Interlude
() He dared not to even breathe as he saw the woman in the chair fade into nothingness, her heart and breath stopped like an illusion she was. The quill fell onto the paper making a nasty smear. The elf felt a presence behind him, holding the blade that threatened to end his existence and forfeit his soul.
"Tell me, Wolf." came a voice that could find him even in his dreams. "Why is that your plans always turn against you?"
"Not all of them." The elf answered, trying to move his neck and throat as little as possible.
"Really? Which one did not?" Asked the elvhen woman behind him coyly. She moved closer to him and dragged one of her fingers along his shoulder pads. He knew his armour was absolutely useless against her.
"Bonding with you." He answered without a bit of delay or hesitation.
"Sweet talker." She accused, but removed the weapon from where it had been. He still did not dare to move.
She moved again, sliding her finger from his shoulder across his exposed neck. She delicately scratched her nail against his skin and let loose just the barest hint of magic with the caress. He inhaled sharply as he felt it pulse throught him. His own magic surfaced, eager to play with hers and a delicious shiver run down his spine straight to his manhood.
The woman stepped in front of him, the space between her and the desk so narrow that they were almost touching. She took hold of his chin with her hand, but his eyes didn't quite listen to him as they involuntarily travelled down.
It was summer, so she wore a thin long dress that didn't even pretend to be modest. The lavender colour of the gown complemented her olive skin without flaw. Her colar bones were exposed thanks to a long, plunging neckline that went down, down, down almost to her navel. The flowing drape of the fabric did nothing to cover the beautiful shape of her full breasts and nipples. The belt around her waist should be outlawed for making her figure so criminally alluring.
Her hold on his chin tightened and he looked up. She was smirking. He had been caught red handed, but felt absolutely no remorse.
"You sneaked into my office like a common burglar and expected that your clever tongue would save you from all the trouble?" She accused in a mocking tone and raised her brow.
"I haven't heard you complain about my tongue before. Perhaps you were too busy moaning because of it?" He asked her, keeping his voice neutral and enjoyed the tiniest of blushes that graced her pointed ear.
"You love to hear yourself talk, don't you? But pride is nothing without proof to back it up." She challenged him and stepped closer, so close that her body was pressed against his armour. Even though he couldn't feel her through the cursed metal, the luscious scent of her exquisite perfume invaded his senses and his eyes almost rolled to the back of his skull. She raised her head higher, waiting if he would take up her challenge.
He always did.
The elf smiled with pure male arrogance and leaned his upper body even closer to her. He caressed the shell of her ear with his hot breath and felt her shudder. "As you ask, my lady. To prove to you the cleverness of my tongue, I will make you beg using only my mouth. And when I do so, you will let me do to you what I had initially intended when I trespassed here."
To give her an early taste of his promise, he lightly bit the very tip of her ear and then dragged his tongue gently along the delicate shell. He then moved to her tender neck, trailing wet kisses down, down, down. He could feel her rapid pulse beat just under her skin, matching his own. He bit down on the place where her shoulder met the neck and she whimpered. Goosebumps appeared on her skin, her breath caught and faltered, but she recovered quickly and dragged his head up. Her pupils were so dilated that her eyes looked like black pools, threatening to drown him in their depth. And what a sweet, sweet death it would be.
"If you win, Wolf." In his distracted state, he failed to notice that the hand that previously had held his chin travelled. And what a very clever hand that was, for she found her way expertly in the buckles and plates of his armour straight to his pants. She caressed his growing hardness through the material and he clenched his jaw to silence a moan of pleasure. "And when I win, you will let me do whatever I want to you for the rest of the evening."
He had to fight another moan as she gave him a taste of her promise and masterfully squeezed his manhood, giving a punctilious attention to the sensitive head with one of her fingers.
She took her hand away and leaned back, giving him a smug look of a cat that had just eaten a canary.
He composed himself. "If you win, Little Fox. Agreed". He answered and gave her a smug look of a wolf that was about to eat out a canary.
Chapter VIII
Be not like the ox, for thy master counts thy days
Somewhere, in a different place, in a different time…
Solas found the elf, as per usual, on the training grounds. The Herald was in the middle of a fight with one of Cullen's veterans.
Even after a week or so of hard work, the hours spent on ensuring Marcel's survival had born visible fruit . His movements couldn't by any means be described as dexterous or full of grace, however he parried the incoming attacks on time and ever managed to deliver a counter to a vicious blow that would have otherwise severed his leg. Cheers and even a couple of catcalls erupted from the soldiers gathered around the circle. The euphoria was short lived, however, as a momentary loss of balance allowed the veteran to slam the edge of his shield into Marcel's exposed thigh. The elf gave a pained cry when his leg gave out and he fell to the ground. The cheers died and the only sound clearly audible were the heavy breaths of the Herald.
Solas almost stepped into the circle to help the elf when he heard his quiet chuckle.
"Motherfucker, that was good!" Marcel rolled from his back to his stomach and rose, first to all fours and then up to a kneeling position. He was almost religiously massaging his bruising leg and grinning widely when the veteran pulled him up by the arm and started to show him all the mistakes that had led him to the dirt. The elf also got invited to a beer later, which he accepted.
The ancient had to admit, Marcel had a way with people. His demeanour was casual and relaxed. He was also remarkably accommodating. Solas was sure the elf was capable of rage or hatred, but he clearly didn't succumb to those emotions easily. Moreover, the elf also had a rather easygoing and agreeable personality, which contributed to his growing popularity among residents of Haven. He was the Herald, but he was rather rapidly becoming their Herald. He ate what they ate. He drank what they drank, often sitting at the same table. He played dice and cards with them, lost frequently and laughed even more frequently. He got yelled at by both Cullen and Casandra in the yard and didn't skip his penalty laps around the lake when he fooled around, which occurred often.
But most of all, he just loved being around people. He loved talking to them, getting to know them and trying, as much as his Trade allowed him, to understand their story. The Herald himself was unusually slippery when asked a personal question, but they let it slide.
Solas also tried to pry, of course, but Marcel just gave him the most polite expressions and answered in a way that was ultimate not helpful nor polite, like:
"Where do you come from?"
"My mother, obviously"
"Well, where were you born?"
"In a bed."
"What did you do before the explosion?"
"Your mother."
That had earned him a laugh from Varric.
Of course, he couldn't have earned the sympathy of all.
Marcel had closed the Breach and had been named the Herald of Andraste, but since when have people been unbiased in their opinions? Some of them saw a slippery dalish, a criminal with the evidence of transgressions rooted in his hand instead. And why would that be a misjudgment? Many clans had created such an isolated and secretive atmosphere around them that the myths and rumours ranged from eating children, cannibalism, human sacrifices to fornicating with demons and everything in between. One could say that in comparison to that, the alleged murder of the Divine and several hundred other people was only switching to quantity oriented goals.
He took the blame for your mistakes. A convenient sacrificial lamb, isn't he Wolf? To drop the responsibility on others and watch them suffer the consequences. What a disgu-
Stop, pala. Focus.
From what Athras has gathered, the international responses to the event were varied and still unsure. Ferelden was pissed at the rifts opening and sucking in their dogs but didn't care further. Orlais, particularly the Chantry, condemned them as heretics and still called for some execution - preferably with a big party and expensive champagne afterwards. Tevinter sat quietly and observed the shitshow, which personally worried Solas. The Qun was considering offering Marcel a lucrative employment opportunity and not so lucrative brainwashing.
What really concerned the mage was the fact that procuring some information on the siblings' past was harder than gathering intercontinental intelligence. For a week now a good amount of his agents were looking for clues and hooks on the pair and found absolutely nothing so far. Nobody knew them, nobody recognised the drawings of their appearance, their names were nowhere in records and the places Bogna had mentioned were not on any maps they had available. It was like they just started existing at the time of the Conclave. But Solas was patient, he could wait for more satisfactory results. Or produce them himself if he played his cards right with Marcel and Bogna themselves.
"I can't do miracles in two weeks, but it's better than I thought. The party still would have to look after him during a skirmish in the Hinterlands, but there is a chance he will survive." Cullen stood next to him, observing the training elf keenly. The Commander himself looked mildly worn out with bags under his eyes, tired face and complexion too pale in comparison to how much time he spent outdoors. Still handsome though, if somewhat haggard.
"As long as he does not run face first straight into a blade or a fireball, I dare say we will manage. Cassandra and Varric are most capable in the field." Solas agreed mildly, his eyes also following the Herald as he moved. He was decisive in his moves, forceful even. He struck and expected his blows to bear results.
"He does not strike me as mindless or hot-headed in a fight, so I doubt that would be the case. I would suggest that he should also practise, at least a couple of times, how to fight against a mage." Culen commented and pointedly looked at Solas.
"And do you suggest me as the training partner for the Herald, Commander? An apostate elf?" Was that some kind of a test? Solas was honestly surprised that the Inquisition let him be in peace for now - perhaps they were just waiting for him to lower his guard. Why would a chantry Templar, only recently ex judging by the still existing tingle of lyrium emanating from him, suggest such a bizarre solution?" Would you not prefer someone that went through the circle and your harrowing?"
"I would, but that does not have to do with you being an elf. An apostate, yes." Admitted Cullen "But I don't trust even harrowed mages completely. I have seen - even them - lose themselves in power and become abominations, killing those around them mindlessly." The commander's posture was tense as he said it, his eyes hunted. Solas knew that look, he would presume that his own eyes bore the same one at times - Commander was seeing something not pleasant in his memories.
"Maybe if they hadn't been led to the verge of desperation in face of potential tranquillity, such events could be forgotten. Ignorance breeds fear. Oppression breeds opposition. That tension and maltreatment of mages serves no one." Solas did not care what the Commander was seeing, the past was no excuse to the abuse that mages received in the circles.
"The rite is the last resort. It was designed to be a mercy for a mage and is not taken lightly, I assure you. What happened at Kirkwall... was a mistake." The muscles in Cullen's jaws clenched just more forcefully as he spoke.
"The last resort? Tell me Commander that you have not thought of the rite when Bogna created her barrier at the temple and I might believe in your words." Solas challenged Cullen. Even without noticing, the elf had abandoned his hunched posture and stood eye to eye with the warrior. Not very reasonable, but he had rarely been accused of being reasonable. He was a rebel at heart and could not fight forever against his nature.
Cullen took his time, staring firmly back at Solas. Then, he broke the tensionion and averted his gaze back to the sparring again and answered without meeting the mage's gaze "It was voted that the rite should not be performed, even if the spell and the origin of her power were questionable."
Solas lost the remaining faith in humanity with that sentence. They not only thought about it. They considered it. They voted on it.
Making the sister of the Herald, the only man who held the key to their salvation and who, for the time being, agreed on joining the Inquisition on free will, tranquil? Shattering such a brilliant potential just for a crime of existing? Solas wasn't sure if they wanted to make his job extremely easy or extremely hard with such outrageously stupid ideas.
What if they had voted in favour?
Solas didn't want to answer that question, for he feared his answer. So, he turned to the Commander instead again.
"She saved the Herald, the Seeker and many people - yours included - with that spell. Her power is to be considered a potential opportunity, not a threat to be immediately and mindlessly butchered" How many were destroyed because they didn't fit the image of perfect, contained mage in the eyes of the Circles and the Chantry? How many were left with hollow eyes because they feared the death delivered by Templar's blade more than the death of their identity?
"And what guarantee can you give us that this 'opportunity' would not bring tragic consequences? I have seen enough young mages in training to know she had little control over what was happening. What guarantee can you give us that next time her power manifests and she loses control, it would not be against the Herald? Or against us, albeit accidental?" Cullen turned to Solas and challenged him to answer, taking half a step forward. He was tense, the muscles in his jaw and posture flexed.
The Commander was afraid of was the next explosion waiting to happen for him. And Solas, unfortunately, could give no such guarantee as Cullen asked for.
But he could propose another solution.
"I will train her, once she is communicative enough. There are no circles anymore, Commander, and I'm the best the Inquisition now has available in terms of a Fade or magic teacher." Why was he proposing this? Had he finally become mad, after all the centuries? He had enough responsibilities as it was to keep him occupied all day and then night. And yet.
If it was him facing the fate of tranquillity, he would rather choose death.
Death of everybody around you that were the perpetrators of the cruelty, surely. And for what crime? They would do this world a favour. A favour.
Cullen regarded his offer for a short while. Solas didn't know what the warrior was looking for, but he had seemingly found it as he slowly nodded and said "I will discuss it with the others, but I'm not opposed to the idea - if it would lead us further away from the alternative."
If Solas had his way, the 'alternative' would not even exist.
All in due time.
It was late evening when he heard knocking at his hut door.
Solas was so distracted by the topic he was currently researching that he lost track of time. The dark sky and a shape of the moon climbing upon it surprised him greatly, as well as the subtle stiffness of his muscles.
He was at that time trying to recalculate the efficiency of the Anchor and its usage of magic per time variable. Both were extremely important, for the next attempt to close the Breach had to be a full success. And to achieve that, he needed to know the exact amount of energy needed to close the giant rift, depending on the still remaining severity of the damage done to the Veil (which was yet to be measured), the intensity and voltage of the magic stream that would match the current parameters of the Veil in the Temple (also yet to be measured), the intensity and voltage of magic that the Anchor was able to channel to the Breach (yet to be determined) and the intensity and voltage of magic that the Anchor was able to pull from the Fade (also, yet to be determined).
And here came the efficiency of this transformation inside of the Anchor, as it was usually done and assured automatically by the Orb. And since they lacked the part, it meant checking it by hand. And that was not all of it, because one thing was to calculate the current potential of the Anchor, the other was to optimise the whole process and then determine if Marcel was capable of executing upon it (and surviving). As the previous attempt had shown, the answer was 'probably not alone', hence the need for extra help in the form of mages or Templars.
Which meant a lot of calculations.
Also, it didn't help that he was half guessing and recreating from scratch half of the formulas used to calculate the initial parameters of the Anchor. While both the Orb as well as its key were his and were supposed to be attuned to his magic, he was not their creator. They were gifts from Mythal. Hence, the notes on the creation and usage of the artefact were... Well, somewhere between Skyhold, some temple of Mythal, some Elvhen ruin, some forgotten library or any other place that they were stolen to during the ages. The only consolidation was that nobody except the ancients was able to read them due to lack of proper understanding of education.
The knocking sounded again. Solas signed. He had little to no desire to talk to anybody right now. Yet, without moving from his mildly comfortable position at the table, he flexed his hand and with a flicker of magic used, the door opened.
Revealing Bogna.
Because of course it was her.
Even before greeting him she greedily sucked in the interior of his hut. Not that there was anything to really look at - a couple of simple furniture, his staff leaning against the wall close to his right. A couple of books, scattered notes and his backpack were the only items that could have any personal meaning.
Solas regarded her in return as she was so shamelessly cataloguing his personal space. Her cheeks were flushed and the curls on her head, reaching just past her shoulders, were even more misbehaved than usual. It was as if she just gave up trying to do anything about them. Since they moved to Haven Bogna ditched her tight trousers for warm woollen leggings and thick, long tunics - a small blessing for his self composure. Her clothes now were dirty - some small, white handprints, presumably from the flour, made an eye-catching pattern against the green fabric hugging her torso. At her waist she had a large satchel and even from his place at the table he could smell a faint aroma of elf root, embrium and ... pine coming from it.
"May I?" She nodded at Solas, setting her hands on her hips.
"Please, make yourself at home." He answered with a wave of his hand, gesturing her inside.
Bogna quickly closed the door behind her, denying the freezing air any further entry to his space. Despite the warm clothing, she shivered slightly and rubbed her hands together. The elf gestured to the chair next to his own and without much thought placed a delicate fire rune under it to warm her up.
"Anything I can help you with, Bogna?" asked Solas politely. The woman sat at the table and started to search for something in her deadly bag.
"I am here for your tongue." She answered casually, still distracted by her search.
"I beg your pardon?" Solas asked for clarification, as he was not sure he had heard correctly.
"Your tongue." She repeated and lifted her gaze from the bag to his face. There was a very sincere confusion on her face regarding his surprise. She looked outside at the moon slowly rising above the horizon, chasing the last pink rays of the sinking sun. The night was approaching fast. "Is it too early? You have other things to do?"
Solas was at a loss. Was it her new goal at learning Trade? To not only preposition him in his own language, but also in the commonly known language? But to what purpose?
"Why?" The elf asked dumbfounded. Truth being told, he was not entirely opposed to the idea. But nevertheless, it was a terrible idea. He needed her for the information as well as influence over the Herald. The siblings were a mystery to be solved. An asset to secure. A variable to control. And this arrangement could turn out very ugly if he was not cautious. There was also the matter of her training, but the language should come first.
She looked at him again with a kind of small smile that implied he was asking a very silly question. "It matters? I want it. We exchange. It is fair."
Good point. The last time he let her take him by surprise, so maybe this time he should play along and see what she was going for? He would not lay with her under false pretence, due to respect both to himself and her, but this could prove to be beneficiary. For sure. It was just a change in strategy.
Solas relaxed and leaned more at the back of his chair. "Very well. Suit yourself." He would let her take the lead and show her hand.
The woman smiled again at him, visibly pleased with his consent. Solas gaze dropped to her lips and lingered there.
She then pulled out her notebook from the bag, a pencil and organised her things on his table. She passed him the pencil. "You write words in your tongue. I make copy. Fair exchange, yes? Like before." Bogna asked with a tone that suggested she was doubting his mental capabilities.
He was also doubting his mental capabilities.
Your language, not tongue. Horny, brainless Wolf. She made a translation error. Elven language.
Bogna looked at him as if he was either mentally incapable or suffering a high fever. Maybe both.
"Solas, you ok? Cazzo, może on już ma demencję albo ataki Alzheimera?" (Fuck, maybe he already has dementia or Alzheimer's attacks?) She sounded concerned and leaned closer to him, scrutinising his demeanour.
"Yes, of course. I will write elven for you. Also language, not tongue." He finally took the pencil and started to complete her glossary. He curiously regarded her side of the alphabet - he could see words like wood, flour, sell and... capital intensity? How could one read that word in their language?
The more interesting question was why had she needed this word? And how had she come up with it?
"What is this?" asked Bogna, pointing at his unfinished work.
"Magic theory and Fade calculations." Solas answered dismissively. She wouldn't know what was there anyway. The comparison between the modern days' magic accomplishments and the pool of knowledge that the elves of Adarlan had obtained was laughable. Like a child playing with their father's working tools, not really knowing what and why they were doing. A blind child. Without hands.
She pulled the paper closer to her and skimmed his notes with her eyes. She was distracted. Time to act.
"What did you do today? Something similar to what you did at home?" Solas asked politely and gave her a small encouraging smile.
"I do stuff." Bogna turned the page and looked at his calculations of the volatility of energy pulled from the Fade.
"Now, da'len. If your goal for the nearest future is to learn the language fast, you should exercise as much as you can. That means talking - building full sentences, using proper grammatical structures and actively expanding your vocabulary in the most diverse way. By speaking, you engage not only your memory, but proper pronunciation and fluency" Solas very calmly and courtly explained to her the errors of her rush behaviour.
Bogna just stared at him from above the papers. She had this delicate and falsely friendly type of smile fixed on her face that suggested she was considering choking him by stuffing his own notes down his throat till his lips turned blue. "Solas, not da'len and quit hahren mode please. Speak simple"
"See, just like this. You want to learn the language - you speak it." Solas made his point while translating 'frilly cake' into elven. Was she into deserts too?
Bogna just rolled her eyes. "I speak much. I work in kitchens and speak to kitchen elves. I get ..." She searched for the word in her memory "herbs and I speak to Adan. I get things done. I trade and speak to Segritt."
"You cook with the elven servants in the kitchens? You know, as the sister of the Herald, you don't need to do this." He was deliberately speaking slowly so she might catch the words she already knew.
"Need? No." She agreed and grimaced "But I want. Work. Make things. Help. Trade. Make things better. Marcel trains all day. He has no time. He is tired. I have time, so I do. I also learn a lot." She shrugged.
"And you said you gather herbs for Adan? Were you trained in medicine?" Solas indeed found words for basic herbs in her vocabulary, but instead of her translation, there were very very simple drawings made of each of the plants. The person making the sketches had just as much artistic sense as a darkspawn, but most of the plants had their recognisable features incorporated.
"Medicine? Meaning?" Bogna tapped her finger at the paper, requesting he add the word to her makeshift dictionary.
"The way of healing people. An art of helping them." Solas supplied, writing the words, mindfull not to let their hands touch. His job was to just make her talk, as long as he could and wait for her to slip. Because she would slip, eventually. Everybody did.
"Ah, no. It is a good thing. Maybe in the future. The herbs… Adan asks and I get." She just shrugged and then smiled earnestly. "But other thing - I love tea from herbs. Do you like tea, Solas? Do you want some?" She asked and opened the satchel at her hip. The smell of fresh elf root, embrium and blood lotus further invaded upon the elf's senses.
Tea. Detestable. He was almost offended by the idea alone. "No, thank you. I'm not a frequent drinker of tea."
"No? You don't like plants?" Strangely, she didn't look even slightly disappointed at his denial "Not plants, then meat maybe? Like a..." she again searched her memory for a word. Her gaze then drifted to his chest, where the bone hung. "Like a fen (wolf)?"
Solas chuckled. If only she knew how close to the truth she really was.
"My diet is perfectly balanced, thank you." The elf answered dismissively. Bogna was now smirking at him as if she had just made a very good joke that he didn't catch. "But I do enjoy frilly cakes." The elf lowered his voice delicately and got a fraction of an inch closer to the woman. He slid her notes across the table in a way that their fingers did touch in the end. "And your chocolates."
Bogna eyes' lit with fire from within her, but before she managed to say anything, her stomach rumbled. Loudly. The woman snapped her mouth shut and blushed furiously. Solas didn't miss the opportunity to elongate the time he had her in his clutches.
"Hungry from today's work? Stay here, relax, copy the language for today. I will get us something." Solas proposed like a gentleman that he, of course, was and stood up to head to the tavern.
"You want to eat dinner... here? Together?" Bogna asked, narrowing her eyes at him. She looked at him as if he had just announced that Tevinter was the most perfect and enjoyable place for an elven family with children to spend summer freetime.
"But of course. It is late, you are hungry and we have some more work to do. Besides, you do not seem entirely well at the tavern. Too many eyes on you? I assure you, here there will be just mine." It was so easy to flirt with her. So easy. And he realised that he missed this. He missed the frivolous conversations and parties from the time he was young and foolish. He missed the chase and double meanings. Besides, it was a great tactic to get the information about the siblings. A little charm, some wine and he could bet her lips would not be so tightly sealed. For information, of course. She was an important asset.
This is exactly why you made the rule in the first place. Duty comes first, not you nor her. No inconsequential trysts as long as the People lie buried under the ruins of Atharlan. You have a job to do - or do plan to fail at this as well?
You have an obligation to fulfill.
You do not deserve to be frivolous anymore.
You do not deserve anything.
You do not deserve anybo-
"Fine." Bogna made a defeated sign, "But bring wine."