Solas is good with kids. Small children going ‘why’ 30 times in a row and it’s just ‘Solas slightly approves’ every time.
The tiny voice took Solas out of his study, glancing up from the murky depths of the tome he had been reading since just past breakfast.
Ten small fingers gripped the far edge of the table, a small grunt of effort heralding the wide-eyed face popping up over the edge of the table. Resting her chin on its surface, the very solemn three-year-old stared at him with wide amber eyes, her golden curls tangled with leaves and twigs. She was a smudged mess.
Which likely meant that she had been playing with Sera again.
“I hope for your aunt’s sake she has not been taking you on the roofs again,” he told the little one quite seriously.
Ashalle giggled, swaying dangerously as her small legs kicked, trying to find purchase. “Hawen, I found n’secret.”
“Did you now? I should like to see your secret,” he said indulgently. Perhaps only partially because he was in dire need of a break, lest his neck grow too stiff. “Will you share it?”
There was a small ‘uf’ and a slap of bare feet on stone as the da’len pushed off the table and landed back on the floor. She came pattering around to face him, expression still quite business-like. It was only fair. This was quite serious business, after all.
From the little pouch at her waist tied to the soft halla-leather belt he’d watched her mother weave for her, the da’len fished out a small piece of white stone. With surprising delicacy for one so young, she held it out to him. He extended a hand, and let her place it on his palm.
“S’n’awfac,” she garbled.
It took him a moment to untangle her speech; her pronunciation had yet to catch up with her vocabulary. The Inquisitor’s children were all rather well-spoken. Even so, they were still children, and some clumsiness of speech was to be expected. “An artifact, you say?” Much to his surprise, as he turned the rock over, it was not simply a child’s fancy for a bit of pretty stone.
It was, in fact, something that had been carved. The stone was not local to the area, and there was a smoothness to it that was not the work of ages, but the work of tools. Not made by magic, so it must have dated from times after his creation of this fortress.
While he examined it, the little imp attempted to climb up onto the arm of his chair. He leaned to the side to give her space, as she kicked off of the leg and climbed up. Standing precariously on the arm, her bare feet curved against the wood, she stood at his shoulder and peered down at the little piece of stone in his palm.
“Well, I believe you are correct. This is indeed an artifact, da’len. What do you suppose it is from? A statue? A staircase, perhaps?”
“A big POT!” she declared with sudden vehemence; the shout next to his ear making him wince.
Once his ear stopped ringing from the echoes of her bellow, he leaned away and gazed up at the charmingly terrible little creature. She smiled at him, an innocent echo of her father’s smirk. Troublesome things, three year olds.
“A pot, you say? For cooking, or for some other purpose?”
“A pisspot,” she said, smiling so excitedly that he knew she was aware she wasn’t supposed to say it.
It was a strange thing, that he was growing accustomed to children. Not a particular kind of creature he had ever had much interaction with. It was difficult not to be charmed by them, especially not by this small, echoing imp.
“Your mother won’t like that someone taught you that. I suggest you don’t let her hear.”
She beamed a sunny smile. “Damn.”
“Nor that,” he said, barely managing to hide the chuckle. He coughed it away into his fist. “Well. Regardless of its origins, it is a fine artifact, da’len.”
“I foun’ a dead bird, too.”
“Did you now. How did it die?” he inquired, letting her take back her ‘artifact’ to secure in her pouch again.
“Ah. Perhaps the bird owed someone money,” he deadpanned.
“C’n I have it?” she asked, pointing at the shard on his desk.
“Ah, no, da’len. I am studying it.”
“I’m hewp,” she insisted, balancing with concerning skill on the arm of the chair as she turned to try and climb onto the table.
“Please, da’len,” he protested, picking her up around the waist before she could snatch at it. He had no fear she would be capable of lifting it, but he did not want dirty little footprints all over his papers. “Later we will find something else to study, yes?”
“Ashalle.” The fond exasperation in Zevran’s call ended in a chuckle. “Hahren is busy, and you are being summoned your bath. Come, darling. Mamae is waiting.”
They both glanced up, Solas meeting the ostensibly friendly assassin’s stare with an incline of his head. Zevran leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms as he shifted his attention to his youngest daughter. When Solas set her down she made a little noise of protest, and immediately spun and started pattering for the spiral staircase.
Zevran sighed, pushing off the wall as she tried to dodge past him. With a deft maneuver, he scooped an arm under the da’len’s waist and swung her up and over his shoulder. Her legs kicked against his chest as he pinned her here.
“It is no inconvenience. She was simply showing me some artifacts of note. And her new swear words,” Solas said, inclining his head.
“Piss!” a very small voice declared, and then dissolved into wicked giggles.
“Oh, excellent! That is a versatile one. Ash, say goodbye to Hahren.”
The little one shrieked as Zevran spun around, her fingers clutching at his back for purchase as she was flung about. Peeking up through her tangled curls, upside-down over her father’s shoulder, she beamed at Solas. “Bye, Hawen.”
Solas had no choice but to return the smile. “Dareth shiral, da’len.”
As the echo of her excited babbling and happy shrieks faded away, contemplative quiet returned to the rotunda.
Strangely enough, it felt somewhat emptier than before.
