Solas ◦ Fen'Harel ◦ RP

With each passing day, more and more refugees arrived at Skyhold. Did this mean that the cause Cassandra had begun was moving in the right direction, and could one already conclude that the Inquisitor's victory, and the simultaneous defeat at Haven, was no coincidence? Doubts, only doubts.

One thing alone was certain: someday, all of this would end for him. Someday he would have to leave everyone he had come to know, everyone he fought shoulder to shoulder with, everyone he had shielded in battle. After several months within the Inquisition, Solas doubted he had become the life of the group or made any friends. Then again, he had never sought to. There was no sense in growing close to anyone, knowing the inevitable end in advance. For the right moment, the one advantageous to him, might arise at any time. So he could not afford to let his guard down. Whether it would come sooner or later, Solas did not know, but his constant tension in anticipation of that fateful moment sometimes overstepped all bounds and grew into an obsessive unease.

It was precisely these dizzying thoughts that kept him from sleep that night, forcing him to toss and turn on the uncomfortable couch, drawing his legs up and crossing his arms over his chest. He would knock the pillow to the floor and put his arm beneath his head instead; he would throw his legs over the armrest of the couch and then let them drop back down; he would lie on his back, and his gaze would come to rest on the blackness of the rotunda's impossibly high ceiling.

The warm yellow light of the library's candles was occasionally caught by a passing draft and scattered the darkness. Then Solas's gaze would fall upon the raven cages hanging near the ceiling, and the birds perched within them. A dispiriting sight. They slept, only now and then shaking their wings and scattering their feathers, which drifted down straight onto the carpet and onto Solas's books. Suddenly he remembered how long he had fussed over fishing the feathers out of that bucket of fresh paint, and how, thanks to that, all his plans had gone straight to hell.

At first, she counted the tolling of the bells. Then the footsteps of the guards above her quarters. After that, she watched the candle on the table, following the flame as it sank lower and melted wax trickled down the holder. The darkness beyond the windows gradually turned grey. A thin band of light appeared above the jagged peaks of the Frostback Mountains.

The kitchens usually told Lamela when Skyhold was waking. Before the first bell, the smell of rising dough, hot oil and dried herbs would begin drifting through the corridors. Soon, cauldrons clattered below, doors opened and closed, and servants called to one another.

Now the air in her quarters smelled of cold ash, candle wax and stone.

Skyhold slumbered.

In a few hours, Lamela would leave for the Free Marches and her native clan. Thoughts of the coming reunion had kept her awake. She recalled familiar faces, imagined her conversation with Keeper Deshanna and already heard the hunters’ questions. How would they greet her now? As the Inquisitor? As the one who had returned from the Conclave with a glowing mark upon her hand? Or as Lamela, who had spent far too long among shemlen?

She threw back the covers.

The bed had lost all appeal. Lamela washed her face with cold water, gathered her hair and dressed for the road. The formal doublet Josephine had prepared for the meeting with her clan remained hanging beside the screen. Its time would come later, preferably after a persuasive speech about the practical virtues of soft leather and loose sleeves.

The corridors greeted her with half-light. The last torches burned low in the wall sconces, while morning frost silvered the narrow windows. A guard near the stairs stifled a yawn and immediately straightened upon seeing the Inquisitor. Lamela gave him a brief nod and continued on her way.

She heard the quiet rustle of wings on the stairs leading to the rotunda. Leliana’s ravens woke earlier than most of Skyhold’s inhabitants. Some sat in their hanging cages with their beaks tucked beneath their wings. Others shifted along their perches and watched her with gleaming black eyes.

Lamela took several more steps and stopped.

Solas was asleep on the sofa.

He now lay on his back, one hand beneath the pillow and the other hanging loosely over the edge. An open book rested on the carpet beside him. Several raven feathers lay nearby, and a tuft of black down clung to the fresh paint inside a bucket.

So the night had been a long one for him as well.

A raven stirred in the cage above the sofa. The bird spread one wing, shook itself and sent another feather drifting downward. It circled through the warm air of the rotunda, caught a passing draught and landed directly on Solas’s face. The tip brushed his cheek before the feather turned over and settled across his forehead, covering part of his smooth scalp.

The corners of Lamela’s mouth twitched.

The dark feather made the sleeping elf look like a participant in some highly dubious ceremony. Leliana’s ravens had chosen themselves a new leader, and everyone had missed the coronation, including Solas himself.

Lamela moved closer.

Slowly. One step at a time. Placing her boots only upon floorboards she trusted to carry her with dignity and silence.

She bent over the sofa and caught the feather’s shaft between two fingers. Its edge brushed Solas’s skin once again. His breathing kept its steady rhythm. Lamela carefully lifted the feather away.

Success.

Now she should step back.

She remained where she was.

Solas asleep.

A rare sight. Almost intimate.

She usually found him awake, standing before his fresco with a brush in hand, turning the pages of a book or looking somewhere beyond her shoulder. Every movement carried precision. His gaze studied, compared and stored away everything it found.

Sleep had softened his face. The crease between his brows had smoothed, and his familiar concentration had faded. Thin lines remained at the corners of his eyes, along with the sharp curve of his cheekbone, the pointed ear and a faint smear of blue paint near his temple. More paint lingered beneath his thumbnail.

He looked tired.

Close.

Lamela slowly lowered her gaze to his lips.

They parted slightly with every breath and closed again on the exhale.

One beat of her heart.

A second.

The third sounded somewhere in her throat.

Her fingers tightened around the black feather. Lamela realised how close she stood and prepared to straighten.

“Remarkable,” Leliana’s calm voice came from above. “One raven has managed to get closer to Solas than half of my agents.”

Lamela stepped back sharply. Her heel struck the leg of a table, sending an inkpot rocking towards the edge. She caught it in time.

“Leliana…”

“Quiet. You have shown such care for his sleep.”

Lamela looked up. Leliana stood on the upper gallery with one hand resting against the stone balustrade. Her red hair was neatly braided, her clothes fully fastened, and a letter with a broken seal rested in her other hand.

Once again, Lamela wondered whether sleep had any place in Leliana’s schedule. Perhaps somewhere between the second report of the night and one of Cullen’s especially lengthy briefings, she managed to close her eyes for several minutes.

Leliana motioned for her to follow.

An open map of the Free Marches covered the table on the upper landing. Wooden markers traced the road to Wycome and the latest campsites of Clan Lavellan. Letters from Josephine, supply lists and a scouting report lay beside it.

“Confirmation arrived during the night.” Leliana touched a marker north of Wycome. “The clan has made camp here. Templars are moving along the western road, while rebel mages have fortified a position to the south. Venatori have been sighted among them.”

“Both groups will soon reach the clan’s hunting grounds.”

“Exactly. We need Dalish scouts and the Keeper’s support. We will bring supplies and healers.”

“I will speak with Deshanna.”

“Everyone will gather at the southern gate after the first bell. Solas is coming as well.”

Lamela looked down into the rotunda.

“Then ask him to save his lecture on Dalish misconceptions for the journey home.”

“I shall leave that part of the plan to you.”

Only then did Lamela realise that she still held the feather between her fingers. Leliana noticed it as well.

“Keeping it as a souvenir?”

“Physical evidence of an assault by your agents.”

“Of course.”

Lamela placed the feather upon the map.

“The first bell will sound in half an hour,” Leliana reminded her.

Lamela’s gaze returned to the sofa.

“Give Solas a little more time. He has a long road ahead of him.”

A slight smile touched Leliana’s lips.

He opened his eyes and rubbed them, pinching the bridge of his nose. The sleepless night answered with a mild headache. A rather unpleasant beginning to the day. Solas rose from the divan and, stretching his neck, looked up. Several people stood by the railing with books in their hands, while nearby Leliana was discussing something with Lavellan. Morning had only just arrived, and they were already devising grand plans. Solas kept his gaze on them longer than propriety allowed, though he attributed it to the haze of sleepiness, which only water could dispel. Anything was preferable to the herbal tea that the inhabitants of Skyhold had grown so fond of.

Solas had no plans for the day ahead, so he rose from the divan, walked slowly to the table, brushed away the feathers that had drifted onto it, and then left the rotunda, heading towards the garden, where several jugs of water had thoughtfully been set aside for washing. The water had an invigorating effect. Solas washed his face twice and raised it towards the cool wind. A chill ran across his skin, and he dabbed away the remaining drops with a thin linen cloth.