Chapter 6
Then-Solace
Whoever said to be careful what you wish for is a sodding genius.
Honestly, she should find the person and recruit him (or her as the case may be) for one of the Inquisition's research teams- they'd undoubtedly be able to solve one of those pesky little age old problems.
Like... the Grey Warden's Calling. Probably solve that in a week and a half and Ferelden would have its beloved Queen back and would award said genius with a medal or a title. Then she'd have to present him (or her) an award from the Inquisition and in all honesty what token is sufficient for solving such a conundrum? She should just make him-or her- the Inquisitor and be done with it.
Wait.
Did she really just resign and give her home away to a complete stranger in a fictional scenario?
She did.
But what's she supposed to do?
She's bored.
Meryn isn't sure how to interpret her seemingly answered prayer- though it was more of a shouted curse then a prayer- from her dream days ago. She just wanted a single night without a showdown with the terror demon, and instead she'd gotten days- and nights- of peace.
So Meryn does what she always does when she's bored- finds something to occupy her time. And if that doesn't work, annoying one of her immortal ancestors is always a viable option.
"So that's it. Just like that? Seems a bit anti- climatic if you ask me." Meryn disagrees as she paces the forest, measuring out a big enough space for her experiment.
...Which is why no one asked you peasant.
Accustomed to the First's insults by now, she merely rolls her eyes as she continues.
"Moon children? You're seriously telling me that Hawen and Taven were tortured-for weeks- by the Venatori. Tortured so badly..." she trails off, but the image of Taven's wide, vacant expression as he repeats "Evunelanevunelanevunelanevun..." over and over is forever burned into her mind.
...The depth of my affection and understanding of humans pales in comparison to the depth of my affection for you...peasant.
Meryn may detest the pompous First- but at least the contemptuous insults were improving.
...If you seek a more literal meaning, then follower or believer would be sufficient- unless you doubt my language skills. Are you doubting my knowledge of my native tongue dahn' direlan?
"Nope. But I wouldn't be surprised if you kept something a secret from me because I'm not Elvhen enough for you," she pauses, ruminating. "In fact I'm certain of it- it sounds exactly like something you'd do," She takes a deep breath and adds for good measure "And stop calling me that!"
...Why would I? You did try to punch bees did you not; he stops for a moment, thoughtful. Though the colloquial meaning is aptly appropriate as well.
"I may seem like an idiot some-maybe most of the time- but it's not actually true."
...That remains to be seen peasant.
Feeling her frustration rising, and not having an appropriate way to deal with it- since punching her own face seems a bit extreme- she concedes instead.
"You can hide it all you want. I know I've heard it before and I'll get it out of you eventually," Meryn promises darkly as she finishes her measurements, marking the last corner of the square with a large round rock. "You have no idea what you're getting into- kind of like the time my friend Dorian stumbled into a ladies only bordello."
...I will prepare myself, the First says sarcastically. I look forward to your efforts with the same enthusiasm I have for watching a tree grow.
Meryn dismisses him, mind emptying as she focuses on the task at hand- blinking. Taven waking up in a trance, Clan Seithan's imminent arrival at Skyhold, Jowly and the wolf's mysterious absence from her dreams of late, finding the evun'elan- all of it fades away as Meryn sets out to duplicate the Fade blink that saved Cole.
"This is about the right size right Taddy?" she questions the little fox who followed her (albeit reluctantly) into the woods a short distance away from the Inquisition's camp.
A blank- yet somehow vexed- expression greets her.
"Oh calm down you can sleep later."
With a long- suffering squeak the fennec rises, stretching slowly before turning in circles and laying back down on top of her utility belt and daggers, only this time his back is to her and his scorched fluffy tail covers his eyes.
Muttering under her breath about insubordinate little beasties, Meryn puts her back to the fox and replays the original blink in her head, paying attention to the little details- the interplays of light, the sounds, the sensations- coming back to the same conclusion. She had to have gone through a rift.
Which could be a problem- she's never made a rift before.
She's spent too much time closing them, running around them, sometimes screaming around them (usually bleeding around them) - though not necessarily in that order or all at once- but Meryn's not really sure where to begin with creating one.
She stares at her hand for awhile; bringing the Anchor up to her face to study it, then holds it up to the sky, mimicking how she closes a rift. There's no rift present, but the Veil shimmers as if sensing the Anchor- and it gives her an idea.
Sensitive and intimately familiar with the Veil from interacting with it for so long, it takes no effort for Meryn to see the fabric of the magical barrier in her minds eye- though the interlocking strands and threads are more prominent this close to Skyhold then in other places she's been.
The weave, while prominent, is also tight and strong- Meryn can't see any frayed strands, an obvious sign of a weakening in the Veil. She keeps searching though, following the weave until she finds the slightest abnormality, and when she does she unleashes the Anchor on it, intent on driving her way through-
-and it works.
With a resounding rip, the Veil tears in front of her, opening a huge rift to the Fade- but it's wrong. It's all wrong.
This may have been a bad idea...
The portal she entered to get to Cole was just that- a portal. It was more of a slip between the Fade and the physical world as opposed to an open wound in the Veil.
Plus those demons coming out- that didn't happen the last time.
This was definitely a bad idea.
Outnumbered and with the demons bearing down on her, Meryn grabs the sleeping Tadwinks and flees back to camp, questioning her life choices the entire time.
"Magician- Queen!"
Blackwall slaps the cards down, practically strutting in triumph, leaning forward to rake in his winnings.
"Excellent hand. Marvelous." The Tevinter mage congratulates him, making no move to stop Blackwall even though he neglects to flip over his last card.
He's hiding something. Mages- why can't they simply just do things and leave out all the blighted theatrics?
"Unfortunately, not good enough," Dorian continues with a flourish, flipping his last card, revealing the final priestess, earning Dorian sixty five points, the hand, and the last of Blackwall's dignity.
Damn mages.
"At least I kept my clothes this time," the warrior concedes as he sits back down on his make- shift chair (a bucket) watching Dorian collect the last of the gold.
"Indeed- though I'm sure I am the more grateful party for that blessing," Dorian quips, counting his winnings. Satisfied, he eyes Blackwall again, a conniving gleam in his eye.
"Care to go again? Try to reclaim some lost honor? It's still early yet."
Blackwall declines with a laugh, opting to stand and stretch out his muscles from sitting on the bucket for so long.
"What else are you going to do? We're still three days from Skyhold and I've run out of things to do here-unless you'd let me near that beard of yours. I could fix it right up!"
Blackwall tries to hide the look of revulsion on his face but is unsuccessful.
"Fine then," the mages huffs as he gets up to wander away and find something to do, but not before letting out a shout of "I'm bored!"
Shock fills Blackwall at the mage's utterance of the forbidden phrase, and he chokes out- "Now why'd you have to say it? Do you have an aversion to peace and quiet?"
"Of course not, I'm just saying I'm finding it difficult to occupy my time when we've been gone for so long- I'm out of books and those new Dalish are not nearly as pleasant as our fair Inquisitor," Dorian explains, utterly unaffected.
At the other man's mention of the Inquisitor, Blackwall's mind starts turning, replaying his entire conversation with Dorian, small anomalies standing out:
It's early yet...
Bored...
Peace and quiet...
Inquisitor...
As if reading his train of thought, Dorian pales, rubbing a hand over his face as he groans.
"We could be wrong. She could be sleeping," the mage starts, hopeful.
"Right," Blackwall scoffs. "And when has that ever been the case?" The honesty of the sentiment makes Dorian wince.
"One can dream- when did you see her last?"
"Maybe an hour ago? Before we started the game?" The warrior thinks hard, trying to pinpoint the exact time.
"An hour? That's hardly enough time to get into any troub-"
As if the Maker himself wants to contradict him, the brilliant yet memorable burst of green light signifying an opening rift burns through the sky, the echoing explosion of sound reaching them shortly after, making their ears pop.
"You were saying?" Blackwall, pointing to the sky, turns to the mage, incredulous.
"That may be so," Dorian begins, looking chagrined. "But it's still your turn."
"What! No!" Blackwall exclaims, flabbergasted. "Last time I had to chase off an entire pack of bog fishers. Never doing that again," he adds quietly, quivering at the memory.
"I highly doubt there's any here, we're nearly in the mountains," the mage counters sarcastically.
Instead of answering, Blackwall makes a fist with one hand, placing it in the open palm of the other and gestures towards the mage as a look of understanding crosses Dorian's face.
"Best two out of three?"
Blackwall wins the first round killing Dorian's cultist with a high dragon, though Dorian tricks him, choosing the cultist a second time, crushing Blackwall's spider.
Before they can finish the last round a pulse from the nearby rift brings with it a renewed sense of urgency.
"I'll give you your gold back," Dorian offers as they shoot again, both choosing high dragon, resulting in another draw. "All of it," he adds, fist at the ready with a tantalizingly bright gleam in his eyes which Blackwall can't ignore.
"All of it?" he questions, just to be sure.
"All of it," Dorian confirms, offering his hand.
Blackwall grabs it in a rough shake, and then sprints for his tent to grab his gear, reminding himself to thank Lady Lavellan when he finds her- he's always been terrible at Diamondback.
Everything situated Blackwall runs into the forest, heading towards the rift, eyes peeled in the low light for any signs of the Inquisitor. As is normally the case, he hears her before he sees her, the stumbling as she runs through the forest extremely loud in the silent woods.
The tiny elf runs face first into his chest plate, the speed of her flight causing her to bounce off and land in the dirt, her large violet eyes looking at him in bewilderment before changing to something more akin to embarrassment.
She stands up quickly, brushing herself off, then bends back down to scoop up the dazed (and slightly squished) fox. She sets him on her shoulder instead of her arms and he curls automatically around her neck though the stunned look never leaves his vulpine face.
"Evening Blackwall," Meryn greets him, laughing nervously to herself as she anxiously wipes her hands on her thighs.
"Inquisitor," he responds, choosing to let her nervousness do the talking for him.
"How are you?"
"Fine."
"Out for a stroll? Nice night for it." As if in agreement about just what a nice night it is, the rift pulses, the moans and cries of it's tethered demons much more evident this close to it.
The green light draws their attention but the look on Blackwall's face must have made the Inquisitor's guilt and nervousness triumph over her embarrassment because the truth comes flooding out in a rush.
"IwasjusttryingtodothatthingwiththeFadewhenIsavedColebecausewhynot-and I made a rift instead?" -somehow ending in a gibberish question with the Inquisitor shrugging her shoulders and throwing her hands in the air.
Not entirely understanding- though this is the default state of being when one spent sufficient time around the Inquisitor- but satisfied, Blackwall can't help himself when he laughs at the expression on Meryn's face. A unique combination of guilt and contrition underlayed with a fierce dissatisfaction which he could only assume stemmed from whatever she was doing that caused the rift in the first place.
It also made Blackwall entirely certain she'd try it again once the rift is closed.
With a resigned sigh as he realized he's not going to sleep tonight Blackwall grabs the Inquisitor by the shoulders and drags her back to the rift, cursing Dorian the whole way for even thinking of the word bored.
Three hours later and Blackwall is still cursing the mage.
It's such a novice mistake and Dorian should have known better by now. Even contemplating the word "bored" around anything concerning Meryn Lavellan is tempting fate- a sure fire way to actively seek disaster.
This exact moment being a prime example.
Blackwall's not entirely sure what the whimsical little elf is doing- he lost interest about ten minutes in- but it mostly looks like she's staring into thin air.
She's clearly doing something because the flashes of light he sees are always followed by the same sizzle and crash as she flies backwards past him to land in the bushes time and time again.
Like right now.
Hair eschew, silver falling down into her eyes from where she pulled it back, causes the Inquisitor to brush (sometimes blow) the strands annoyingly out of her face. Violet is tired, but determined, and she seems to be ignoring the small curls of smoke rising from various parts of her armor as she stalks back up the hill.
Blackwall, thrown, does a double take- when did she have time to set herself on fire?
Attributing it to another of the Inquisitor's quirks he can't hope to keep track of or keep up with Blackwall turns his attention back to his hands and the small wooden figurine he's making.
It's a solid enough piece of maple he's carved and shaped into a miniature fennec fox- the tiny creature next to him the source of inspiration. The figure is mostly finished- besides the small details he still needs to whittle into it. Blackwall means to give it to Sera when it's complete, a gift of sorts for the finicky elf who's always been a bit sore that Tadwinks preferred the Inquisitor's company over her own after Sera rescued him and brought him to Skyhold.
A frustrated sigh announces Meryn before she's standing over him, arms crossed behind her head, elbows pointed to the darkening sky.
"Giving up?" he asks kindly as he blows small shavings off the wooden toy.
"Never," she spits out vehemently.
She's persistent- he has to give her that. For all of her tendencies to be consistently inconsistent, she rarely gives up- she'll just keep trying with increasingly absurd results. But as she settles in next to him, legs crossed, it seems she's pausing for a moment.
"You don't have to stay you know," Meryn perks up suddenly. "I know you must be tired."
"And leave you to come wake me up in the middle of the night because you've opened another rift? I'll just wait here if it's all the same," his response gruff.
"Well thank you," she adds earnestly.
Before she can continue, Blackwall cuts her off- "Besides you'll knock yourself out eventually and if I wasn't here who would drag your sorry ass back to camp?" A sound comes from behind him, reminding him of something and he adds.
"Definitely not that little one," pointing over his shoulder as a delicate and petite yawn from the sleepy fox only solidifies his point- the timing of it all making the Inquisitor burst out laughing. It's a nice laugh he has to admit- capricious and full of light- just like Meryn herself.
Violet warms with mirth and she looks at his hands for the first time, curious as always.
"What's that?" she asks, holding out her hand to touch it lightly with a brush of her fingers.
"Just a gift I'm working on. It's not quite done yet," Blackwall answers, handing it to her gently while keeping the whittling knife to himself- the Inquisitor would somehow manage to injure herself on the small (yet sharp) tool.
Upon hearing the wooden figurine is a gift she handles it even more carefully, holding it close to her face so that violet can catch every detail. A part of him feels as if he is on display, even though Meryn's seen his work before- and praised it- but this is different. This time, he's trying to recapture the essence of her beloved pet, but the short intake of awe filled breath as she recognizes Tadwinks' image is enough.
"That's amazing! Look at all the details- he's perfect!" she exclaims, excitedly showing Blackwall things he already knows- being the one who put them there in the first place- such as the burnt and missing fur from the fennec's tail. She's still going on, praising his abilities, and asking him questions in a flurry.
With a short bark of a laugh, Blackwall takes the wooden replica from her hands, pulling up the whittle knife with the other.
"For things like this, it's all about finesse," he explains pointing to the thin, delicate lines that make up the rings of Tadwink's tail. "You can't just force what you want into the wood- you may as well just take a hammer to it-" he pauses with a laugh as he looks at his engaged audience. "But if you're patient and take your time..." he trails off, gesturing to the little toy.
"Finesse," she finishes for him, lost in thought as she gazes at the whittling knife.
"Finesse."
"Finesse...?" she questions, and this time Blackwall's not sure if she's talking to him or herself, until she rises abruptly, taking off back in the direction she came.
He's still staring after her, puzzled, when there's a flash of light, a rush of wind, and then she's suddenly right next him, flinging her small arms at him, hugging him tightly around the ribs.
Even more confused by the unusual display of affection, he settles for awkwardly patting the Inquisitor on the back, simply nodding whenever she babbles out "Finesse!' like it's the meaning of life and giggling to herself.
He'll just put this on the very long list of things he doesn't understand about the eccentric and enigmatic Meryn Lavellan.
By the Maker that list is getting long.
The Fade must have been influenced by her excitement that night because for once she doesn't end up in the usual valley. The lack of honeysuckle and cinnamon filtering through her nose is only one more reason to celebrate- and all it took was some "finesse" which Meryn has in spades.
Most of the time.
Some of the time.
Hardly at any time, but she wishes she did and that has to count for something.
In the end the Fade knife was the key- instead of trying to punch (or hammer) a hole through the Fade she should have been trying to slip through, like a needle going through cloth without breaking it. She needed something to help her bend the strands of the Veil without tearing them- and the Fade knife allowed her that control.
Summoning it and maintaining it in the corporeal world is far different then in the Fade, and Meryn could only manage it for a few seconds, but it's enough.
What would have made the moment perfect was if Solas had been there- not that Blackwall isn't a great and supportive friend, because he is. (Who else- besides Iron Bull- would have sat (somewhat) patiently waiting for her to accidentally summon a horde of demons?) But for all the good Blackwall is as a companion, the warrior just doesn't get it. The magic thing.
Meryn wanted Solas to be there- not only because she missed him- but because she simply wanted to talk to him again. To see what he thought about what she could do. He'd help her break everything down, exploring the mechanics and theories, as well the implications in that quiet and intellectual way of his.
Or he'd be surprised and intrigued with her antics which usually led to other things besides intellectual debates. She'd take that too.
A sharp pain shoots through her chest, prompting her to believe that maybe (just maybe) Meryn misses the apostate and all the little things they did together more then she originally thought.
Shaking it off she alters her train of thought, looking around her at where the Fade dropped her tonight.
Skyhold.
Meryn's interested in why until she remembers her last thought before falling asleep- the infamous tutor. She's been almost excited to get back to Skyhold to meet a mage friend of Varric's who could teach a person who isn't a mage to be a mage. Kind of.
She rises from her bed, seeking Jowly's familiar aura or anything else unfriendly but finds nothing except that she's in for another boring dream. (The Fade will probably make her relive Josephine's lessons on Orlesian cheese courses. Void take her if that happens.)
Meryn dresses in her day to day attire and opens her door to the wooden landing, about to make the tiered descent to the main hall when she remembers- she's in the Fade- so why not take the quick way?
Bracing herself on one hand she jumps over the railing, falling three stories feet first. Her stomach bottoms out even as her face lights up in glee as she hurtles towards the incoming floor, but she lands soundly, popping back up to her feet from the rush of adrenaline.
With a devilish smirk and busy mind she realizes it might not be such a boring dream after all.
Scaling the walls of Skyhold is surprisingly easy- though Meryn is on the receiving end of a few odd looks. The most notable from a blonde human mage she doesn't recall seeing around Skyhold before.
Jumping off the highest wall in Skyhold to the frozen lake below is unsurprisingly difficult- but absolutely worth it.
Meryn's favorite is when she climbed into the rookery and flung herself over the banister, shooting a nonchalant wave to Dorian and the blonde mage he was talking too on the way down.
The look on Dorian's face- like a fish trying to breath out of water- is priceless. The blonde man, meanwhile, must have accepted that the famed Inquisitor is a bit touched in the head because he was laughing the whole time.
She's about climb Cullen's tower and fly in through the window- hopefully scaring him more then the time he walked in on Iron Bull and Dorian- when she passes by the recruits tower and gets an idea.
She crosses to the rundown unused tower across from the recruits barracks, finding a wall covered in uneven bricks and mortar. The wall looks like it is in desperate need of a touch up, the bricks beginning to jut out from the solidity of the wall- but Meryn just sees the hand and foot holds she needs to clamber up the side and onto the roof.
The very roof which puts her in the perfect place to spy on the unwitting recruits.
Cassandra has Varric's trashy novels, Leliana has pudding? Fancy shoes?
Meryn has idle, frivolous gossip- and it's glorious.
Even the Inquisitor is entitled to a guilty pleasure every now and then- it doesn't have to be doom and world ending gloom all the time. That's how she justifies her secret shame anyway.
Meryn settles herself in, removing her boots, throwing her legs over the sides to dangle and swing lazily back and forth. Releasing a sigh she doesn't realize she's been holding, she eyes the building across from her, thanking whoever built it for putting at least one window on every floor and on every side of the building- allowing her to see into at least one room on each of the four floors.
The first two are empty; someone is asleep on the third, but on the fourth...gold.
The argument over picking up socks of all things starts between one of the recruits and her bunkmate, the words filtering across the distance to Meryn's sensitive ears and she allows herself to relax and be entertained by the display.
She loses track of how long she's been watching the recruits move in and out of the barracks. (She's only gotten pins and needles in her extremities a few times so she's probably only been watching for a couple hours.) Some of the recruits move quickly, as if they forgot something, others stay longer, settling in at the end of their shifts, and still more come and stay for some...quality time. Meryn blushes and turns around for a while at those- she's not a voyeur.
Or Sera.
Meryn only turns around when an argument she recognizes hits her ears, the Fade now drawing from her memories, which means that-
"Inquisitor?"
The sound of his voice after so long slams into her chest like a maul swung by a Tal- Vashoth; the fact that it's not really his voice, only the Fade echo of it, is utterly irrelevant.
Remembering how this particular memory played out, Meryn can't help but feel torn; a part of her scared to see him (even if it's just a spirit wearing his face) while a larger- and far more vocal- part is desperate for even the slightest glimpse. She wars with herself, between what she should do-what's better for her- and what she wants to do.
Meryn peeks over the side, acknowledging him.
As if it was really a choice, she thinks to herself. Everyone's entitled to a guilty pleasure- right?
"May I speak with you?" Solas asks agitation unusually apparent.
"Is everything alright?" she questions, choosing to follow her memory. "You're looking kind of...grim and fatalistic," she trails off as she talks with her hands, recalling how often she told him that phrase and all the different ways she'd draw him out of his dark moods.
Meryn never realized that this- this moment right here- is the very first time.
"I am grim and fatalistic," he agrees with her, hopefully not noticing her earlier flinch. "Could you come down?" Solas continues, impatient.
"No thanks," she throws him a bright smile over the side but makes no effort to move.
"Meryn, I have little patience today. Please." he growls out, rubbing his forehead in irritation.
"I never said I wouldn't talk to you Solas, I just don't want to go down there. Come up here." She gently pats the space next to her in invitation. Even back then he knew her and how stubborn she gets when she's reached her threshold for surliness.
With an indulgent (yet irked) expression Solas disappears, reappearing at her side less then a minute later. Curious how he made it up so fast she peeks over the edge to see a ladder he found; to this day Meryn still has no idea where he got it from.
"May I have a moment please?" Solas asks again, drawing her attention back to him.
"Nope!" she chirps cheerily, getting a twisted enjoyment out of playfully torturing him. He throws his hands up in exasperation, getting up to leave when she grabs him by the elbow.
"Don't go."
Her words halt him, as she knew they would- though Meryn always suspected it had far more to do with her touching him for the first time since he gave her the veilfire necklace and everything changed.
Solas pauses above her-eyes falling to the necklace around her throat- Meryn's hand still on his elbow, so she continues quickly. "Five minutes. That's it." The incredulous expression and slightly raised brow begs for an explanation.
While Solas is frightfully intelligent, and can usually keep up with her tangents and quirks, he can't always follow her train of thought. He's just an elf after all.
Maybe.
(Though that is a suspicion to ponder over at another time- not when reliving a memory of her more naive self.)
"Five minutes where you're not a Fade expert and I'm not the Inquisitor. You're just you and I'm just me," she finishes with a soft "please" and the most pleading expression she can muster.
He looks like he's about to disagree but changes his mind, submitting to her request. Meryn releases his elbow and he settles back down, taking in his new surroundings- noticing the close proximity of the barracks for the first time. (For all she knows it could actually be the first time, her elf rarely ever left the rotunda or the main buildings in Skyhold).
Meryn can see the conflict in his face between wanting to discuss something he deems important and wanting to sate his curiosity at something she's done. She never understood why Solas found her so fascinating- Meryn was always under the impression she just is the way she is plain and simple- but he used to say the same about her infatuation with him.
In the end it ceased to matter- all that mattered to her was that he did.
Inquisitiveness wins out, and she dances (internally) in triumph.
"What are you doing lethallan?" gesturing to the scene which now includes a Fade supplied bowl of Cabot's popping corn- lightly tossed in butter and salt just the way she likes.
"Spying on the recruits. It's nice to be around problems that don't affect the fate of the world once in awhile," she says casually tossing a kernel into her mouth.
He still looks unconvinced so she draws his attention to the familiar argument at the start of the memory.
"There's actually a bit of drama today," Meryn starts pointing to a window on the fourth floor. "Adams- the blonde- was caught using Beaumont's soaps and shampoos when she took a bath," explaining the situation conspiratorially under her breath while indicating the appropriate people.
"So?"
Men- she should clarify. Hobo apostate elves. Honestly.
"So what? They were from Orlais- and very expensive. The best in the empire. It's a travesty!" she exclaims in flamboyant indignation.
"How do you know?
"Know what?"
"That it's a travesty," his eyes are twinkling now as he teases her, finally relaxing and playing along.
Meryn loves all of him- she doesn't question that- but there is something special about Solas when he is like this, just allowing himself to be; forgetting about brooding and the endless worries of his mysterious responsibilities for just a second.
"Mostly because Beaumont just said so," she quips with a shrug. "How would I know? I spent the last half of my life in a forest."
The corner of his mouth turns up in a slight smile- she's got him now. Whatever was so pressing is totally forgotten for the time being.
"What are they saying now?" he asks, completely ignoring the view, eyes intent on her face. She turns back to the window.
"They're arguing about who's hair is nicer. Though I must say- Adams color is prettier but Beaumont's looks healthier. Maybe there really is something about the stuff from Or-" the feeling of her hair being released from the leather tie of her ponytail interrupts her, the silver strands settling around her face.
"Yours is far superior."
She turns to Solas, violet wide in surprise. He looks unrepentant; idly twirling the scrap of leather while grey refuses to look anywhere else except her face.
He raises a hand between them, extending a single finger to her hair, brushing it softly as if she's this precious thing made entirely of glass. He touches her so lightly she's not even sure she feels it- not that she would do anything if she could, because she can't.
Meryn's completely paralyzed like she was with Jowly's bees, only this time she's in a different kind of pain- a beautiful, gut-wrenching kind of heart cramp.
"The color is unique and the texture is pleasing without the frills of Orlais. They should seek out your advice."
"Thank you?" she squeaks out, the emotions flooding her.
"You are welcome." He flashes the wolfish playful smirk that always made her insides turn to mush.
Almost as if he can sense her paralysis he flicks his wrist, summoning two blankets from a bed on the second floor. The blankets land between them, unseen by the residents of Skyhold except for the blonde mage walking the walls with a sad smile on his face.
Solas settles the blankets, giving them room to stretch out comfortably without getting dirty and still spy on the new soldiers. He helps Meryn after with a hand on her waist, and then releases her to lie down as well.
"What about them?" He points to a window on the third floor, resuming the conversation while exchanging the leather tie for a portion her hair, twirling and playing with it as he waits for her to speak, admiring the way it catches the sunlight. Meryn tries to focus over the sudden buzzing in her ears at his closeness.
She rambles off something about a sneaky-witch-thief when Solas interrupts her again, only with his voice this time.
"When I found you, before Haven, before Skyhold, and for a time after- you hid your hair. Why?" He pauses, as if searching for the right way to phrase the next question. She winces-not only at the memory of the repulsive brown of the black walnut dye- but also the necessity behind it.
"In Arlathan hair such as yours was considered a gift- something of reverence, not something to conceal. Do the Dalish no longer follow this practice?"
And there it was.
Meryn hopes the trepidation she's feeling doesn't transfer to her face. In her memory she shrugged his question off, telling him a piece of the truth- it's really hard to be sneaky when any light can make your head sparkle- because she hadn't wanted to give him another instance of the Dalish misrepresenting a piece of Arlathan.
But honestly, at the time she was scared- scared to reveal pieces of herself. She'd always thought there would be time, time to come to terms with herself, with Solas, and what he meant to her- and there had been time.
Until there wasn't.
Solas left and then there wasn't anything.
This Solas may only be dream Solas and Meryn telling him anything won't change a thing, but she feels like she should- for her sake at least.
"In your time with the Dalish did you ever see another person like me?"
"Never." He says the word simply enough but his voice bleeds conviction, suggesting a far deeper significance to the word that she can only guess at.
"Heard the phrase Ghilan'asan En'an'sal? He shakes his head though she knows he understands its translation-he speaks the most fluent Elvish she's ever heard.
"I've never seen another either- except my mother. It's rare enough the Dalish have a word for us- ghilanasha- believing we're lucky." She expects judgment in his eyes- his opinions of the Dalish always abundantly clear, but his face is devoid of any emotion except a desire to know about her.
Pleased, and feeling lighter, Meryn continues with a smile. "They say the ghilanasha are born with the 'wisdom of senectitude' and blessed with the exuberance and time of youth," she rattles off from her memory, the meaning and importance of the word drilled into her at an early age. But she can't help herself when she mocks the wisdom part- and any Dalish who actually knew her would too.
At least she has the exuberance part down.
She's trailed off, lost in her thoughts, but Solas subtly clears his throat, bringing her back.
"You did not answer the question lethallan." he says gently.
Meryn, surprised, casts a glance over her shoulder, feeling awkward, watching the blonde haired mage walk the wall, coming close enough to their little tower that he may even be able to hear them.
"I started doing it for self preservation I suppose. My mother, as she, well..." Realizing she never told Solas about her parents either makes everything a little harder, but Meryn decides to rush through it, ignoring the image of the druffalo charging at her that pops into her head.
"She started seeing things some times and she worried about me, insisting I cover my hair up because it was dangerous, that people would try and find me. Even after I went to the clan it was just easier then getting my hair pulled out all the time or having people follow me around asking for it."
A look of confusion settles over his face, and it's so foreign to his usual expressions Meryn can't help but grin.
"My hair is lucky- put it in a lover's knot and you get some Meryn Lavellan good luck and wisdom," she laughs, smiling sardonically at the irony.
"The Ghilan'asan En'an'sal?" Solas asks, comprehending.
"Exactly."
"Did any of them actually know you beforehand," he teases, fully aware of her unluckiness.
"Nope- so I'm sure you can imagine the stir at the Arlathvhen," Meryn quips shivering at the memory of broken halla paddocks, pimples on brides faces and a violent storm that rained frogs.
He laughs at that, a rare full laugh, and the sound pulls at her, making Meryn realize how much she misses this- how much she misses him.
No longer in control of herself, entirely driven by longing and loneliness, she scoots closer to dream Solas, putting her hand on his cheek, stilling him immediately. He stares at her, unaffected by her closeness as his gaze drops to her lips. She returns his gaze sadly as the dream Solas closes the distance between them-
-only to disappear the moment before their lips touch.
And not just Solas disappears- Meryn's entire dream is suddenly gone, replaced by the cinnamon and honeysuckle field.
She didn't think it was possible to go from melancholy and sad to utterly furious in three seconds but it is.
It most certainly is.
Meryn leaps up armed to the teeth, anticipating the demon's attack but when she looks around the only thing she sees is the blonde human mage- oddly enough looking just as angry as she feels- but what she can't figure out is why.
"Susceptible to the most obvious temptations. Varric did not inform me of the severity of the situation," the mage grits out through clenched teeth.
"Varric?" She studies him, choosing to ignore the fact that he was dream stalking her around Skyhold.
At first glance he appears human- tall, broad shouldered and muscular with his long blond hair tied back, accenting his brown eyes- but on closer inspection the sharp set of his features and the slight tip to his rounded ears give him away.
He's elf- blooded, but not a true Elvhen.
A half-elf.
Before she can say anything else he cuts her off, as if further offended by her scrutiny.
"Call me Feynriel. I am one of the Somniari and your tutor in the Fade."
Then, only half- finished with the introductions, he attacks her.