#post-crestwood

[skeeeeeeeelons]

remember when they were divorced?

[ellstersmash]

Hiya! Here's a prompt for DADWC: 14 - “Am I not good enough?” / “I’m not good enough.”

salt water

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x f!Lavellan (post-Crestwood)

Rating: G for General

A/N: for @dadrunkwriting

For the first time in a long time, she is alone. Her bed gapes at her from the middle of her room, empty, sheets and quilt peeled back for her but all that waits for her between them are soured memories. He kissed her like he meant it and left her like he didn’t.

Somewhere in this keep, Solas is sleeping. Probably. Dreaming, of who knows what or who knows who. Not her, not anymore.

On the way back, she’d thought of all the things she’d say when she saw him. After she rode triumphant through the gates with her trophy wheeled behind her, and before he admitted she was right, he was wrong, let’s try again. Called him names, reminded him how she loved him, begged for answers. She’d covered every angle.

And in her head, she had prevailed each time. One way or another, he had always given in.

Then they’d ridden through the gates and he had not even come out to see. All the arguments she’d won deflated, immaterial, insubstantial. Just a banging against the walls, and he couldn’t hear it anyway.

So she’s here, instead, alone. Locked in her tower far above the busy kitchens and the late-night drinkers and his room, wondering why?

It consumes her. She can’t ask him, and even if she could, he wouldn’t give her what she wants.

But why?

You love me, you said so. And I said it, too … eventually. Not soon enough? Do you think I lied? That I didn’t mean it? Are you afraid?

You wouldn’t run even if you were. That’s my thing.

So why?

Did I do something wrong?

Am I not what you wanted?

Am I not good enough?

She is alone, and then she’s not. A hand on her knee, pale knobby knuckles at the end of well-worn sleeves.

“It is not your fault.”

The words unravel her, as they are meant to. Cole tilts his head to move his hat’s wide brim out of her way, and his shoulder is hard under her cheek. It is hard, but it is here, and it soaks up salt water as well as a soft one.

It is not her fault.

She is not alone.

[sirladyscripts]

Post-Crestwood scene from Solas' point of view

Of late, his thoughts had turned to Felassan.

Solas sat on an overturned skiff at the edge of the lake, watching the gentle waves crash upon the shore and listening to the cry of night gulls that sang out along the water’s surface. It was a soothing place for one to think, a quiet place, away from the sounds of human habitation, and, more importantly, away from camp. One could easily empty his mind and heart by simply focusing on his surroundings.

Of course, nothing was ever simple.

Felassan had been a good man, honest and true and steadfast in his beliefs, all the way to the end. Over those final months, the agent had tried to explain this new world, to give him some warning, to make him see why this place should be saved. Why these people mattered. How Fen’Harel could use his knowledge of the ancient past to help the remaining elves rise again, to take back their rightful place as rulers of the land.

 ‘They’re stronger than you think.” It was true, Briala had been a promising player in the Game, although in the end she’d failed to garner the influence necessary to make her bold stand against the humans. The elven woman had realized that her best course of action would be surviving while the humans killed each other off, and so she sank back to the shadows to wait. His agents had been forced to seize control of the eluvians from her when it became apparent that she would press the resistance no further.

The Inquisitor herself had seemed a promising replacement where Briala fell short. Lavellan had been willing to listen to his suggestions, even came up with her own solutions to help her people without his whispers in her ear. Promising, that is, until he’d compromised the mission by slipping into a more intimate role than planned or anticipated. Promising, before it became increasingly apparent that the world was beyond saving through subtle maneuvering, even when he was there to personally supervise the actions of world leaders.

The world was in a crisis, and the elves could only hope to rise again if the world was made anew by tearing down the old order. If they were as strong as Felassan had claimed, they could survive the purging flames and come away the better for it. But still, his agent had advised him to reconsider. That final night, Felassan came to plead with Fen’Harel one last time, begging him to hold back the arrow that would slay this monstrous world. The agent had outright disobeyed a direct order in the interest of helping the remnant elves.

In the end, Felassan’s death was just more blood on his already saturated hands.

In Solas’ defense, no amount of telling would have convinced him, newly awakened as he was, that there was any depth to these pitiful creatures who walked the earth. They were so weak, so helpless, so less than the ancient elves had been. Was it worth saving such creatures, those who held onto life for such a brief and tentative span of time? Who slew each other and were slain in kind over squabbles for the dead earth, poisoning the world with their hollow religions and petty cruelties? Surely, weakened though he was, his coming would be a blessing to the world, the necessary flame to burn away the poisons and make way for a new, better kingdom. A new, brighter Arlathan for his people, once the evanuris had been taken care of.

But she would not be in that world.

If he was being perfectly honest with himself, he would lose her one way or another anyway. As a hero of her age, she was statistically more likely to fall in some dire battle than to live to old age—he remembered the names of his fallen comrades from those ancient wars, and he’d read the modern legends of literary figureheads. She’d nearly been slain outright when the humans pulled her from the pit at the Conclave, and some still resented the idea that their Maker would choose an elf to lead humanity to glory. Elf or human, however, Death came to all heroes in the end.

Even if she escaped such a fate on the battlefield, death would claim her regardless, creeping to her bedside like a coward in the night. With the Veil in place, she’d been born mortal to a long line of mortal ancestors whose lives were but a brief passing of time. In his youth, he’d spent the equivalent of several of their lifetimes weaving spells meant to mimic the expanse of a starry sky for idle amusement. Time had held no true meaning for him. Now, if he closed his eyes, he might open them to find her long gone, her body turned to dust and lost to the winds.

Or, he could continue on with his plan, break down the Veil and leave her infused with magic. There might be a chance that the unbridled power unleashed upon the world would awaken the trace immortality that ran through elven blood, and she might very well become everlasting. But what would a mortal mind, bred to accept a mortal lifespan, do with all of that extra time? If Corypheus was any indication, madness would set in, and he’d rather see her dead than reduced to a husk of her former self.

Even in the best of scenarios, one where she forgave him and stood by his side through the trials ahead, where they might try to make some life for themselves in the new world they created-- he could not see a happy ending. He loved her, but he would rather have her live out whatever time she had left living a normal life—as normal as one in her position could live, at least. A life with him might have its happy, stolen moments, but they would be few and far between, and he would not ask her to play a part in the regretful duties that lay ahead.

Ah, how Felassan would laugh.

Here he sat, smitten with a child of the world he vowed to destroy simply because it existed as a result of his actions. Unable to pretend that the survivors were nothing more than pale shades to be erased from the earth; Unable to deny that they were, in fact, strong and worthy of life. Too invested in fixing his mistakes to consider how his future actions might cause even greater travesties upon his people. The fact that he’d seriously considered abandoning everything he’d worked for to keep her by his side proved how severely he’d miscalculated when it came to dealing with these people.

Walking away from her and all that a life with her promised had been the most difficult decision he’d ever made in all his many years.

Felassan would call him a fool, and he would be hard pressed to argue the point.

It was then that he sensed Cole—a tentative flutter of magic brushing against his wards, a shy hello between souls before the spirit backed off. Solas had spoken to him earlier, warding him off and directing him to help the Inquisitor instead, and the spirit had disappeared, giving him enough time to gather his thoughts and suppress his emotions.

“Cole,” he said, voice calm and distant. The spirit took a few tentative steps forward, then shied over to a rock, half-hiding. Solas sighed and closed his eyes, turning back to stare out over the lake. “I would prefer to be alone, my friend.”

“You are sad,” said the spirit from behind his hiding place.

“Yes,” agreed Solas, focusing on the waves far across the lake. Really, what more was there to say?

“I can’t feel you, but I could before you locked it away,” said Cole. He spoke slowly, as though testing the words for truth as he said them aloud. “It hurt, but you think that you deserve it. You’re sorry for what you did.“

“I regret causing the Inquisitor pain, yes,” agreed Solas again. He blew out his breath, forcing himself to speak evenly. “Among other things. I should not have let it go so far. I never meant to hurt her.” He glanced back at Cole, giving the spirit a tight smile. “She could use some Compassion, I think.”

Cole would not understand—or rather, he would understand just enough to try fixing the problem on his own, and there was no telling what those actions would be. Cole was a spirit of emotion, unpredictable and passionate. Cole would see two lovers hurting by the distance between them, and would simply do whatever he could to bring them back together.

Solas was unsure if the spirit would understand the more complex reasons behind his actions. He could try to explain why he had to do what he had done, but Cole would simply press the issue until love turned to hate, or until Solas’ defenses wore thin. Neither was an optimal solution, given his plans for the future.

Still, Solas’ agreement seemed to bolster Cole’s confidence. Feeling a little braver now that he was on more familiar ground, the spirit crept closer, his magic brushing against Solas’ senses once again, a tentative, searching touch. The spirit withdrew again almost immediately, but the mage strengthened his wards all the same.

“Cole,” he chided, a little sharper than he’d meant to be. He softened his tone, closing his eyes and clamping down further on his emotions. Cole would not understand, and it would be unkind to snap at him for only doing what was in his nature. Any fault would be with Solas, and he needed Cole to understand that, at least. He tried again, “I am not safe company right now, my friend. I would not have my emotions distort your being. You would be safer if you sought out the Inquisitor and left me alone with my thoughts.”

He had seen Wisdom fall to the follies of mortals afraid of bandits. What would his own emotions, left unchecked and dark, do to Cole? He would not allow himself to sorrow, for he would not see Compassion crumple into a demon of Despair.

A gentle touch startled him from his thoughts, and the spirit’s thin arms wrapped around him. The boy pressed a cheek against his back, and clung to the front of Solas’ tunic.

"Cole?” he asked, turning his head to look over his shoulder. The spirit shifted and looked up at him, eyes wide.

“Am I doing it wrong?” he asked, tilting his head up to meet Solas’ gaze. “I haven’t done it before. Usually it’s whispers and feelings, a word here, a touch there, and the hurt is eased. Things take care of themselves, the hurting grows less sharp, more distant. But I can’t read you, so I can’t tell if I’m doing it right.”

“I am not sure what you are trying to do, Cole,” answered Solas, frowning a little at the spirit’s uncharacteristic bluntness and actions. The spirit’s grip tightened.

“In the Fade, that place was wrong, but there were pieces of truth scattered on the ground. Your stone said dying alone,” explained Cole. He frowned, as though he was putting together some very difficult ideas. “But when you are dead, your soul doesn’t care about being alone anymore, because it goes beyond. It doesn’t make sense, unless you mean the moments before your death, when you can still feel afraid and sad. That would mean you would still be alive, but that you’re afraid that no one will be there when you die. So your stone should have said ‘living alone.’ If you are afraid of living alone at the time of your death, you would be sad to be alone at other times, too.”

Solas laughed, feeling a part of his armor slip. How carefully the spirit had worked out such things in such a logical way, and yet still missed the meaning of the words entirely. He gave Cole another tight smile, remaining still in the spirit’s awkward embrace. Instead of trying to explain the difference, however, he asked his original question again, modified to clarify his intent.

“Why did you seek me out?”

“I could feel your thoughts before you told me to stop,” replied Cole, looking away at last, embarrassed that he’d looked at something he was not supposed to see. “I can’t feel you, but I know you are sad. You aren’t dead, but you don’t want to be alone. I can’t help a hurt I can’t feel, but feeling can help. A gentle hand, a warm smile, it’s not enough but it has to do for now—Dorian is with the Inquisitor now.”

“Good. That is… good,” replied Solas, closing his eyes and bowing his head. It was good that Dorian should be there. To provide her comfort when he could not. The Tevinter mage had a tactful bluntness that she would need—someone who would not lie to make her feel better, someone who would not leave her confused and dazed and looking for all the world like a lost soul on the brink of collapse.

She would need love and tenderness, everything he wished he could give her himself but no longer dared. He swallowed, thinking of stolen kisses and shared warmth beneath scratchy field blankets. Of winter evenings spent in companionable silence by the fire, with surprise books and lingering touches and quiet laughs between shared secret moments. Gone, now. Simply memories to cherish and remember as he walked his dark path.

He wanted to ingrain the memory of her to his thoughts, the way she listened so attentively when he spoke of the Fade, and how she always wanted to know more. How she felt and tasted, how she loved him and made no attempts to hide it. How she’d pleaded for answers, for him to reconsider, and how she’d seemingly accepted his abandonment of her as her lot in love and life. Would her face turn to anger and disgust when she learned the truth of who and what he was? Would she grow to hate him, even as his love for her remained? Worse, would she still love him, despite all the destruction and ruin he would bring? Cole tightened his hold.

“I felt that,” the spirit said, even as Solas forced himself to clear his mind and clamp down on the emotions again. Cole released his grip on Solas’ tunic to pat the elf on the shoulder. “I am Compassion. I heal Sorrow and Despair—you can’t hurt me like that.”

When Solas said nothing, Cole sighed once again, trying to carefully explain what he was doing. “A touch is a good way to remember that there is someone else there, even if you can’t see them,” he explained, ignoring the hitch in Solas’ breathing. “You can’t see me since I’m behind you, and I can’t see you, since you won’t let me look. But I can do this.”

"I…thank you, Cole.”

Cole was silent, resuming his embrace. Nothing more needed to be said, for they understood one another perfectly. Instead, Cole kept his grip firm and comforting, and he held Solas as the mage cradled his head in his hands and wept.

[sirladyscripts]

My take on the immediate aftermath of the Crestwood scene. Yay angst! (It's Solavellan, of course it's angst)

This one’s been percolating on my hard drive, and is finally saturated with enough angst to be released into the world. Huzzah! :D

- - -

“I’m beginning to get that ‘third wheel’ feeling,” sighed Dorian as he poked the fire for the fiftieth time that night. “Not that I begrudge the Inquisitor and her paramour their time alone, nor that I don’t appreciate them finding a place away from camp, but really, what’s the point of asking us to come along to chaperon if they’re going to order us to stay behind?”

“It’s safer to go in a larger group,” replied Cole, completely missing the sarcasm. The boy sat on the ground, playing with the wooden nug toy that Blackwall had carved for him. “Humans ears are smaller than elves. They didn’t have to go far for us not to hear, so we can still help them if they need us. But he wanted someplace quiet.”

“Yes, but it’s the principle of the thing, isn’t it?” He glared moodily at the fire, then glanced back to the pale boy. “You’re rather quiet tonight, Cole. Everything alright?”

“He’s afraid,” Cole replied, staring off in the direction the Inquisitor and Solas had gone. “She means everything to him, and he’s afraid he’s going to lose her.”

Dorian chuckled, standing up stood up and stretching out the kinks he’d worked into his limbs. “There’s little chance of that, I think. Our girl is tenacious and won’t be letting him off the hook that easily. I don’t think Solas realizes he’s past the point of escape.” He dropped his stick into the fire, then walked over to clap a hand on Cole’s shoulder. “I’m turning in. The lovebirds don’t need me, and you ought to be getting some rest, too.”

“I don’t need to sleep, not really,” argued Cole, looking up at Dorian at last. The mage sighed.

“Just try to respect their privacy, alright? I don’t need you coming into my tent and telling me what they’re thinking while they’re in the act. Not my concern, nor yours.”

“She’s never been so happy,” Cole said, ignoring Dorian’s reprimand. “She’s knows that when the battle is done and we all go our separate ways, he’ll still be beside her. She’s building a new clan, taken the broken pieces and weaving something new, something stronger. It’s different, but she likes it. It’s small for now, but they could make it grow.”

“I don’t need to hear about her repopulation efforts!” chided Dorian, standing up and heading towards his tent. “Unless there’s a dragon burning down the campsite, I don’t want you coming into my tent, got it?”

“But—“

“Good night, Cole!” called Dorian, shutting the flap of his tent once and for all. Fortunately, Cole was getting better at listening to commands and picking up on clues, so although Dorian kept an open ear while he stripped out of his armor, Cole did not speak again. The boy was learning after all. He might be a spirit, but there was hope for him yet.

--

Bull lay behind him on the bed, one hand draped over Dorian’s waist, the other flipping through reports from the Chargers. Dorian’s twined his fingers with Bull’s, feeling the rough calluses and smooth scars the warrior had earned in a lifetime of battles. Healing magic only went so far, and he’d never been very good at it. There was probably something telling in the fact that he handled reanimated corpses than living flesh, but he wasn’t one to dwell on such things.

Instead, he focused on the warm presence against his back, and shifted so that he pressed up against Bull’s vast expanse of chest.

“Aren’t you done with those yet?” he asked, his voice a little peevish. Really, how could Bull read reports in bed when he was there, naked and pliant, ready for another round.

Bull chuckled, tightening his grip on Dorian, hand snaking lower.

“Bored, Kadan?” Dorian could feel the rumble of Bull’s laughter, a deep, low tone that hummed against his backside. “I promised the Inquisitor I’d look over these reports before we set out tomorrow.”

“Set out? Where are we going?” Dorian asked, trying to remember if Remli had mentioned them going on another expedition. As long as it wasn’t the bog, he didn’t much care where they went, so long as Bull came along too.

“We’ll be setting up the perimeter defenses against Corypheus’ army here, here, and here,” replied Cullen, pointing to spots on the bed, except it wasn’t a bed, it was the war table, and the Inquisitor’s entire party was there, dressed to the gills and ready for battle. Except for him, of course. Dorian was still naked, stretched out on the table, not feeling particularly shy, just irritated that they’d been interrupted.

Remli came in then, and Dorian sat up at once, pushing himself off of the table and hurrying over to her side. Her entire left side was aflame with green fire, the anchor’s corruption bleeding through her veins and infusing her skin with a ghastly green pallor. She gave him a wan smile as he tried to stem the growing influx of magic.

“I can use this power to stop him,” she said, voice calm, sensible even. Solas stood behind her, hand clapped on her shoulder, his eyes filled with the same green glow. Remli smiled, threading her fingers through Solas’. She turned to Dorian, showing more teeth than normal in her smile. “Try not to get burned,” she warned him.

An agonized moan made him start, and Dorian snapped his attention back to the war table, staff at the ready, magic blazing. Cole sat on the charred earth, rocking back and forth, holding his sides and weeping.

Dorian ran over to the boy, trying to soothe him, but Cole wouldn’t look up.

“It hurts, it hurts, make it stop, it hurts and I can’t fix it. I don’t understand, why? Why? It hurts, why does it hurt, it shouldn’t hurt like this, why would you do it, why do you make it harder? It hurts and the only thing that would make it better makes it worse,” and so on, his wails interspersed with wracking sobs and low, keening moans.

Dorian shivered as the boy wept, feeling a thrill of cold run through his limbs. He’d been dreaming, yes, but Cole never played a part in his dreams before, not since Solas told the spirit that not everyone welcomed a spirit into their dreams, no matter how much he wanted to help. Which meant that this was the real Cole, and that there was something terribly the matter.

“Cole!” he barked, trying to grab the boy’s attention once again. “Cole, I want to help you, but I can’t do it from here. Wake me up, and tell me what’s wrong!”

Cole lifted his head at last, and Dorian could see the tear streaks on the boy’s face despite the gloam. Dorian gestured to the small lantern to full brightness, then gripped Cole’s shoulders.

“Now, tell me, Cole, what’s the matter?,” he snapped, giving the boy a slight shake. “Is someone hurt? Where are they? What is going on? Is it the Inquisitor? Does she need our help?”

“I can’t fix it,” moaned Cole, tears pouring out of his eyes. “It hurts and I can’t fix it!”

“What hurts?” Dorian tried to avoid snapping at the boy again, taking in a deep breath to calm his nerves. He spoke slowly but in an urgent tone, as though speaking to a child. “Cole, did someone attack the Inquisitor and Solas? Can you lead me to them?”

Cole shook his head, taking in deep breaths, his lip trembling. “I can’t feel Solas any more,” he said, and Dorian’s eyes grew wide. They’d had their disagreements, but he’d never wished any harm on his fellow mage. Surely the elf couldn’t be...?

“What do you mean, Cole?” he tried, wishing he was better at prying the truth from the spirit, or that he knew how to ask the right questions.

“He won’t let me help, so the hurt is gone. I can’t feel it, but I know it’s still there. He won’t let me fix it, and he won’t let me near,” cried Cole, his voice taking on a slight whine.

“He’s not dead, then? They’re not physically hurt?” Cole shook his head, and Dorian blew out a sigh of relief. “Good. We can work with that if he’s alive. Now, what of the Inquisitor? Can you find her?”

Cole wrapped his arms around himself again, his expression growing vacant as he searched for the Inquisitor. He slowly nodded his head, then scrubbed at his eyes.

“It’s dim now, but growing stronger again. I think she went where the Tranquil go and I couldn’t reach her, but she’s starting to feel again.” He stood up and gave Dorian a pleading look. “We need to be there before it comes back.”

Dorian grabbed his staff and satchel, throwing in a few potions and a bottle of liquor, just in case. That was about as much information as he’d be able to get from Cole, he knew, and it would be better to have the supplies and not need them then to show up empty handed and useless.

They took off along the path, their steps quick and sure thanks to the moonlit trail. Cole took the lead, guiding Dorian up the mountainside. Dorian’s mind raced, half fogged with sleep and worry. Whatever had happened had emotionally numbed the Inquisitor to an extent that she appeared tranquil to Cole, which meant that she’d be in shock. Solas was well enough to tell Cole to mind his own business, apparently, so if the elf didn’t want to accept any help, Dorian would focus on the Inquisitor. Not for the first time, he wished he was better at dealing with the living than the dead.

[sirladyscripts]

How does one go about talking to the Inquisition's expert on the Fade and all things Elvhen when it's your ex-boyfriend? Post-Crestwood, in which Inquisitor Lavellan had questions that only Solas can answer, but she's not really sure how to keep it professional when he refuses to answer the questions she really wants to ask. Set shortly after "In Strength, Solace."

I always forget to post here, too. Sorry about that, guys!

Blackwall was learning to appreciate the little things in life. After revealing his true identity to the Inquisitor and her subsequent pardon, he’d vowed that he would try to make amends for all that he had done. He’d returned to Skyhold a new man with purpose. The Inquisitor bade him to be the man that he’d pretended to be, to become a man who proved that you could turn your life around, and that people who made mistakes could—and should— be forgiven. He vowed to double his efforts against Corypheus, doing what he could for the refugees and offering assistance where he could.

Unfortunately, his crimes were still fresh in the minds of the people, and when he was not outwardly snubbed or cursed, he was ignored. He’d known his penance would not be an easy one, but he’d hoped that people would be willing to give him a chance. As it was, he generally did what he could to help people without letting them know it was him—a stack of firewood here, extra food and supplies there, toys for the children of the refugees, a stout walking stick for a wounded soldier or an elderly pilgrim. Dennet still welcomed his help, at least, and a few of the Inquisitor’s companions still spoke to him, albeit a bit more coolly.

The Inquisitor herself had been more forgiving, and had gone out of her way to stop by and speak with him, and to have him accompany her on some of her resource gathering expeditions, just to help him get away from the keep for a bit. After she’d returned from the Temple of Mythal, and with the incident with Solas in Crestwood, well… he couldn’t blame the woman for being preoccupied. He’d never really cared for Solas anyway—respected the man, yes, but the elf was a bit of a prig, and the Inquisitor could do better, if she looked beyond the rotunda.

So, when the Inquisitor stopped by the stables to visit the Lavellan hart, he’d given her a brief hello, not expecting her to stay long. When she asked to sit and join him while he carved, however, he heartily agreed. Perhaps she was at last starting to find herself again, to take an interest in the goings on beyond the Fade and heartbreak.

“Did you have a project in mind? Or do you just need to sharpen a stick?” he asked, and laughed when she gave him an odd look. “Sometimes it’s soothing to just see how the wood peels away under a blade. No expectations, just something to keep your hands busy while you wait.” He gave her a knowing smile. “And sometimes it’s nice to have a stick to poke people.”

“Oh, no,” she said with a quiet laugh, “I thought I would carve a totem, a little toy that I could give to some of the children here. We’ve been getting a few more Dalish families along with the sentinels, and I thought the communal toy box could use more heathen symbols.” She grinned, and whisper sotto voce, “Don’t let Cassandra or Mother Giselle know it was me.”

“I shan’t tell a soul,” he said, gesturing to the pile of wooden blocks for her to choose a size that suited her project. He selected a blade and whet stone for her while she picked through the blocks of wood, and pulled up a second chair before going back to his own work, a small marbari figure with lolling tongue. If the parents of the refugees didn’t want it, he could always leave it for the Commander to find.

The Inquisitor sat across from him, settling the loaf-sized block on her lap. She’d grabbed a stick of charcoal to sketch out her design, and he watched her, amused, glad to see her concentrate on something else.

“Will you be making a halla statue, then?” he asked, and she shook her head, smile still on her face, but it didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“The Dalish make camp around shrines to Fen’Harel, and Keepers have small statues to lay outside of camp when there are no shrines nearby. They’re meant to protect and ward the camp from evil.” She picked up the knife to start cutting away the excess bits of wood. “I know that it brought me some comfort when I was young. Maybe some of the elven children would like it as well.”

“Ah,” he said, chewing on the thought for a moment. She’d never been overtly religious, and while she did have Dalish totems scattered around Skyhold, she kept an equal number of idols from other Thedan religions as well. Plus, after what’s they’d seen, religion was a bit… touchy, to say the least. Still…“Even after what you uncovered at the Temple of Mythal?”

“Especially so, yes,” she replied, giving up with the knife in favor of a small saw, finding it much easier to form the shape by cutting out chunks of the wood. She made quick work of it and picking up a file to round out the form. She continued speaking as her hands moved over the wood. “People seem to cling to their beliefs even more when everything they’ve seen suggests otherwise. It’s how the humans ended up with an elf as a herald of their god. Heathen crawls out of the Fade after the temple blows up, shining spirit guiding her—obviously the work of Andraste.”

She snorted, using the back of her hand to rub at her nose in a very unladylike (and certainly non-divine) manner, which smudged a bit of the charcoal across her nose.

“Ah,” he repeated, not really sure how best to respond to that. She muttered an elven curse under her breath as she worked around what seemed to be a knot in the wood, apparently absorbed in the task of getting the shape down. She switched between blade and file, trying to hack out more of the wood to get the shape she wanted.

Blackwall could have told her that she needed to slow down, that to get the level of precision she wanted in the statue she would need to really see the shape before she cut into the wood. If she kept at it as she was going, she would end up with the proverbial pointed stick. Still, in the end he took the more prudent path, and remained quiet.

They worked for some time in companionable silence, nothing more than the quiet ‘shick’ of blade against wood, with the occasional animal call from the stables, or shouts of soldiers practicing in the yard. However, as time passed, the Inquisitor’s cuts took longer, and the pale shavings grew shorter and shorter, until at last she stopped, staring at the wood and knife in her hand, but clearly no longer seeing the questionably wolf-shaped block in her lap. Blackwall sighed.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked at last, setting down his carving tools and folding his hands in his lap. She jumped, dropping the block of wood in her hands, nearly nicking herself on the blade.

“Talk about what?” she asked, picking up the dropped toy and pretending to focus on the toy again. She shifted the wood to start working at a new angle.

“It’s not that I don’t enjoy your company lass, but you only come down here when you’re upset about something,” he said, giving her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “I know you’ve had a lot on your plate lately, and Maker knows I’ve had times when talking about things would’ve helped. I might not be the best man for giving advice, but if you want to talk, I’ll listen.”

“That won’t be—“ she cut herself off, frowning at the wood in her hands. “No, you’re right, I’m sorry. I know that the past few weeks have been difficult for you as well, and I meant to stop by more frequently, I just… I lost track of things. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.”

“That’s not what I meant, m’lady, and you know it,” he chided softly, and she flushed, still not looking at him. “I’m just saying, if you need to talk to someone, now that things aren’t good between you and Solas—“

“We’re just taking a break, refocusing on the mission to defeat Corypheus as quickly as possible,” she interrupted, looking up at last. They both knew she was stating it more for herself than for him, and when she looked up, it was not at Blackwall, but towards the round wall that shaped the keep’s rotunda.

“I mean no offense, m’lady, but if that’s the case, then, why are you down here with me and not up there with him?” he asked gently. She sighed, shoulders drooping, and she dropped the block of wood in her lap, bringing up a hand to rub at her temples.

“I just…. I have so many questions, and he won’t answer any of them. Not now,” she slouched in the chair to stare up at the rafters above. “He said he’ll tell me more later, once all of this mess with Corypheus is done. And I’m trying to respect that, trying to get things sorted out so we can kill the damn thing once and for all, but… it was so sudden that I’m feeling a bit lost.”

“Love can do that,” sighed Blackwall, picking up his project again and getting back to carving the dog’s mouth.

“The worst part is I have legitimate, non-relationship related questions, but it’s so damn awkward between us now that I don’t want to go up and ask him,” she gave a frustrated huff. “I’d ask Morrigan, but she’s still in a snit about me stealing the power of the well from under her nose. And I’ve tried to ask the voices of the well, but it’s like they’re always whispering at the back of my mind, but as soon as I start to think of a question, they go silent. They don’t start up again until I think about something else.”

“If you think he has answers to things that could help you defeat Corypheus—“ he started, but she sat up, shaking her head and kicking her feet in the sawdust, glaring at the ground.

“That’s just it! They’re not about Corypheus, not directly. I have questions about the Temple, and about the Elvhen gods, and about what he said about the Vallaslin, and—Argh!“ she growled, falling into a sulk. “I just wish we could go back to the way things were, before….”

She trailed off, looking lost, and Blackwall was reminded of how young their Inquisitor really was. Well, at least ten years younger than him, at any rate, which made her young enough. And from what he’d gleaned over their months of travel and their conversations during their down times, she’d not had much in the way of life experiences. Love, for instance. At the time of her miraculous survival at the conclave, she’d not yet experienced the painful, soul-wrenching love of finding someone who completed you, someone whom you needed by your side to give you the strength to go on. Not until Solas had come along, at least.

He sighed, and reached forward to grasp her hands, cupping them gently. She looked up, startled, and he smiled at her, giving her hands a light squeeze.

“Lass, have you ever known Solas to be unkind? To say an unkind word that was not deserved, or to do something unkind for the sake of being cruel?” he asked.

“N-no…” she responded, confused by his gesture.

“Do you truly think that he would start to do something like that now, especially to the woman he loves?” he asked, and when she tried to jerk her hands away, he held her, firm, but gentle. “No. That’s not the man you or I have fought beside these long months. You know it, and I know it. He might be a bit of an ass at times, but he’s never been cruel.”

She dropped her eyes, starting at their hands, and he released one of them to gently pat her clasped hands.

“Whatever the reason, we both know that he would not do such a thing unless he thought it was the best course of action. Solas never does anything without overthinking it,” he chuckled, and she gave a weak grin. “If he says that he thinks you need to refocus on the task at hand, then that’s what you do. He’ll explain when he’s ready.”

He pulled back and patted her on the shoulder. “Until then, if you have questions and you think he’s the one who has the answers, ask him. I’ve never known Solas to give up the chance to hear himself speak.”

She snorted at that, but she smiled up at him, a bit of color back in her cheeks, and her posture a little straighter.

“Thank you Thom,” she said, and he tried not to flinch at the name. Still, the way she said it, with actual gratitude and no hint of disgust or anger… well, it was good to hear the name spoken without the usual negative connotations attached. She stood up, resolved to her purpose, and he stood as well, deciding he’d escort her out of the barn, at least. She faltered as she realized that she’d forgotten the little wooden icon in her lap, and bent down to retrieve it.

“I’m afraid that I’ve still a ways to go when it comes to woodcarving,” she admitted, turning the roughly shaped block in her hands. It resembled more of a bear with pointed ears than a reclining wolf, and it rocked unevenly as she set it down on the table.

“You’re welcome to come down anytime to work on it,” he said. “Or, if your meeting with Solas goes south, you can come down and whittle yourself a nice sharp stick.”