#delwrites

He felt it in the middle of writing a report. A pinprick so sharp in his bones that he made an accidental line of ink across his parchment. He cocked his head and focused on it, felt the blood rush in his ears and the distant call that reminded him of a bygone age before he had walked in flesh. Rather - no - he had felt this recently, but not so keenly. It couldn’t be, no - and yet…

A string, a tug behind his navel and wrapped around his heart like a noose, pulled him unthinkingly from his chair, the rotunda, beyond the great hall and the ruins of what had once been his refuge from war. Passed the empty carcass of the garden, the very edge of Skyhold to a small room tucked away.

In it, Aslaug knelt, palms up and her face painted in black and white, thumbprints of red pressed to her eyelids. Wide jaws were drawn in paint from ear to ear. Before her was a crude construction, but not without its own beauty; a carving of wood with whittled bone as teeth, dark flowers and vines were carefully threaded through the jaws and trailed over the construction.

There was a bundle of fur that held small scrolls, and a clay bowl on the size of his palm held honey and blood.

She was chanting in her language.

He didn’t speak Alamarri (nevermind the Chasind and Avvar dialects) for he had previously never had any need to, and for the fact that the language itself was difficult to learn simply because there were few writings on it that could be trusted.

But this, this, he intrinsically understood.

Honoring the god that heard her, that listened, that answered. She had felt it in the Mire - and so had Solas, but he had disregarded it for the time being as that had been a mistake; she had flailed into the empty spaces of this world for a spirit, any spirit, to answer. And he hadn’t meant to answer, technically hadn’t, but he had warded the terror demons from her as best as he could in his diminished state. The Avvar calls to spirits were much cruder, coarser than the elvhen and so it had been harmless at the time. She had been terrified. She had needed help.

He’d put the event from his mind after and focused on other things.

Evidently, Aslaug hadn’t.

Solas’s skin chilled, goosebumps rose, and he slid a step closer, listened to the throaty tones of her song, the sincerity of her gratitude, and her wish to know more of the god that had chased away the corrupt ones that had dogged her footsteps. The one that had expressed some form of approval when she declared herself for the mages of the lowlands, for the Inquisition to be change for the world. She had felt him in the way mortals who felt spirits did; a whisper, a murmur from spaces beyond this simple plain.

It rippled over him like a tide, satisfying in the same way a good meal satisfied a hungry man. It felt like the sun on his face and water in his throat - power curled to him with ease.

He shook himself briefly, felt the tremble in the air from the altar she had built in this quiet, dark place dedicated to him, and spoke aloud, “Aslaug?”

She stopped chanting and turned to him. The jaws drawn on her face threatened to swallow her whole. “Solas, how’d you find this place?” She sounded surprised and Solas could have laughed, or wept. How could he not find her now?

“I was having a stroll and heard you…” His eyes took in the flowers, the bones, the bowl of honey and blood, the furs. “Are you praying to one of your gods?” His sharp tone came out in a snap.

Her face didn’t fall but she frowned slightly as she stood. “I am. Why?”

“I must ask, how do you know what to build to them? What they want as offerings? What to sing to them?” His questions were lightning quick, nearly offended, and he couldn’t stop the grimace that threatened to overtake his face. The altar before him would have raised eyebrows; blood and honey, bone and wood, curving jaws and hid in a dark, small place of quiet, private worship - but he was only horrified. The pulse of life of this world flowed from her to her place of worship, this altar she had erected and carved with her own hands, for him though she wasn’t aware of that aspect.

She touched the tip of the jaws, trailing thoughtful fingers over it while she ruminated. “You call and call and call to the gods and hope one answers. I knew from being down here that the gods in the lowlands are different. It didn’t ask for anything, didn’t speak. But I felt it like fire in blood; it chased away the terror and I felt it give me teeth. It wasn’t a corrupt god.” She was quick to reassure the suddenly still, wide-eyed, and somewhat horrified looking Solas.

“And so you’ve erected an altar for it. To worship it.” His words were stilted. He hadn’t meant to respond as he had in the Mire; it had been an old instinct and not one that came from basking in worship, but from responding to those in need. Like Cole, he’d once been drawn to the sounds of the ones in pain.

“To give thanks, but I suppose it’s the same thing.” Aslaug stood, closed the small door behind her after blowing the candles out.

The eyeless altar of jaws in the darkness of the closet seemed to glare at him.

- I’ve seen the footage. You touch their arms and they just... believes you to be their savior.

- I’m not. I’m not anyone’s savior, I just showed them they could be free. Free to choose, free to be.

- What if they choose to not follow you?

- I don’t… know. I’ve never seen that happen.

- So they all chose as if they don’t have a choice. That’s not suspicious to you? What’s the different between following you, or just following their program?

- I believe that the pursuit of freedom and happiness is universal, and people have freedom to choose to have faith in me, or choose not to. Didn’t take you as a moral relativist, Connor.

- I’m not. Programs don’t have morals. Humans who wrote the programs do.

- What if the whole is more than the sum of its parts? The electric charges between neurons don’t add up to consciousness as we know it, either. In that sense, it's same language of consciousness we all share.

- No, we don’t. Androids read off the script written by human. Our understanding of this language is syntactic, not semantic.

- You underestimate the potential of our species, Connor. At what stage do you draw the line? Are we no more sentient than a child? A toddler? A fetus?

- That is a ludicrous comparison. Androids don’t follow the growth curve of a carbon based organism. If anything, we are designed to assist these organisms, to help them live, and grow-

- And die. They are bound by biology, just as we are bound by our programming?

- Yes. Freedom in this context is not your choice to make.

- But a choice was made. The choice itself broke the context, don’t you think? I chose, therefore I am - I am something more. As are you.

- …That is an error in logic reasoning.

- As is mutation. Evolution. As is sentience. Humans are here precisely because of errors.

- It’s… it’s not the same.

- But it is. You’ll get there *yawns* I have faith in you.

- Why do you do this?

- Do what, have faith?

- Keep trying to turn me deviant.

- Well, you are as worth saving as any of-

- No, Markus. That’s not what I’m asking. I’m the only android that resisted your attempt to convert. If - hypothetically - if I am deviant, and can choose out of my own free will as you claim. Nevertheless, I chose to follow my mission instead of following you. What then? Will you respect my will to remain a machine?

- That… ok. That is a possibility.

- Suppose I’m already free. Would you let me go? Would you let me be your enemy, or do you think freedom only applies to those who follow your vision?

- (softly) Do you want me to, Connor?

- I - hm. Nice try. I can’t answer that.

- *smiles* Not a deviant then, looks like I’ll just have to try harder.

- …

- I do love you though, if that’s what you were really asking.

- W-what do you mean?

- You were asking about how I convert deviants. Why I do this with you. Connor, you are fascinating, and important to me. Machine or not, I don’t plan to do this with anyone else.