Enough

"To good fights!"

She was slurring by then, her tongue thick and numb in her mouth, her head so light it threatened to float away. When her forehead hit her forearm, resting on the bar counter, she was confused. She stared, mesmerized, at the candlelight swimming across the polished grain.

From the top of a mountain, Bull roared his approval and raised his mug high. "To bad drinks!"

He drank. Iralen drank. Or, she tried to. She slopped most of what was left in her qunari-sized mug down her front.

This should have upset her. Iralen frowned down at her soggy white scarf, the . . . swill . . . splashed across her leather vest, and then she started giggling.

Once she started giggling, she couldn't stop.

"You're done," Cabot announced. The bartender reached over and yanked the mug away from her.

Iralen stared at her empty hand – the right one, the skin pink and unmarked, the way it was supposed to be. She thought about demanding her mug back, but the aftertaste of whatever it had held changed her mind. Her throat convulsed, and she coughed over the remembered burn.

"Ah, don't mind him," Bull said, glaring murderously after a man who was half his height while she gasped and spluttered at his elbow. Under his breath, he added, "Supercilious asshole."

Cabot heard. He banged a cupboard shut. "Hey. You. Six silver. Then get her out of here."

"Six?" Bull belched. "I've had dragon piss that tasted better."

"Idiot. That was dragon piss."

Iralen giggled and groaned at the same time. "Thought so," she said.

"Gotta say, Inquisitor, didn't think you'd be able to hold down maraas-lok. You've got a set of stones for an elf," Cabot drawled, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned his hairy arms on the bar and added in a conspiratorial stage whisper: "Leave it to me; I'll be sure to spread the story."

At that, Bull slammed his huge gray hand on the counter and left the coin behind, and probably a few coin-shaped dents in the shiny wood. "He's right. Time to go."

"You can thank me later," the swarthy dwarf called after them, apparently unaware that the leader of Bull's Chargers was contemplating skewering him like a nug on a spit. "Inquisitor," he added with his customary, grinning sneer.

"Don't worry, Bull. He's harmless," Iralen said.

"Come on, boss, you gotta walk. I can't carry you back," Bull responded, which made absolutely no sense at all until Iralen realized that they were no longer in Herald's Rest. In fact, they were rounding the perpetual puddle in the courtyard and heading for the long flight of steps into Skyhold's main building. She glanced down, distracted by the moonlight flashing off the glazed surface of the water. Her legs were moving, but she wasn't walking so much as riding on Bull's arm.

"You can so. Carry me," Iralen commanded.

"No-o-o," Bull said, but he tightened his grip around her waist all the same. He glanced at the sky, black and frosted with stars. Maryden's singing could be faintly heard floating from the brightly-lit tavern's open windows, but the courtyard was otherwise silent. They stumbled into the hall together. "Keep your head up and your voice down. Do you have any idea what time it is? If anyone sees you like this we'll be in big trouble."

They made it five and a half more steps, and then –

"Inquisitor!"

Bull gave an ox-like snort that sounded like, "Busted," and Iralen realized he wasn't entirely sober, either. They both cracked up laughing. Bull's howls echoed around the vaulted ceiling.

Josephine froze in the middle of locking her office door in what was probably a vain attempt to keep Sera out of it, obviously just finished working for the night. Her shocked expression morphed into one of resigned disgust. She narrowed her dark eyes at Bull. "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing. She is basalit-an!" he cried triumphantly.

"I'm not familiar with that term. What does –" Josephine began, but Iralen shushed her.

"Don't," she said, her mind clearing for the first time since that first caustic drink – was that what a dragon's throat felt like when it breathed fire? No wonder they were so cranky. With a tremendous effort, she stood away from Bull's support. "Don't ask him what it means. It'll give you nightmares, I promise." The urgency coloring her voice lost traction when her sentence dissolved in another giggle.

"Nightmares?" Josephine asked, perplexed.

Iralen thought back to the tavern.

"Oh, taarsidath-an halsam?" Bull had asked in response to her question. "Closest translation would be, 'I will bring myself sexual pleasure later, thinking about this with great respect.' "

Never again would she ask him to tell her what he'd said if he said it in qunlat. Iralen squeezed her eyes shut, trying – unsuccessfully – to clear the unsettling mental image from her head. "You have no idea," she said ruefully.

Fiery little Josephine seemed to take Iralen's inebriated condition as a challenge and squared her shoulders under their ruffles of gold lamé, glaring up at Bull. Bull actually backed up a step.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't get the Inquisitor stumbling drunk in public," the Antivan said acidly.

"Public?" the qunari scoffed. "No one's here! Keep your hair on, Ambassador."

Josephine's breath escaped in a gusty sigh. "Really, this is hardly appropriate –"

"She didn't think it so bad."

"That isn't the point!"

Iralen listened to them squabble from far away because it was back, the warm, floaty feeling, stealing through her limbs and leaving them sort of sloshy. Nothing either of her friends said seemed to matter much, but that was wrong, wasn't it? She put a hand to her forehead. What had been in that mug?

"Oh! Forgive me, Your Worship. I did not mean to raise my voice," Josephine said, instantly contrite.

Iralen didn't realize she'd started sagging to the floor until four hands – two gigantic, two petite – grabbed her.

"I can take her from here," Josephine said tartly. "Thank you. Your services are no longer required."

The big hands vanished.

"See you later, boss," Bull rumbled.

"Come." Josephine helped Iralen make her slow way to her quarters, murmuring soothingly under her breath. She left Iralen in the middle of her room, promising to have something sent up momentarily. The door at the bottom of the stairs shut with a quiet click. Iralen stared blankly into the shadows. She was going to have a wicked hangover in the morning. When was the last time she'd overstepped her limits like this? She couldn't remember.

The ever-burning fire gave the only light. She cleaned herself up by its dim flickering. Everything made her impatient, including the pull of her hair against her scalp, so she undid the braid and let her white-blonde hair flow loose around her shoulders. She rinsed her mouth, but that didn't help. While buttoning up her clean white tunic, it occurred to her that, in spite of the snow falling outside, the room was insufferably hot. She unlocked one of the large glass doors leading to her balcony and pushed it open.

The snow brushed her cheeks like insect wings. The minutes passed in solitary silence at the top of "the place where the sky was held back." Then the door clicked once more, though no step sounded on the stair.

Iralen went back inside, expecting whatever servant Josephine had rustled up, but she pulled up short.

It was Solas.

"Inquisitor," he greeted her formally in a voice as soft as the snow itself. "Forgive my interruption, but I heard voices downstairs. May I?"

Iralen didn't answer. The alcohol was still burning through her system, making her feel loose and disconnected from the Inquisitor's daily trappings. She crossed the room, staring hungrily at him. Everything about him appealed to her: The small, pocked scar above his right eyebrow, his baldness, the beardless grace of elven men. Even his lack of vallaslin, which she had never valued in her lovers, was as dear as the dimple in his chin. He was so beautiful, but so unlike any man she had known before.

She did not yet know what they were to each other, but whatever it was could not be reversed. Not for her.

He let her approach, probably not sure of her intention. His hesitation allowed her to sneak past his guard, reach up, and kiss him.

At first, he returned the kiss with a heat that drove every other thought out of her head. Her world contracted until it consisted only of Iralen and Solas, and the fire of his lips on hers.

All too soon, the passion cooled. He pushed her gently, composedly away, his large hands settling against her waist.

"Please, Solas. Don't refuse me," Iralen breathed. She ran her hands down his arms until they came to rest in the crooks of his elbows. He had chosen to come here rather than return to his precious sleep. Tonight, for the first time, he had chosen her over the Fade. She clenched her fingers, bunching the rough fabric of his sleeves in her fists. The question that she hadn't dared let herself think burst out of her, her control snapping under her frustration. "Aren't you tired of sleeping alone?"

She felt him go rigid with shock, his hands tightening, becoming a restraint rather than an embrace. Rejection washed through her, hot and damning, bringing back all of her impatience from a few moments before. With a wordless snarl, she pushed away.

Arms crossed, she marched to the fireplace and stared determinedly into the flames.

"Now is not the time, vhenan," he said to her back, sounding truly regretful. "I told you there were . . . considerations."

"Haven't you considered them?" she asked, unable to keep the pleading note out of her voice.

"Not tonight," he repeated. "Not when you are not yourself."

Well, she couldn't argue that. The room had begun to sway sickeningly around her, and the warm, courageous feeling brought on by the burn in her throat was congealing into weariness.

There was a timid knock on the door.

"Come in," Iralen called before thinking it through. As the scullion climbed the stairs, a tray in her hands, Iralen shot an apologetic glance at Solas. The last thing she wanted heaped on him was the scorn of the household for being caught in the Inquisitor's quarters so late at night. People talked about them enough as it was – hadn't she overheard a pair of Orlesian nobles coyly planning her wedding for her the other day?

The scullion hesitated, her mouth popping open with some kind of comprehension. Solas seemed calm as ever, however, gesturing for the serving girl to place the tray on the table near the divan.

The elven maid looked from him to Iralen with wide eyes, but she merely said, "Lady Montilyet asked me to bring this to you, Lady Inquisitor."

She bowed and left, scurrying like a little green mouse.

"I'm sorry about that," Iralen said, kneading her forehead, and gestured after the scullion, who was long gone with whatever conclusions she'd drawn. She leaned her forehead into the mantelpiece. "Even though I have no idea what we were drinking, I couldn't tell Bull no."

"No," Solas agreed. His arms wound gently around her from behind, and he spoke near her ear. "It is one of the things that makes you so remarkable, your kindness and willingness to meet disparate people on their terms. You would have shamed The Iron Bull if you had refused."

Pleasure stole through her body at his praise. She leaned into his embrace, reveling in it.

"If it's not too much to ask, will you stay?" she asked. "I would like to talk."

"Talking can be a pleasing diversion," he said, agreeing again. "Besides, it would be rude of me to refuse Josephine's hospitality."

"Her hospitality?"

He pressed his lips to her shoulder, and then said, "There are two cups."

He sounded as if he was holding back laughter when he released her and moved over to the table. Iralen stared at the tray. Sure enough, two teacups were placed upside-down on their saucers. With one hand resting in the small of his back, Solas lifted the lid off the steaming teapot in order to examine its contents.

"No, it's all right, you don't have to," Iralen said, moving to stop him, because she knew of his aversion to tea, especially the caffeinated kind she preferred.

Solas stopped her with a smile. "Be at ease, my heart. It is milk."

"Really?" She peered into the pot herself. Milk! Sweetened with honey, by the scent. Josephine's idea of a hangover cure – or, judging by the two cups, her tacit approval of Solas's company.

Iralen didn't usually laugh out loud, but she couldn't stop the giggle that bubbled past her lips. Hot, sweet milk, the perfect bedtime drink for an unruly child! Beside her, Solas chuckled, which made her laugh harder. They grinned at each other.

"Shall I pour?" he asked.

"Please." Iralen sat and waited for her cup. When she accepted it from him, he sat next to her, curling one leg under the other. The divan was small; his knee pressed against her thigh.

"Tell me more of your journeys through the Fade," she said, content now to let him have his peace.

"Gladly. What do you wish to know?"

She took a sip of her milk, considering. Her favorite stories were always – "Tell me of a memory."

"There was once an Avvar who believed he could speak to his arrows, tell them where to strike," he said at once, as if he'd prepared this story beforehand. "A strange kind of magic, for their kind. He gloried in his skill, never knowing it came from a spirit of competition . . ."

Solas talked long into the night, until Iralen, drooping and drowsy, nearly dropped her cup. By then, the fire burned so low that its light was almost gone. He took her cup carefully and replaced it on the tray, and then tugged her across his lap. He laid back on the divan, cradling her to his chest. His long legs tangled with hers over the armrest. She put her ear to his tunic so that she could hear the beating of his heart. After a moment, his fingers threaded into her loose hair, pressing her close. She smiled.

Whatever his considerations were, right then, they didn't matter. He stroked her hair, urging her to rest, to sleep, and she, listening to the proof that he was real beating so strong and steady beneath her cheek, decided that it was enough.

A/N: Dragon Age: Inquisition Omake Gekijō Presents: "Enough."

Part of why I fell in love with Solavellan was the sadness that never quite went away throughout their brief, chaste romance. It saturated almost every aspect of interactions between them, especially when we finally found out the truth about him. (I can't be the only one who cried.) I know there had to be more conversations between them than the game allowed. This is how I imagine my Iralen would have dealt with – not quite disappointment in, but perhaps confusion about – her distant, secretive lover.

Also, I wrote this because getting stumbling drunk with The Iron Bull in public had to have consequences somewhere. That scene was so funny. Solas, you win the grand prize!

My stats are working again, yay! I'm so sorry this one took longer to post - I rewrote it several times because it just wouldn't come out right, but I think I've got it nailed down. My everlasting thanks go, once again, to The Night Whisperer, Blackpantherlilies, and the very brave and kind Lady Aurora Nocturne for reviewing!

If I don't talk to any of you before then, I hope you have a very Merry Christmas! Or, simply, my love and well-wishes here in this new winter season. :3

Anne