marimo baby

Moonlight broke on the steps, lighting the way as Eremes made his way down the stairs to the kitchens; several minutes and an adventure with a saucepan later, he stood in front of the rotunda doors with a mug of hot chocolate in his hands. 

Sometimes he walked the battlements, said hello to the guards on duty, and sometimes he found an yet-unexplored corner of the castle where he could sit quietly and without judgement. But more often than not he made his way to the rotunda, lit a candle, and let the warm glow and the paintings in progress soothe and calm his nerves – as he had planned on doing today.

What gave him pause was the light that spilled through the bottom of the door.

Would Solas mind if he sat there and watched him paint? Was he even there? Maybe the mage had just left a candle burning. Maybe he should have brought another cup of hot chocolate. Or a snack. It was good to bring something to offer, especially if you were intruding.

Maybe he should walk away.

His grip tightened and the mug trembled, threatening to spill over. It couldn’t hurt, right? As long as he didn’t bother Solas? He’d just sit there quietly, out of the way, like how he was with Weaponsmaster Kavac and watched him work. Hahren Kavac hadn’t complained, and Solas didn’t seem – didn’t seem to mind him, usually, so–

The door creaked, and then slowly swung open wider.

The sound gave Solas pause; he peered down from the scaffolding at the unexpected visitor. “…you are up late, da’len,” the mage said, turning back to his fresco. 

Eremes took that as an invitation to shuffle in. “Is it okay if I sit here for a bit?”

“Of course.”

A silence settled between them, comfortable and warm, filled with the flickering candlelight and the soft sounds of paintbrush on fresh plaster. The sofa creaked a little as Eremes settled down, letting the glow of the candles and familiar company wash away the last bits of his nightmare. He wondered if Solas knew why he was here, or if it was just something he wouldn’t question. Maybe Solas would know a way to stave off bad dreams, being the resident Fade expert and all. Maybe he could talk about the Redcliffe he dreamt of, the sickly red glimmer tainting his sleep for months now, a kindly reminder of consequences should he fail. 

That, however, would require him to admit that he had nightmares. And that wasn’t something he wanted to confess, not really. He was a capable person, he could handle it.