lazily into the water to feel its temperature before plunging to the wrist. He brought a cup to his lips – a decadent sip – before filling the first of their skins. But did not cap it. Rather, he raised the container over his head and started pouring it out onto the back of his neck. The water ran in rivulets over cheeks and jaw, nose and chin, wetting the front of his shirt. He ran a hand roughly down his face, eyes closed and lips parted, and let slip a soft sigh of relief.
At which point she realised that while his mouth was moving, her ears were ringing so loud she couldn't actually discern if he was still talking.
She was lit from chest to core. Desire flared to such a fevered pitch that she had to clench her jaw to stop herself from mewling. Her first instinct (really, her second) was to turn away, but she worried that to do so would only draw her more attention, and so could only stand there staring. Deaf and dumb. Grinding a fingernail between her teeth until she'd torn into the skin around it.
The whole world had narrowed into a tiny sphere that held only him. Somehow the most alluring, forbidden, thing she'd ever seen in her life.
I must be drunk, she thought. I have to be drunk.
It was the only explanation.
Not just for this unhinged ferocity, but for the stumbling, clumsy pace of her thoughts. Rolling around her head like a fat bear, mid-winter. The cottonmouth, and her tongue ready to betray her the first chance it got. She was a little dizzy, a little sleepy, the way one gets when they've had too much wine after a good meal.
Something is wrong with me.
Something here was affecting her. The air, the water, a head injury… the smell?
What else could've possibly made her so deeply intoxicated that she couldn't think straight? Something had done it, otherwise this was somehow her own doing and she couldn't recall ever having been so excruciatingly preoccupied in all her life. Not even in her wildest days.
"You're what?"
Solas was looking at her, head tilted curiously (charmingly), as he capped a waterskin and set it down with the others. A smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.
She'd said it out loud.
Briefly, she worried that she'd said the entire thing out loud and felt all the colour drain from her face before just as quickly rushing back in.
He was clearly waiting for her to elaborate, one brow so curiously quirked, and in her blind panic to explain herself she blurted out a bewildering, "Do you know elfroot?"
There was a long, heavy, silence over which neither moved nor spoke.
Then, slowly, Solas picked up one of the filled waterskins and offered it to her. She took it. Fumbling, awkwardly, with the cap until finally managing to pull it off, then drank deeply. Wishing she'd been able to do so twenty seconds ago.
Finally, "I'm familiar with it," Solas answered.
She handed the skin back to him to refill. "Did you have it before?" Her tongue was getting thicker, she had to speak slowly so as not to run her words together. It was embarrassing.
What is wrong with me?
There was a twitch in his mouth. A flex of his chin that almost broke into a smile, but he caught himself, and his expression smoothed into thoughtful curiosity. "'Before…?'
"Just, 'before'. You know…" She waved a hand in circles. It was not this difficult even an hour ago. "Before this."
He raised a brow. "Before the cave?"
"No, I mean–" This was getting irritating. "Before here." She threw her arms out in a wide, encompassing gesture, and when that failed to enlighten him tacked on a quick, "here, now."
"Before this journey?"
"N- what? No, I–"
He turned one hand, like a question. "Before the Inquisition?"
Mystified, "No, not 'before the Inquisition'!" she shouted. It was properly frustrating now. "I mean before! Your before, not this before! Not my before! If I meant before that I'd just say 'earlier'. 'Before' as in–"
She stopped here, having realised he was grinning at her.
She did not return it. "Oh, fuck right off."
He laughed, loud and freely, and the sound echoed in the stone halls. He did not look at all chagrined by the scowl she gave him. "Yes," he answered, when he'd regained his composure. "It existed before the Fall."
"When it was there, before, was it the same?"
"In terms of its appearance? Morphology?" It was clear she didn't understand, so, "It's structure," he clarified.
"If that means the way it's used, then yes."
"Ah, alchemically. Hm."
He considered the question as they tied the water to packs, pockets, and belts for easy access. Moving on once they'd finished, side-by-side down the narrow tunnel they'd been travelling along for time now.
A cool breeze had led them there. To a crack in a wall, where Ellana chipped away at the stone with the back of her dagger until she'd created a hole large enough to fit an arm through, and searched the space beyond using the dim light of the Anchor as guide. There, they saw their first, real, hope of escape: a narrow passage, sealed away behind the tunnel. Its tall, smooth, walls standing at unnaturally sharp angles, forming a near-perfect square that could only have been carved by intention.
At long last they'd managed to stumble upon another section of the mineshaft. Even if the exit was collapsed, like the other, it would still lead them to the surface – or near enough that spells and tools could handle the rest.
Thrilled by the discovery, they worked in tandem to widen the hole until large enough to crawl through, tumbling into the passage beyond, where they'd been walking since. Largely unobstructed: this section was well preserved. No branch or fork to tarry them, no rubble to trip them up – just a gentle breeze and the ever-present incense. Still growing stronger as they went.
Solas was saying, "As far as I'm aware, yes. Potions were rarely used at the time, as magic was commonplace and better-suited for healing. However, the herb's curative properties were well-documented."
"I didn't mean healing," Ellana replied. And did not elaborate. A pointed silence hung between them as she waited for him to pick up on what she'd left unspoken. When it was clear he wasn't going to, "I meant smoking," she clarified.
He looked so absolutely baffled at first that she almost laughed.
When it finally clicked, and his furrowed brows shot up his forehead, she didn't quite catch the giggle. His lips parted in surprise as, "Oh!" he exclaimed. "Yes, actually!"
"Okay, so, do you know it?"
This time he understood immediately, and the laughter that followed was so full of genuine mirth that she couldn't stop herself from joining in, hiding it best she was able behind a raised hand before finally succumbing. Rarely did she get the chance to see him so free with his joy, she loved it too much not to relish it.
When he could manage an answer, "Not in a very long time," he said.
She pointed a finger at him – "But you do know," – and watched that boyish smile widen even further as he nodded his agreement. "That's what I mean: I feel like that! Slow and… weird. Like I'm dreaming. Or drunk. It's not normal! Something is doing this to me. I think it might be–" It occurred to her that if the working theory was correct, he would also be affected. She narrowed her eyes. "Do you feel like this, too?"
"Do I feel as though I have been smoking?" It was clear he found the question, or perhaps the manner in which she asked it, rather funny. If any effort was made to hide that, it was not so good as to actually work. "No, I cannot say I do."
She made a series of wild gestures around her head and mouth, trying to convey the point without need of words.
There were so many words.
"Or just weird!"
"Perhaps if you broke the 'weird' down in finer detail..."
Now he was just playing with her.
Frustrated, "You are doing this on purpose!" she accused. "I'm tired and hot and I haven't eaten since this morning, but this is not any of that. I feel strange! Everything has become so… so…" There was another series of even vaguer gestures. "It's like everything is bigger. More… more! Everything is more. My feelings. My thoughts. I can feel them, and yet cannot seem to control them. No matter how hard I try to focus on anything else the only thing I've been able to think about for hours–"
All at once his expression shifted from playful to sharp attention, the smile traded for frown. "You can, 'feel your thoughts''?" he repeated, talking over her. "Do you mean–?"
"–up against a wall, apparently because you didn't want to kiss me, which would be ridiculous even if we weren't trapped down here. It's driving me insane. Literally, genuinely, insane. I feel like I'm crawling out of my skin! I don't know if I can–"
He'd stopped walking now, a step ahead, and turned to face her. "Ellana."
She passed him, oblivious.
Now that she'd started talking she couldn't seem to stop. It was as though her mouth were separated from the rest of her body; floating out in space blithering on all by itself with no regard as to whether or not he was even listening.
"–absolutely furious with you, so I know it isn't something that was there earlier. I could barely even stand to look at you for most of this journey. And even if it was, I can't remember another time in my entire life where I was this wound–"
He extended a hand, intent to take her by the arm, but just as his fingers brushed her elbow she threw it out in emphasis. And he missed.
Frowning, "Ellana wait," he tried, "if you would–"
"–we haven't come across anything for hours. Nothing. Not even a corpse of something. I realise that doesn't necessarily mean it's perfectly safe, but it cannot possibly be so dangerous that there's no way–"
She wasn't going to let him get a word in. If he wanted to get her attention, he'd need to try a different tactic.
He stopped. Sighed. And as she disappeared around the next corner, "Yes!" he called out.
She'd made it far enough around the bend for it to block their view of each other, but he knew the ploy had worked by the pattern of torchlight on the wall. It stopped moving away, flickered in place for the space of several seconds, and then slowly grew brighter as she turned around and walked back. She stopped a few metres from him, wearing an expression as curious as confused.
"Yes," he said again. Quieter now that he had her attention. "I feel…" There was a pause. A shift of weight. "...similar to what you've described."
"'Similar'?" she repeated, and threw him a calculating look. "How similar?"'
"Distracted. Somewhat light-headed. I've had some trouble focusing – and channelling, as you've seen. Drawing from the Veil has been especially challenging. Symptoms not unlike those of a concussion – I'd assumed it due to the injuries I sustained in the fall."
Addled though she was, it wasn't quite so bad that she couldn't see the spaces left behind by careful omission. The answer wasn't dishonest, per se, just incomplete.
She narrowed her eyes. "That's not what got your attention, though. You only took notice when I said I can 'feel my thoughts'; like they're bigger. And the potion I gave you did enough to mend your head. The concussion wasn't that bad. You had to know that wasn't it." A slow, sly, smile curled up one cheek and turned to devious grin. "You've talked non-stop since the last time we filled up the water. Even before that! And all your smiling and looking, the way you've been teasing me… you're like this too! You're giddy!"
To his credit, he did not laugh – but a smile broke through the attempt at restraint. It did not lend much weight to the denial. "I am not 'giddy'."
"You are! You've practically been giggling. I was so taken by the novelty that I didn't even think about how weird that was. When have you ever been like this, other than the few times I've seen you drunk? You've been funny for hours! Is it the air? Are we slowly dying down here?"
He gave a huff like a quiet chuckle and her grin widened, framing it as proof. He pointed at her. "No," he said. Ostensibly firmly, but it barely passed as serious when he was working that hard not to smile back. "Were that the case, we would have seen the evidence hours ago. Symptoms of hypoxia: headache and memory loss, shortness of breath. Rather, if this is the result of something in the environment – I said 'if' – then the most likely culprit is the Veil."
"Oh, is it thi–?"
"'Thin here', yes," he finished, giving her a look for the cheek. "But unusually so. Almost as though it has been manipulated somehow – either with intent to provoke a specific response, or heighten an existing one. We have encountered such phenomena before, and each time there were measurable effects on emotional state, regulation, or both. It may even be what's behind the reports we were brought here to investigate. I don't believe there's any cause for concern, however – it is not dangerous. And I suspect it will pass once we reach the surface."
"It's the smell," she countered, lifting her chin. They'd been in plenty of places where the Veil was thin, or manipulated, and never once had it made him giddy. "It's like elfroot. It's doing something. To emotion – or thoughts – but only specific ones. A specific one."
Somehow, he managed to find the point she was making. "That is extremely unlikely."
"You're only saying that because I'm disagreeing with you."
"Or, because the simplest answer is often the correct one," he remarked. "And there are many other, more plausible, explanations for the smell. Algae, fungus, mould... perhaps one native only to this area. The environment here is well-suited for it. A coincidence, but nothing more. Many of the locales we've visited have also had distinct smells. The Storm Coast, the Emerald Graves, and the Fallow Mire for example."
She wrinkled her nose. "This is not the same as sea spray and dead bodies."
"No?" He shrugged with his hands. "I fail to see the difference. More to the point, I've not heard of the existence of anything so potent that it could have an intoxicating effect on anyone within an hour's walk of it."
"Are you admitting to being intoxicated?" she teased.
The denial was immediate – "I said nothing of the sort" – but the curl of his lip made it more of a confession. "Those symptoms you attribute to intoxication are more likely caused by tedium, exhaustion, temperature, in addition to the effects of the veil."
"Exhaustion has never done this to me."
"Could you say the same of boredom?" he posited, with a knowing look.
More than once they'd found a creative way to pass an hour – on watch, or between obligations – and while boredom had played a part in those encounters, it did not compare to this. Their actions then were a choice, if an impulsive one. This was, distinctly, its lack.
"This isn't the same," she argued. "I know what that feels like and this is more! It's not just the giddiness and the weird, it's frenzy! I can't stop thinking… and I want – need – like I never have. That's not the veil. You're wrong, I know it. Something is doing it – doing this, specifically – to us!"
She hadn't meant to include him in the statement, and might not have noticed the error if not for his failure to correct it.
"That which affects emotion can also impact focus," he said. "Which in turn leads to becoming more easily distracted. What one is distracted by is influenced by other factors, but can be amplified by an ambient effect."
It was neither acknowledgement nor denial – more of a continuance. Tacit acceptance, if only subconsciously. She almost missed it, but with her ear trained on him so closely one tell revealed another: a quaver in his voice. Not the kind that stemmed from nerves or confidence, shaken – but something he was less adept at hiding.
"Are you distracted, Solas?"
Even if she did not already know the answer, she would've had it in a single heartbeat. It was in the way his lips parted, ready with a quick retort, before he paused, considered, then closed them again.
"I was speaking of the effects in a general sense."
She tilted her head, leaving the judgement implied, but unspoken – were you? – and very deliberately shifted her weight. Projecting the curve of her hip, she bumped it against her free hand, drawing his attention to a hole torn in her underclothes. The absent toying she'd done over hours had widened it large enough to frame the valley between her thigh and hip. It was an easy lure, and his gaze lingered there far longer than passing interest would allow.
When he could drag his eyes back to her face she was waiting with a smile and a single raised brow. "You said you feel similar," she said again. A little deeper this time. "How similar?"
There was another pause; another parting of lips for breath, carefully considered, before a response. But any attempt to talk himself out of the corner she'd backed him into would play as admission. He knew he was caught.
Better then, to acquiesce.
A confession, softly-spoken, but heavy from his tongue: "Similar." She could hear the weight of it, carried past exhaustion, and the relief of letting go. See the yearning hid beneath. "Whether the feeling is mutual is not the issue – it is that it isn't safe."
That twist of heat in her belly started to uncoil, building, until it had kicked her heart into such a hard beat that stars scattered across the faded edges of her vision. She bit her lip, and watched his eyes, watching her, as she made an approach. Closing the distance between them in half a dozen careful steps. The light of their torches merged to a single pool – fading the passage beyond into shadow – until they stood alone, together, in its radiance.
His breath fell deeper. His eyes flicked to her mouth. And the curl of her smile turned wide and coy as, "Ellana," he warned.
She took a step closer. Daring him to stop her.
He didn't.
"Say you don't want to."
"It isn't safe," he repeated, this time in a whisper.
But she could see the truth in the ruddy flush of his cheeks; the way his throat tensed with a hard swallow.
"Then say you don't want to."
Silence.
Another step. Barely inches. Near enough for her to feel the warmth rising from his body and smell the sweat on his skin. All mixed up with the sweetness in the air.
She raised her chin, rolling up onto the balls of her feet, to gaze at him beneath lowered lashes. He watched her mouth, rapt, with eyes so deep and dark that the blue around the blown pupils was almost lost.
"Ellana–"
"Why not?" she cut in. "What would happen, if we did? Or if we had already, hours ago? Give me a reason. You keep saying it isn't safe, but we've seen nothing down here since we woke."
"That does not mean no thing exists."
"You're not scared of the dark."
Hesitantly, "No," he admitted. And wet his lips. "It is– if something is affecting us, whether the veil or something more, then our judgement may be clouded. And there is danger in following it in unfamiliar surroundings. We should not allow ourselves to become distracted."
He closed his eyes tightly, and grimacing, turned his face away. But the struggle made a better lure than shield, and he was weak before temptation. A single sigh was all it took to drag him back. She breathed his name across his cheek, a softly-pleaded, "Solas," and saw that thin resistance fracture under the strain.
With a heavy, shuddering, fall, came his shoulders, then chest and face. He leaned in – leaned down – not to meet the embrace, but to press their foreheads together. Denying (delaying) the spoils of lips and tongue. Twisting away each time she twisted toward, even while his hands betrayed him.
He touched curled knuckles to her cheek and brushed them over its apple. A caress, feather-light, to the shell of her ear. There, he followed the curve over tip and lobe, down along her jaw, to her chin, where he pressed his thumb to her lips. Parting them with gentle pressure. With eyes closed, she breathed into his open mouth, so that he might feel the heat of her. Fill his chest with it, and fuel the fire burning in the space between them.
He was drawn in by millimetres. Breath by breath.
"You are distracting me," she whispered.
She caught his thumb in her teeth and when she flicked it with her tongue it pulled a high, choked, noise through his nose that all but destroyed her. It hit like a spell: a lash of molten fire poured into her body and spilled, slick, upon the insides of her thighs.
She whimpered, and he dragged his thumb from her mouth. Drawing a line down her throat, where his fingers unfurled, sliding around the back of her neck. He dug them, deep, into her hair and pulled at the roots. It made her gasp, and he followed the sound, open mouth to open mouth.
"Solas."
They were suffocating – panting, heavy, against each other – burning up the air. She could feel his arousal pressed into her thigh. She balled her hands into fists, curling into his shirt.
"Please."
He broke.
It was not a kiss, it was a crash.
The torches hit the ground, followed by their packs, and with hands free they tore into each other. Greedy, starving, sliding over skin and under clothes in a mad rush to take it all.
Ellana yanked him hard with both hands, ripping a tear in the side seam of his shirt, but couldn't make him close enough. No matter how she clawed. She needed to feel his weight. His body (his arousal) pressed into her.
He knew it without words. Grabbed her firmly by the hips and swung her around. Walked her three, quick, steps backward and threw her up against the wall. She stumbled, caught on his thigh, braced high between her legs, and when he rocked himself against her it felt like steel. Then she was keening; grinding, frantic, into the movements he was making trying to make a rhythm from the chaos.
When they found it – a hard rock in perfect alignment – she threw her head back. Breaking the kiss to cry her pleasure skyward.
He made quick, one-handed work of the laces on her breeches (the other still tangled in her hair). Tugging, then yanking, in frantic turns until they were loose enough to urge down her hips, granting him the chance to slide his fingers there. He delved between her thighs, gliding over mound and lips, to sink into the deep, wet, heat of her.
She said… something. A curse or plea or wordless babble – there was no sense to it. Only mindless noise that trailed into raspy cries. When he thrust his fingers deeper it pulled her to him, hips tilting with the curl of his fingers, and he hit something so wonderful that her eyes snapped open in shock. Then she was staring up at the ceiling, one hand braced upon his shoulder and the other clawing at the ties of his pants, trying to find a way inside and get him in her hands.
"Fuck," she cried. The first proper word she'd managed. Her hips jerked with another thrust, and she felt a rush of warmth leave her body and pool in his palm. Already her thighs were shaking. "That's– gods, I–"
A flash of green suddenly lit the passage. Lasting no more than a heartbeat and bright as a strike of lightning. Not quite like the Anchor's spark, but enough to overpower the light their torches gave off, still in a pile at their feet.
"Wh-what is–?"
His eyes met with hers just long enough to read the confusion in her expression, then slipped over her shoulder to the wall. A look of blatant surprise dawned upon his face, and suddenly they were both cast in bright, shimmering, green.
Solas quickly disentangled them and grabbed her by the shoulders, tearing her off the wall just as hard as he'd first thrown her into it. She spun round, eyes wide, tripping over her feet as she struggled to get her breeches back up over her hips. Beside her, Solas snatched a pack up off the floor and used it to cover himself for a quick readjustment.
Something was moving – glowing – on the wall they'd been pressed against. About half-way up, centred within the brightest sphere of light cast by their overlapping torches. Once they'd managed to distance themselves for a better look, no, Ellana realised, it wasn't something on the wall… it was the wall itself that was moving. A flicker of light and shadow, growing into steady rippling, as though the patch of stone had turned to water.
She shared a look with Solas. They took a few more steps back.
Together they watched, transfixed, as the ripples began to curl in upon themselves. Turning into lines of brighter, whiter, light – like folded steel. Those began to merge and separate, crossing over and under, in some strange dance before finally coming to a stop once it had all arranged itself into some sort of symbol.
"Is that a veilfire rune?" Ellana exclaimed, breathless. "What's it doing all the way down here?"
In truth, she wasn't that invested in an answer – it was just the surprise talking – but when she looked to Solas to weigh his response it was clear by his stupefied expression that he, rather unfortunately, was.
She did not get a reply from him. He didn't even seem to notice he'd been spoken to at all, at first. But then, slowly, and without looking away from the wall, he set the bag back down by his feet and walked up to it. Picking up one of the dropped torches as he passed.
Once close enough for the rune to start reacting to the veilfire he raised it high over his head, and beginning from a point as tall as he could reach, going as far as he could stretch, he started painting with the light. Running it back and forth over the wall, line over line, slowly moving downward until he'd reached the floor.
By the time he'd finished, there were dozens more.
Each one drawn in clean, even, strokes; side by side running along thin guides like notes on sheet music. The entire wall was covered in them, faded out at the edges beyond his reach, implying there were still more to uncover.
As with all the runes they'd encountered, their meaning was – in part – conveyed through perception. But those had only ever been a single idea, communicated in a single symbol. One note played loud and clearly. This was a discordant orchestra. A hundred different instruments playing a hundred different variations of the same tune, all at once.
Ellana couldn't look too hard, or for too long, without risk of a headache – yet couldn't seem to draw her eyes away. The more Solas found, the stronger the draw. It was… yearning. A pull in her chest. Like the tomes in the Vir Dirthara – lost for aeons – whose meaning leapt from the pages as if the words themselves found joy in purpose. Waiting for the chance to be known again.
Beyond the cacophony she could only glean a sense of warmth from the message. But electric, like the swirl of nervous excitement before setting out on a long-anticipated journey.
She felt it flutter in her mouth. Lifting tongue to teeth and lip to shape the sounds of a language, unspoken. She felt her body open to receive it. Pulled along by strange gravity – one hand outstretched – she bent to retrieve the other torch and drew nearer, until she could feel its radiance. Soak it up like heat from fire. Though she could not read the music, the song was universal. Familiar. Intimate. Breathless in a way she'd—
Desire.
She realised it all at once.
Desire, unfulfilled. The thrill of being longed for.
Understanding was a spark, and she reeled with it. Pressing a hand to her stomach to quell its twisting. This was all she'd felt for hours, every time she glanced his way. All she had tried to stifle, laid bare. Carved into the very walls, as if made for her alone.
The reverie was broken by a soft sound. Beside her, Solas passed the torch from one hand to the other, turned, and walked further down the tunnel. Revealing still more runes as he went. Belatedly, followed after. Around one corner, then the next, tracing the markings with her fingers like it was a trail led to treasure. Heart skipping in her throat.
She stopped when something different appeared. Not a symbol, but a relief. A shallow sculpture, invisible before the veilfire touched it, depicting two figures standing on either side of a small table. With arms extended, they reached for each other, as if embracing.
But something about it didn't look quite right. The longer she stared, the more sure she was.
She took a few more steps toward it, holding the torch close to the wall so the runes would shimmer under the light.
The table didn't have any legs.
One, final, step put her within the radius of its sensory effect. At which point the meaning was so startlingly, painfully, apparent that she was somewhat embarrassed she'd not realised it sooner.
That was not a table.
Although it was a fair size.
"Alright, now I know I'm drunk," she remarked, with as much composure as she could manage. She squared her jaw. "That cannot possibly be what I think it is."
But again, Solas gave no reply. Still too caught up in the discovery to notice. She couldn't tell if it was interest or alarm that held his attention, but either way he clearly had some indication what it all meant.
So, more directly, "What is this?" Ellana asked him.
He took in a sharp breath, as if to speak, only to find himself lost for words. He frowned, idly touching two fingers to his lips the way he did when puzzling over something. When he finally turned to face her, it was with the most curious expression she'd ever seen. A nebulous, shifting mix of confusion, surprise, dismay, amusement, disbelief – like he couldn't quite settle on what was most appropriate for the situation.
"Solas?"
"It is a sort of… poetry," he began haltingly, glancing between her and the runes. "The writing does not translate to anything directly, it's more a delivery system. Not unlike– do you recall the tomes of the vir dirthara? Through them, you were able to observe records of memory without need of language – this is similar. The difference is in their conveyance of feeling. What you felt from the tomes was indirect, filtered through memory, whereas this – vallasvunal – is the expression of emotion itself. Meaning, directly imprinted upon the reader, allowing them to experience it innately.
"The method was common, largely used in works of art, but this particular form of it was reserved for use in the entrance halls of a sa'an sathem'aan. Or, colloquially, palarla."
"A what?" She blinked. "Palar– palla–?"
"Palarla," Solas repeated. Plucking his tongue against his palate in a manner so completely foreign she'd swear she'd never heard him make the sound before. "From pala and arla."
It was Varric who once said, on the subject of ancient languages, that profanity and epithets always managed to find a way to survive into modern vernacular.
Her brows went up. "A brothel?"
Solas hid a smile in the tilt his chin. "Not quite. Though, I'm not sure an equivalent exists in this time, so that may be the closest translation. It was a place to find similar companionship, but without the transactional aspect. More a social function, but only open to those attached to a court. Its use was considered integral to some events, where such behaviour was not only expected, but encouraged." He gave her a look. "Not unlike the balls of Orlais."
She gave him one in return. "I'm pretty sure Halamshiral doesn't have a 'fuck house'."
Whether the vulgarity, or her delivery, the comment startled a laugh from him. "Perhaps not," he allowed. "But taboo tends to incentivise rather than deter. The courts of Orlais are a far cry from those in Elvhenan, but in this they are not so dissimilar. In addition to debauchery, guests enjoy a wide variety of food, drink, and even other intoxicants, if one is inclined to request them. These acted similarly." He nodded to the wall. "Meant to evoke feelings of desire. Especially between individuals for whom it might not otherwise be present. Their position in the entrance hall was for the pleasure of those in attendance. The effect was intended to be titillating."
He granted her a moment to absorb the information before, "Ergo, yes," he added. "That is what you think it is. As are these." And he took three steps backward, raising the torch, revealing an entire row of similar imagery that ran along the uppermost edge. Like the border of a salacious storybook.
'Chaste' was not a word Ellana would ever use to describe herself, but compared to the range and creativity on display she'd barely dipped a toe into depravity. There were couples, groups, voyeurs, audiences, and single individuals. Engaging in all manner of acts, only about half of which were immediately recognizable. Some, so ridiculously complicated that she was sure their inclusion was intended as a joke.
The sobering effect of surprise was starting to wear off, reducing the time between thought and action, so by the time any concept of reserve occurred to her, Ellana was already pointing emphatically to one of the images. Exclaiming, delighted, "Oh!"
Solas turned, following her gaze, to a surprisingly accurate depiction of their position a moment ago. The only difference being in one individual's 'table' enjoying full use. A single brow climbed Solas' forehead, but he held his tongue up until Ellana let out a loud snort, followed by a clap as her hands came down over her mouth.
But it was a lost cause once he turned and looked at her. She started laughing.
She tried not to, but the second that first giggle slipped through her fingers there was no hope of containing the rest. Every time she tried it just got worse. She laughed until there were tears in her eyes and her cheeks had grown red and hot. Until Solas joined her, at first just with quiet chuckles (looking a little abashed that he couldn't quite manage to restrain himself), but once she doubled-over and started stumbling around like a drunkard he was sent into throes of full-throated laughter.
The whole thing was just absurd.
Here they were, lost under a mountain, having spent hours resisting the draw of desire, only to find themselves standing in front of a wall of ancient pornography that they only discovered by accident because the torches they'd dropped in preparation to have sex on it activated the message.
When she could manage the breath to speak, "Does this mean there was some ancient Elvhen brothel down here?" Ellana asked. She wiped her eyes with the heels of her palms.
"Palarla," Solas corrected with a cough. It took a few more before he could continue. "In all likelihood, yes. I believe we're in its antechamber. Given that they were typically accessible by road as well as Eluvian, it may very well be the key to our salvation." She gave him a grin for the reference, and he returned it. "This should lead us to an exit."
"So we're taking the scenic route?" she teased, and he chuckled in agreement. Her smile turned coy. "Well, since we're on our way out… should I pick one? There's a few here I'm very curious about."
There was a brief pause. Something shifted in the air.
His eyes flicked to the hole in her breeches, one brow raised in interest. "Are you?"
They were far too far apart for this.
She sauntered up on pointed toe. Watching the way his gaze tracked the sway of her hips. When close enough, she hooked a finger into the hole in his shirt and gave it a sharp tug. Ripping the seam a little more.
He reeled, somewhat exaggeratedly, and caught himself with a hand on her waist. A playful move she would normally return, but something about the contact struck an urgent chord that moved them past flirtation. A held breath, exhaled together, took with it all the poise they'd affected – no longer able to maintain a guise of play. Eager fingers began to wander, and Solas slid his up under the edge of her shirt, splaying across her stomach.
She wet her lips, and glanced meaningfully at the row of images. "If it's going to make us drunk until we get out of here, we might as well make use of its suggestions."
They'd been so caught up in the discovery that he'd forgotten about that part, but his lopsided smile was a fair impression of it. "'Drunk'?" he repeated, tilting his head.
But before she could answer, he was struck. Stopping, mid-breath, when hit by sudden insight.
The inviting look fell to puzzlement. "No," he murmured. And looked back at the wall. "The effects of vallasvunal are mild, and can only be observed directly. It cannot extend beyond the immediate area."
Recognizing that she was about to lose the moment, "I'll be sure to make it a good one," Ellana said.
But it was too late. He was already gone. Hand slipping from her shirt as he turned and walked off, offering neither explanation nor apology, to chase the brighter lure of ancient mystery. She watched, mystified, as he picked up his things and disappeared into the darkness ahead.
Left alone, "Really?" she whispered. To no one in particular. Then sighed, shouldered her pack, and took off after him.
When she caught up he was already part-way into some ponderous monologue. "–should've prevented anyone from entering the vestibule, let alone breach the inner halls. They must no longer be functioning. How someone has managed to stumble upon–"
She tried to cut in. "What are you on about?"
But he didn't seem to notice.
"–for the effects to be so potent and far-reaching. The veil is thin, but even if it were excised from the area it should not result in…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "This manner of degradation is not possible. The spread, perhaps, but a connection cannot be forged by way of decay. It is inherently–"
"Is this about he p-palla– palal–?" She made a frustrated noise, panting between words as she struggled to keep up with him. "Fenedhis, the brothel?"
"Palarla," Solas corrected, offhandedly. "The effects were apparent well before we entered this section. It would've had to take place hours ago, yet if neither of us were aware of it there is no reasonable way in which we could have engaged with it."
"The effects of what?"
He glanced at her, looking like he'd only just noticed she was there, and for a moment she thought it meant he might actually start answering questions, but instead, "You've said you felt your thoughts – your feelings – were 'bigger'? At what point did you first notice?" he asked her.
Every time she thought she might've caught up to him he'd already moved on. Apparently content to have the conversation with himself. All this jumping around was starting to make her dizzy. "I-I'm not sure. Maybe two or three hours ago?"
"No, it would have to be earlier," he muttered. "Perhaps… at the lake, you described a sense of panic while searching for me – would you call that feeling 'bigger', as well?"
"Was I experiencing an unusually high amount of anxiety when I thought the man I love might be dead? Yes, Solas, I was panicking!"
"Yet we've been in many similar situations where you were not so affected."
She wasn't sure what point he was trying to make, but it probably wasn't intended to be as insulting as it sounded.
"Additionally, you mentioned the fear you felt prior to that was one you'd not struggled with since childhood. For there to be a measurable effect by that point, it would… Hm. You were highly distractible – fickle – even then. Rash, and petulant." He glanced up briefly, taking note of her expression, and added on a quick, "More so than usual."
"Starting to feel a little petulant right now."
"The first exposure would've had to be prior to the fall. Which means a triggering event could have only occurred within–" He stopped abruptly. Brows pulling into a deep frown, before rising in apparent enlightenment. "Ah."
"Alright, stop," Ellana snapped. This is ridiculous. She grabbed hold of his elbow and gave it a sharp tug. To pull him back, or at minimum prevent him from running off any further. "Are you actually going to let me in on this conversation at some point, or do–?"
Something struck her in the chest when she touched him, as though a glyph had been cast on his skin, writ in emptiness instead of energy. When it hit, it knocked the breath right out of her. She reeled, startled, and her grip slipped down to his wrist before he spun around and grabbed her arm to steady her.
Then, somehow, she was clawing at him. Digging her fingers into his skin, feeling the gooseflesh rise where her nails pricked. Trying to pull him into the void their contact had created. Fill it with some part of him, enough to make the aching stop.
He glanced down to where they touched – at his hand on her arm, and hers on his wrist – and when his eyes found hers again they were clouded by haze. Deep, dark, and unseeing. His grip on her tightened, fingers curling as his lips parted. He tried to speak, but only breath escaped. Tremulous and shallow.
Something sparked.
She lunged.
They met like a thunderclap. Echoing in the hall in moans and sharp inhales. A groan rolled up from Solas' chest, pushed through his nose, and a heartbeat later her shirt was balled up in his fist and he was hauling her upward with enough strength to lift her right up onto her toes. She slipped, falling into him, and with his pack still shouldered the extra weight threw the balance and they started going down. He flung his torch somewhere off into the darkness behind him to free the hand that held it, but rather than try to catch himself he wrapped it around her waist.
The pack hit the ground first, him on top of it and her on top of him, still locked in an embrace that knocked their teeth together. The impact left them both winded – gasping for breath they could not take, lest their mouths be forced to part.
Solas tore at her shift. Lifting at the sides and pulling at the back, trying to get it up over her head without having to break the kiss, but with her hands on his face he couldn't even get it down her shoulders. Frustrated, he gave up on that layer and went after the one beneath: hooking his fingers into her bandeau and giving it a hard yank. It ripped at the laces, baring her breasts, and he groaned, finding relief in their weight in his palms.
She tried to find the same in him, but couldn't quite manage to get around the puzzle of his arms. They were a messy, tangled, pile of limbs and curled fingers writhing on the floor – trying to find a scrap of friction between them – but so wildly out of sync they could barely manage the challenge of getting out of their clothes.
Once he could move a hand from her breast he got it up under the back of her shirt and dragged his nails down her spine, bowing her backward. She curled into the sensation, head swimming with plums and promise, and when she cried out against his mouth it echoed in the hall.
Finally, mercifully, they found a rhythm.
Her hips jerked, and he grunted – stiffened – and clapped a hand down hard on her ass to hold her there. Trying to keep their hips together through the frenzied movement. But it couldn't last. It wasn't enough. They needed more than little this would give them.
Solas raised a knee and braced it against her side. A mighty heave, and he'd flipped her onto her back. Slipping his arms from the tangled straps of his pack as he rolled. With his body free, she wrapped herself around him. Weaving them together. Legs around his waist and his arm beneath her back.
She kissed him madly – deeply – clawing at neck and shoulders as if she could open up his fevered skin and crawl inside. She wanted to surround herself with him. Consume him. There was heat in her mouth and copper on her tongue; a taste, honey sweet, that had her gnashing teeth. Fraught with hunger fierce as Wrathful ire. There would never be enough of him to slake it.
Another seam ripped, tearing his collar to the shoulder, and she broke the kiss to put her mouth there. To mark him with her teeth. His body was a canvas, pale and ripe, and with her fervour she would paint him in colour.
Their bodies briefly parted as he lifted up his hips, making space to tug his breeches loose, and once she'd shimmied down her own she braced an arm against his chest. Pushed him back, so she could look into his face when they finally came together.
The separation granted a fleeting break in the clouds, and in that single second of lucidity her gaze was drawn to a reddened smear across his lips and jaw.
There was copper on her tongue.
And her chin was wet where he'd kissed it.
She touched her fingers there, and pulled them back bloody.
"So–Solas, wait, you're bleeding!"
Everything stopped.
He stilled – blinked – and in his eyes she saw a sudden clarity.
Then he was cursing. Scrambling, backward, in a mad dash to disengage from her. Bare feet slipping on the dusty floor and flying out from under him as he tried to right himself, sending him crashing right back down again. He fell hard on his hip and elbow, biting off a cry of pain.
Ellana rolled onto her hands and knees to crawl after him, startled and worried and absolutely bewildered by the sequence of events, but before she'd managed to get any closer he threw an arm out. Yelling, "Wait, wait, wait, wait!"
She stopped, mid-stride, and slowly leaned back on her knees. "Solas, are you al–?"
In a jumbled rush, "Your–I can't– please, your shirt," he stammered. Eyes darting between her and the ceiling.
She looked down at her breasts, partially exposed through the tear in her shift, the ruined band hanging loose around her waist. He'd never cared that much about the condition of her underclothes before… but they'd also never been this rough with each other.
"It's fine," she soothed, trying to assuage his embarrassment. "I don't care if it gets ruined."
But he didn't look any less fraught. If anything, through the gauzy veil of whatever drunkenness possessed her, he seemed afraid.
"No, that's–" He screwed his eyes shut. "Please fix it."
It could've been a joke, something meant to ease this strange tension, but he looked so genuinely distressed by the situation that she was afraid to test it.
It took some fiddling, but she was able to salvage the lace from the breastband and use it to tie the torn edges of the shirt back together. Securing it in a knot at her shoulder.
He didn't look at her again until she'd told him she was finished. And with a shaky sigh, "Thank you," he whispered.
Ellana's gaze fell to his chin, still smeared with blood, and she gave him a nod. Catching on, he brought a hand to his mouth and ran his fingers along the inside of his bottom lip, wincing when they found the gash at its corner. A wound opened by their teeth when they'd crashed together. Neither had noticed at the time.
Trying to wipe his face only spread the mess, so Ellana pulled a waterskin off the outer pocket of his pack and made to give it to him, but he stopped her again. Raising a hand, "Don't," he ordered. A pause. Then, softer, "Toss it over, instead."
She frowned, confused, but did as he requested, and he caught it in trembling hands. It took half the skin just to wash the blood from his mouth. The rest he used to wet his shirt, using it to clean around his lips and chin. Careful not to press too hard where it was still bleeding.
"Can you not heal it?" Ellana asked him. Typically, it would've been the first thing he'd done.
He shook his head. "I cannot use magic in this state."
It was something he'd said once before, in a similar situation, but a little more suggestively and with far less gravitas. It occurred to him belatedly, only after she let out a startled laugh and remarked, "We were doing something about that. We could continue."
"That's not what I meant." He frowned and dabbed at his mouth a few more times. "And no, we cannot."
"Really?" she replied. A moment had been stolen several times now, and she was rapidly losing what thin patience she'd had for the repeated interruptions. If his indecisiveness was just a matter of embarrassment or propriety she was not willing to give it sway. "Why? You didn't seem to have a problem with it a minute ago!"
"That is the problem," he said, giving her a look clearly intended to convey some deeper meaning. But he'd yet to share whatever insight he was drawing on, and all the vagaries had finally sent her into a tailspin of frustration and bewilderment.
She snapped.
"Solas what the fuck does that mean?" she yelled at him. "What are you talking about? What is happening? Why are you acting so weird about this? Why did you ask me to fix my shirt? Why can't I hand you water? And if the writing isn't doing it, why are we so drunk?"
He blinked at her, taken aback, but she found she couldn't bring herself to care anymore. All that unspent tension had to go somewhere, and if he was no longer planning on resolving it with her she was more than happy to aim it at him.
She allowed him half a moment to come up with a suitable response, and when he didn't, "Well?" she prompted.
There were several, halting, attempts at a reply before he decided a more comfortable position was required for the task. He scooted backward along the floor until he'd reached the opposite wall, leaned against it, and draped an arm over an upraised knee.
After a steadying breath, "Within the main hall of a palarla there is a large censer," he began. "Traditionally filled with a blend of herbs that, when burned, can bring about a state of euphoria. Drunkenness – not unlike the effects of alcohol. We are experiencing it now. For those who desired it, the incense was enjoyed as a sort of prelude – lowering inhibition and easing connection. At which point, if all parties were agreeable, a secondary effect could be triggered."
Flatly, "What kind of secondary effect?" she asked.
He shifted uncomfortably. The raised knee was not quite enough to conceal the tightness of his breeches. "Heightened emotional response and sensitivity. Increased sensation. Vigour. It was an… aphrodisiac. One that could cause compulsions, in high enough doses. The finer details of which would depend on the blend and preparation. Its use at large gatherings required that all participants engaged with it freely – as to do otherwise would risk a negative, or even harmful, environment – so those secondary effects required a catalyst to trigger. Connecting magic. The kind with which you are already familiar."
There was a meaningful pause before, "It would appear this censer has been lit," he concluded. "Normally, there is a field around the area that stabilises the potency as well as prevents the effects from spreading, but given that we've detected it in one form or another throughout our journey I imagine that is no longer the case. We were likely already under its influence by the time we woke. That has been the cause of our increased–" He struggled to find the most appropriate word. Eventually settling on a careful, "–volatility. Those effects will continue to grow stronger as we draw nearer to the source, which, unfortunately, remains our best chance of escape. I can extinguish the censer once we locate it, which will cause the incense to dissipate, and the effects subside, but until then it is imperative we do not become enthralled. Without the field to regulate our exposure I am not sure we would be able to escape the geas once succumbed to it."
A sigh marked the end of his explanation, and he looked down at the floor. Head low, he scrubbed both hands up over his face, around to the back of his neck, and laced his fingers there.
At first, and for far too long, Ellana didn't say anything. She simply stared, agog, struggling to absorb all that he'd told her and make it make some kind of sense.
When she could finally speak, "That's real!?" she exclaimed.
He looked up. '"Real'?"
"There's this old story that gets passed around, mostly among youths, about how there was once some plant that could be made into a potion that would make someone fall in love with you. Or wildly fuck you, at least. Said to be so popular in ancient times that they drove the plant to extinction."
"That does sound like a Dalish myth," he replied, and lowered his head again.
Ignoring the quip, she pressed, "But you're saying that if we start, we won't stop, and it would… what? Kill us?"
"Not immediately."
She leaned back on her heels. Passing a moment in thoughtful silence as she considered all the implications. Eventually, "It really was the smell," she muttered. "If we make it out of here, I want you to remember this as a time I was right from the beginning."
"You were," he allowed, unlacing one of his hands for a sweeping gesture. Eyes still firmly fixed upon the floor.
"I was right about the smell, about the elfroot, about the weird, you being giddy, the thoughts, and everything being bigger. All of it! I told you it wasn't the veil!"
"You did."
"And you were wrong."
"I could put it on a banner, if you like."
There was a pause. She narrowed her eyes, waiting until he glanced up to check on the fallen silence before asking, "You heard that?"
"Vaguely," he replied, with a huff of quiet laughter. "I was aware of your presence, though heard little. Actually, I believe that may have been what triggered the effects. A strong desire to follow the sound of your voice, even in unconsciousness, would've been amplified exponentially by the effects of the incense. It could qualify as an attempt at connection, at least as far as is required. From there, you need only express the same sentiment toward me in a similar manner."
"When I uncovered you I touched your cheek," Ellana said. And demonstrated on herself. Solas' eyes followed the movement. "Something happened. A flicker, like a tonic fading. When you regained consciousness you were speaking Elvish."
"I was delirious."
"You were intoxicated," she corrected, grinning. "Did you even know who I was when you first woke up?"
He brought his hands around the sides of his face and scrubbed them up and down. Then cradled his head in their cup. "I was delirious," he repeated, with more emphasis.
The grin turned wry. "Do you invite every beautiful stranger to approach you, or was that just for me?" All at once, she was struck by words they'd exchanged hours ago, and pivoted immediately. Brows high with delighted surprise. "Wait, you said it's familiar. You know this. You know this! Solas, have you been here?!"
There was a very long, very awkward, silence over which she watched those parts of his face not covered by his hands turn a deep shade of crimson.
Then, from beneath the cradle, there was a muffled, "Not in a very long time."
If he said anything more she couldn't know, as by that point she was so deep in throes of laughter that her ears had started ringing. She laughed until she cried and choked, holding her face in her hands, pushed to extremes by the effects of the incense.
They were a mess. She was a mess. Drunk and giddy and reeling. She should've recognized the effects for what they were hours ago. Looking back, it was there from the start: Solas was hands down the most loquacious drunk she'd ever met.
Between her peals of wheezing laughter were a few, soft, embarrassed chuckles from him. By the time she'd caught her breath he'd shifted to having a hand over his eyes and the other laid on his thigh. Lips pressed into a firm line that curled just enough at the corners to show the effort he made in not smiling.
But the blush was still just as hot.
"Is that why you're like that at parties? Because these were the kinds of parties you used to attend?"
He opened a space between two fingers to make wary eye contact. "Like what?"
"You are never so flirtatious as those nights we've hosted, or attended, some sort of event. The larger the crowd, the better. Always making promises and sneaking kisses behind curtains. Last time, you found a way to drag me out of there before we even got to dessert. We didn't even make it to your room. I thought it was just the wine."
He started to protest, lifting his hand from his face and readying a sharp breath… but then, stilled. And closed his mouth.
After a time, "It is also the wine," he said.
She was grinning, heady and enchanted by the smile curling up one side of his mouth. It would be so simple to crawl to him, and kiss it. Succumb together. No one would ever find them down here. They could be free to lose themselves in a way they never had. Rutting like animals, braying and shouting. Loud and unabashed. She would make him make the sounds she'd always wanted to hear.
Her smile softened. She bit her lip. His gaze fell to her mouth.
Instantly, a wave of something rose in the space between them. Gravity pulling like a rope around her chest. Both of them inhaled sharply.
Then, "Fenedhis," Solas swore under his breath. And turned his face back into his palm.
No one would ever find us down here.
With that, another realisation dawned, and Ellana's careless thoughts found solid purchase on the missing piece of a larger puzzle.
"Oh," she said, with sudden gravitas. "I think I know what happened to the soldiers."
TRANSLATIONS: Vallasvunal = lit. 'living writing', a poetic interpretation of writing that feelsSa'an sathem'aan = one place of many pleasures
Pala = sex/fuck
Arla = home All the concepts described here are my own, but draw some inspiration from having spent a few decades in the Star Trek fandom.