A Trick of the Rain
Pairings: Past Female Lavellan x Solas, Eventual Female Lavellan x Michel de Chevin, Eventual Cullen Rutherford x Lysette Rating: Mature (for now) Chapters:1/51 Read on Ao3 Summary:
Verita Lavellan didn't anticipate falling in love so quickly with Solas, nor did she suspect their subsequent break-up was coming. Free of her vallaslin, head full of doubt and the voices of Mythal's servants, Verita must come to terms with what's happened in order to see the Inquisition succeed. Coupled with her challenges to lead under emotional distress, Verita suspects Cullen harbors feelings for her, an added complication to her already confusing situation.
Michel de Chevin came to the Inquisition with no other options. Itching to find meaning again, he seeks the support of Verita Lavellan in his cause. While the last two years of his life had been incredibly difficult, the last thing he expected was to find himself pining over an elf. It's the least he deserves, really.
VERITA
It is raining again in Crestwood. The gentle mist kisses the Inquisitor’s bare face, obscuring tears tracking down her freckled cheeks. Verita has always loved the foulest weather, thunderstorms raving outside the family tent, hazy mornings when fog dances over the ground like drifting smoke from a dying fire pit. Each crack of thunder or patter of rain calls to her in a way she can’t easily describe, her very soul lighting up with the scent of disruption on the air, synchronous to the magic flowing in her veins. On this somber night she is grateful for the inclement skies providing an excuse to appear put out. Verita drags herself into Caer Bronach, downcast eyes studying her fine boots, the buttery brown leather peppered with dark splotches. Anyone else tracking in from the wild would look as miserable as she feels inside. Who likes being caught in the rain?
Verita usually does.
Charter knows this about the Inquisitor; Charter knows everything whether Verita tells her or not. One look at her leader’s singular-focused trek into the keep and the city-born elf sifts through the puzzle pieces instantly, the initial turn of the head the only indication of notice. Blessedly for Verita, the keep is busy and no one pays her mind. Inquisition spies zipping past merchants and Crestwood natives with an effusive eagerness to pass information up the chain of command. Normally the sight makes Verita glad, two elves in positions of power with no one muttering knife ear or rabbit behind their hands, but the trying day weighs heavily. It is all she can do to not break down and fall to her knees in the middle of the crowd. She is tired of elves, their identity, their struggles and pride, misplaced as it was. All she wants to be is Verita Lavellan. And alone.
Solitude will be impossible to manage since Charter has seen her, and while the spy thinks with breakneck pace, even the dimmest elf wouldn’t miss the obvious -- what is so obviously missing. The loss of Verita’s vallaslin is a burr, snagging her heart as she recalls the moment with piercing clarity. It is hard to comprehend something so vital to her identity could be erased so easily, a mark that kept so many of the people divided for as long as anyone could remember. As if paying respects to the gods made one elf more important than another.
No, Verita corrects. Not respect, but markings meant for slaves.
The storm begins to pick up, winds howling over the top of the parapets. Several merchants stack their goods away from the sudden slanting rain, the clanking of metal and shifting of boots on stone a familiar ambient sound. Not long ago she felt overwhelmed by it all, the mass of people, mostly humans, but also city elves and dwarves and even qunari calling her Herald and handing her metal armor as if you needed something shiny pinned to your chest in order to stay alive. In time though, the name Inquisitor became easier to bear, vhenan easier still. That was the most natural title of all, as easy as breathing or as instinctive as closing your eyes and tipping your head back to face the sun.
Vehnan. Verita sighs indulgently upon reaching the stairs to her quarters. There’s a keep in every country and a room for her in every keep. After ten months it's still overwhelming. She pauses at the bottom of her designated place, looking up and wondering if Solas is there. He had departed first, leaving Verita in the clearing alone with her thoughts and the voices of Mythal’s servants whispering unintelligibly in her head. She’d sat until the rain started, contemplating, fighting the urge to stare in the water at her foreign reflection. Part of her believed Solas was still upset about the Well. It was the only time they’d argued and was immediately where her scrabbling mind went. Now if he rests inside, likely consulting the fade on how to further shatter her heart, what should she do? What if he isn’t there? Would that be worse? Indecision rakes its claws across her stomach until the soft press of a hand on her shoulder smothers despondent thoughts. She turns and Charter stands silently, blinking away the rain, the vibrant purple wing tips defining her eyes still perfectly placed. They may as well be tattoos for as precise as they always are. Verita chokes down a sob studying her friend’s dear face.
“Five minutes ago,” Charter whispers.
Verita nods, then looks to her covered feet again. Months ago she’d never worn shoes.
“Come with me.” The spy curls her fingers into the leather at Verita’s shoulder, urging her to move. Verita does, albeit reluctantly, like a child being dragged to bed while the rest of the clan still laughs around the fire.
They walk side-by-side, parting the press of bodies with their status now. A few greet Verita, nodding respectfully, calling her Inquisitor as they pass. She averts her face as best she can knowing whispers will follow in their wake otherwise. There is a storage room just nearby that lets out behind the keep, and the door cannot come soon enough. Verita almost trips inside in haste as Charter swings it open. The spy shuts the door tightly behind them, then shoves a heavy crate at the corner to deter visitors. Now alone, Charter takes the Inquisitor’s marked hand and squeezes firmly. The gesture is kind and Verita’s emotions get the best of her, a flood of tears dripping off her chin at an alarming rate. She did not know how much she needed a friendly touch.
“Let's have a drink,” Charter says. She coaxes Verita gently towards the back door. “You need to let it all out before you burst.”
Verita nods, sniffling but somewhat comforted. The beauty of a spy as a friend is that they carry nothing of themselves on the surface to grate on your nerves. A good spy is cool, collected, forgettable, calm. A woman like Charter listens and listens well for she knows the value of words and how they can be used to hurt, and sometimes heal. Solas had broken off their attachment and her only sense of relief came from the fact he'd done so in Crestwood. At least now she could come up with a plan for holding it together with her closest friend.
The steps leading outdoors are slick with rainwater leaking from beneath the rotting door jam. Verita’s footfalls squelch unpleasantly in the murky puddles and she hurries up to greet the rain again. Angry drops of water hammer against the other side of the wooden door and the two elves brace themselves before throwing it wide. Embracing the chilly rush of air and the rain on her face, Verita breaks from the keep first, carrying herself as steadily as she can across the dam’s walkway to the abandoned tavern. The Rusted Horn’s namesake flutters in the wind, pellets of icy water plunking against the instrument in an uneven rhythm. Verita shoves the tavern door open with a hip, remembering how it caught the last time she was here. Instead, it flies open and she stumbles inside with a start, staff knocking against the floorboards.
“Oh!” She catches herself on her hands.
“We fixed that.” Charter pulls her friend off the ground, and Verita thanks her, rubbing her chaffed palms.
The tavern is dark, yet seemingly bereft of teenage lovers. Verita doesn’t think she could handle that sight right now. A cool blue light engulfs her hand as she heals her raw palm and it serves just fine as a torch to find the fireplace. The tingle in her skin from the healing magic prickles the back of her neck and she shivers slightly as the hair on her arms raise. The sphere of blue light makes the fireplace easy to spot and Verita pulls out her staff. She throws a fireball at the scattered stack of wood laying in the pit and it catches easily, though she casts once again for good measure.
Impressed, Charter leans against a column across from the fire to watch. “It seems convenient being a mage,” she says. The spy twists back, reaching underneath a nearby bench, pulling a bottle from a sack of grain. “But without me you wouldn’t have this.”
Charter pops the cork and gestures with the wine for her to sit at the opposite bench. Verita joins, the healing magic blinking away in an instant, and rests her staff against the side of the table. They’re in no danger, tucked away in the shuttered tavern. Once there would have been music and laughter here, but it still remains a ghost of itself. There were no dedicated troops for fixing up the place, enough were needed for the upkeep of Caer Bronach, but in the firelight Verita can see that someone has made an effort to tidy up The Rusted Horn. The cobwebs have been cleared, the tables wiped clean of dust and droppings. There’s nothing behind the bar, but she makes a mental note to have that looked to. The men and women stationed in Crestwood could use a place to relax.
“Here, you deserve the first drink I think,” Charter says. She passes the wine to Verita. It is ancient, judging by the crumbling label, though the whole tavern had been abandoned for nearly ten years. She takes an experimental sip, judges it to be poor quality, and with a twitch of the nose, takes a long pull. Charter’s brows can get no higher. “I’m good, but even I can’t make fine wine appear out of thin air.”
“If only you could,” Verita gags. “This will need do.”
The two trade drinks before the crackling fire, until the familiar feel of a different sort of tingle returns to Verita’s body. It hits her slowly, a pressure against her shoulders and the back of her neck, until her face flushes and the sensation is gone and replaced by a heavy warmth. Charter watches her friend closely, carefully -- judging the precise moment when to ask her questions. They trade back and forth for nearly a quarter of an hour, not saying anything, Verita grimacing over the wine until the taste no longer matters much, Charter holding her tongue. Thoughts of Solas, the shocking effect of his words and his actions, mix with the vague roiling voices of the vir'abelasan and the lulling passivity of the alcohol until Verita realizes the bottle is more than half gone. Upon seeing so she slumps against the table.
“I never drink,” she sighs against her folded arms. She rests her head against her top-most wrist, closing her eyes against the world.
“You don’t lose a vallaslin every day either,” Charter adds. It sounds like a jest and Verita peers up incredulously. Charter is not laughing, rather tapping her forefinger against the glass neck. “Tell me, Verita. You’ll feel better or I’ll arrange an accident. Either way.”
“I don’t want that,” she admits. It is true, she doesn’t want to harm him. Just discover what happened, understand if there is a way to fix things. Verita sits up straight, hoping to put her thoughts in some order.
“I hardly know how to explain it. He wished to tell me what I meant to him and in the end he called himself a distraction and refused to let me in. I just--” she gulps down a hard lump in her throat, “don’t know what I did wrong?”
“You? Nothing.” Charter grabs her hand, thumb brushing against the back of her wrist. “And the tattoo just slid off in shock?”
“Why are you so fixated on that?” Verita grabs back the bottle and takes another drink, despite not needing it.
“A tattoo doesn’t just disappear . My guess is he did special magic somewhere in the middle bit you’re glossing over. Maybe because it’s worse than some aloof apostate asshole leaving you.”
Verita sags, hands falling flat on the table. The anchor sparks, casting her face in green light and she can see her reflection in the glass bottle. A pain flares in her chest so sharply she almost cries out. For while there’s still a shred of hope in her heart that she can convince Solas he’s no distraction, there’s no turning back from the truth of his words about her people. While he might lie about his wishes and desires, he wouldn’t lie about what he saw in the fade. Her chest burns with the truth he laid bare, and Verita fears the awful words will turn her to ash if she doesn’t expel them now. “The vallaslin were slave markings,” she whispers. “We misunderstood their purpose, and in the moment I thought--”
Her mind is a blank. In truth, she still doesn’t know what to think. Even if they were slave markings once, they are not now. That is not what they stood for in her clan, or any clan for that matter. Verita wishes she could blame Solas for the loss of her vallaslin, but that would not be fair. It was a choice, one she made of her own volition, and she must live with it. To admit this, even to a friend, is more difficult than she imagined. Shame bubbles up from the pit of her stomach. Her ears burn with it, and she finds herself crying again. I threw it away, she thinks. How can I ever return to my clan? “You still can honor your gods without a mark on your face,” Charter reasons. “Even a few flat ears manage, despite having even less clarity than you do.” It sounds harsh, but Verita knows it not meant as such. She alone has more knowledge, seen more artifacts and signs of her ancestors than most elves do in their lifetime. And despite how much the Dalish misinterpret, the few faithful left in the cities make do so with even less. It is no small wonder many turn from the Creators and accept the pittance of faith they can glean from the teachings of Andraste. Suddenly the question that plagued her once Solas shared his learnings from the fade comes into focus again. If the gods had slaves, were they still gods at all? Verita’s insides twist with this lingering question like the great roots of the Vallasdahlen in the Emerald Graves.
“I’ve learned more about the history of our people as the Inquisitor for a human religious order than I have in my entire life. How is that possible?” “You’ve travelled father in the last ten months than you have in your entire life. Pity you had to visit Orlais to discover more of your past.” Charter’s scorn for Orlesians is barely hidden and Verita sighs weakly in agreement.
“Verita,” Charter says, voice turning even again. “You are no less Dalish -- no less who you have always been -- because of your bare face. You are Verita Lavellan. Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste,” this she says with mirth, mouth quirked, “you’re saving the world, all the Theodosian gods will forgive you this slight. And furthermore, maybe Solas was right.” Verita blinks, mouth falling open in surprise. It is the last statement she expected to hear from her friend. “We are close, I can feel it. Every day we see fewer of Corypheus’ army, perhaps because they are defeated, or more likely they gather for a final push. Maybe you need to focus on what the Well is trying to tell you. Solas, in his idiot way, was attempting to help get out of your path so you can do so. As much as I'm loathe to admit it, I agree with the scoundrel.”
Out of all that sound reasoning one word jumps out at Verita. “Scoundrel? He's no pirate.”
“He's no meager apostate either. Half a dozen of one, six of the other. I've said it before, he's hidden his past as well as I have. And if I'm telling you I'm a spy, what's he not saying?”
Verita sighs, pushes her fingers into her hair, massaging her aching temples. She cannot disagree. “You sound like the Iron Bull.”
“Good.” Charter steals back the wine, finishing the last gulp. Afterwards she raps her nails against the scarred wood table before pointing at Verita with the empty bottle, two fingers in the mouth. “Maybe you should see Bull, let him help you gain that focus .”
“You can't believe I'd actually do that.” Verita shakes her head; it is heavy, so heavy with all the drink. There’s no possible way she’d run off to another to solve her aching heart. The sudden thought of dextrous, lithe fingers running along her collarbone makes her insides ripple with anxiety and she must focus on the flickering fire to keep from being overwhelmed.
Charter shrugs, flipping the wine bottle off her hand and into the other. “Not elfy enough? Maybe you need the opposite, for perspective.” Charter grins as Verita waves dismissively in her direction.
“Okay, Sera.” Verita scolds halfheartedly. There’s one elf in Skyhold she can't seem to relate to at all. Not that any of them are excellent confidants. The only other Dalish elf refuses to admit she's also a mage. That kind of delusive game is not one Verita would like to take part in.
“How about Blackwall? He's always looking at you with those big beardy eyes.”
“Stop,” Verita pleads. The conversation is going a direction she does not want to follow, uncomfortable about the topic of Blackwall. There’d been some miscommunication on her part early on. One minute she’d being what she thought was polite, the next he was dissuading her from an apparent relationship. “I don't know why there aren’t more elven men in the Inquisition,” she says. Charter lets her move on adroitly. “Besides you, me and Sera there's so many female elves around. Fiona, Dalish, Skinner, Elan, Helaine. There's not another elf-blooded male for miles.”
Charter laughs. “Do you think Solas marked his territory?”
Verita considers how easy it would be to send a bolt of lightning through her friend. She'd not even need to move so much as a muscle. But, it is better to be annoyed than sad. Nothing is quite funny yet.
“Oh come on,” Charter smiles. “Maybe this is divine intervention telling you to give up on men and try women after all.”
“I think you’re partially right. I should figure out what the Well is trying to say and forget about men altogether. I don't know how to pretend this,” she gestures to her face, “didn't happen.”
Leaning forward, Charter practically purrs with a deep throated malice. “You don't pretend. You let Solas explain that one.”
“I-- I couldn't.” Her heart beats quickly with the temptation of letting someone else break the news.
“You don't think Leliana would find out anyway? One word and I'll send a raven. He's going to have a head start on you. Might as well make his return as fruitful as his little trip to Crestwood.”
Verita gasps. She does not want to give Solas reason to be more upset with her and while there’s no certainty in what Leliana's actions might entail, she's spent enough time with the woman at the war table to know how she thinks. “You wouldn't!”
“Nothing like that, we’re not going to torture it out of him. You're too sweet for your own good. I'd eviscerate him if I were you.”
“Lucky for all of us you're not!” She waves both her hands to clear the air of the talk of torture and disembowelment. “I'm tired, let's just go.” Verita stands abruptly, and finds it is hard to keep from wobbling over. “Oh,” is all she can manage.
Charter helps the Inquisitor up and mutters about putting out the fire while carrying a drunken elf. Verita simply wiggles her fingertips and water pours down the chimney, killing the flames. They leave the tavern as quickly as they came, though at some point the rain stopped. The twin moons, Satina and Hyperios, hang low in the sky. Their presence is usually so calming, but Verita has to look away knowing every pair of any kind is like to give her a twinge of longing.
The passage back inside Caer Bronach is still clear and open, wooden door creaking in the wind. After a cautious trip down the wet stairs, Charter leans Verita against the large casks and makes her sit still as she moves the crate she wedged against the door an hour or so before. Verita’s head spins with the drink, her copper-haired friend transforming into two wiggly forms, and she closes her eyes. The first thing she pictures is the last image she wants to, Solas leaning in for an urgent kiss as if his life depended on it. The press of a hand on her arm is so real that Verita sways into the touch. A softly cleared throat brings her attention back to the present and her eyes pop open, the image erasing from her mind’s eye like sand through her fingers. A trace of regret lingers. Charter doesn’t speak, but ushers Verita through the room.
Mythal'enaste, the main level of the keep is sparse, only a handful of agents remain for evening duty. They pay the pair little heed, as any good agent should. Charter walks Verita up to her quarters; a quiet, empty room. All of Solas’ possessions are gone of course, and the sight of Verita’s pack alone against the far wall causes her heart to sink, capsizing from the weight of too many reminders. Where there was two now there is one.
She rests her staff against a stone wall, the head incandescent with the trickle of magic she sends to light the room. Everything is awash in the flickering orange glow of magic flames. Charter maneuvers Verita down to the mattress, holding her shoulders lightly as if she might shatter. After receiving help peeling off her boots and wet clothing from the other woman, Verita crawls into bed.
“Thank you, Charter.” She mumbles into the pillow. It is still smells like Solas from the night before, a combination of crushed herbs and paints, and the sharp, pleasant tang of magic in the air. Verita gasps a little, inhaling the heady scent. She flips the pillow over, and says as she settles again, “Maybe send the raven.”