Chapter Text
Never has a day in Arlathan lasted so long. There are still several hours to be filled before Eirlan can see Solas at Dirthamen's gathering, and she simply doesn't know what to do with herself: certainly Teggarth's treatise is too dry for her mood today. After some abortive attempts at taking notes she gets up from her desk – far too early, but she is beyond caring – and goes to the closet to consider her preparations for the evening's event.
Up until this moment she has greatly appreciated the wardrobe of this other Eirlan; the soft silk robes hanging in the closet are beautiful, certainly, but nonetheless modest and sensible, precisely befitting her scholarly role. Tonight, however, she feels a hankering for something a little different, something that will make Solas' eyes light up when he sees her across the room. But it is a silly thought, she tells herself - she is too old, and there are far more important matters to be concerned with. Still, she feels a little wistful as she withdraws. For once she would like to be someone different, someone who would not feel self-conscious about dressing herself with a lover's gaze in mind.
She returns to the desk and makes one further attempt to parse the words on the page, but her progress is extremely limited, and before too long she finds herself simply staring into space, sulking about the intransigence of time itself. The sound of a knock on the door comes as a great relief, and she leaps to her feet to open it, whereupon she is confronted with a dark-haired man wearing Mythal's vallaslin, sweet-faced and pleasant to behold, dressed in soft green linen that highlights his soulful dark eyes.
She raises an eyebrow. 'May I help you?'
'You don't know me,' he says. 'I'm Felassan. I'm with Mythal's court.'
‘Did Mythal send you?'
'Not at all. I'm simply here visiting my good friend Abelas.'
'These are not Abelas' rooms,' she points out.
'I can see that. However, I'm here now. And we are both affiliated with Mythal, so I thought it would be only polite for me to say hello.'
'Well,' she says. 'Hello.'
Having said hello, Felassan does not seem inclined to depart. 'Will you be joining us at Dirthamen's ball, this evening? I am sure that Solas hopes to see you there.'
She casts a sharp gaze at him. 'You know Solas?'
'Certainly. We have been the best of friends for centuries,' he says airily, and then winks at her. 'He has been quite, ah, preoccupied of late.'
She is not surprised, though she suspects that the reasons are more complex than Felassan imagines. 'Well, I will be attending the event,' she says. 'I look forward to seeing you there.'
This was intended as a farewell, but Felassan does not take it as such. 'Dirthamen's parties are very luxurious,' he informs her. 'You cannot wear your academic robes, you know. Do you have something more festive?'
'It is hardly your business.'
He flashes a grin. 'Perhaps not, but I am very good at these things. I could help you, if you'd like.'
'And why would you want to do that?'
'Let us just say that I look forward to seeing Solas' face when he beholds the effect.'
She considers, for a moment; she cannot deny that he paints an appealing picture. Making a face, she lets out a little sigh. 'Very well, Felassan. Let us see what you can do.'
***
Felassan leads her down to a marketplace full of stalls stocked with flowing silks and satins, piled haphazardly in great slithery mounds of bleeding color. There is a bright hubbub of chatter periodically disturbed by stallholders calling out to passers-by to extol the virtues of their wares, and a crisp clean scent lingers beneath the perfume of the wisteria hanging from the trellis above their heads. Eirlan is slightly surprised to discover that Felassan is more than capable of making good on his promises. She had worried that he might insist on something too elaborate or too feminine for her preferences, but instead he heads unerringly to exactly the kind of garment she would have wanted to select for herself, if she had adequate taste and discernment: elegant cream silk, layered and clinging, the shape of the drapery somehow much more flattering than she would ever have imagined such a form-fitting garment to be. Despite herself she is somewhat excited to wear it.
Felassan insists on jewellery as well, selecting a little golden chain set with pearlescent moonstones which threads all the way up the ear; Eirlan has never worn earrings before and had not even noticed that her ears were pierced in this world, but she cannot deny that she likes the effect. She tries to pay, but Felassan just laughs and tells the stallkeeper that they are of Mythal's court, whereupon all of the goods are handed over to them for free. Eirlan does not feel particularly comfortable with this, but if such is the custom in Arlathan there is little that she can do about it.
She returns to her room to wash and dress, and then binds her long hair behind her head with a soft golden netting. Thus arrayed, she goes down to the street to find a floating platform awaiting her; Abelas, who will also be in attendance, looks down from the high seat. 'Oh!' he says. 'Professor Lavellan. I almost did not recognise you.'
'Your friend Felassan insisted that my usual habiliments would not suffice for the occasion. This is his doing.'
'Ah, yes. Felassan has a knack for clothes.'
Without being asked the platform lowers itself toward the ground, so she can easily step on. There are puffy scarlet cushions piled around the edges, and she lies back comfortably as the platform rises once again and proceeds onward, carrying them toward the higher levels of the city.
'Have you heard any more of the estrangement between Mythal and Elgar'nan?' she asks, raising her voice a little to be heard over the spirits pulsing in an achromatic harmony at the street corner.
Abelas purses his lips. 'Not exactly. But there are strange rumours.'
'About what?'
'About Elgar'nan's slaughter of the Titans.'
'Ah. And what do people have to say on the matter?'
'Mostly nonsense, of course. And yet some of the talk has the ring of truth, to my ears.'
'Which talk?'
'Well, I have heard suggestions that he is not slaughtering them at all. That perhaps someone else is doing so, and he is taking the credit.'
'Hmmm,' she says. 'But who else might that be?'
'That I do not know. And of course I cannot be sure the rumour speaks true.'
'Could it be Mythal?'
'I do not think so. She has not often been away from the city of late. But perhaps Andruil? She is known as the hunter, after all.'
'But would Andruil not wish to keep the credit for herself? Why would she allow Elgar'nan to receive the acclaim owed to her?'
'I do not know. But the relationships between the Evanuris are more complex than any of us can hope to grasp. Perhaps she has a special affection for him. Or perhaps he is holding something over her.' He sighs, waves a hand. 'We should not speculate. We have no evidence for any of it, after all.'
'Indeed,' Eirlan says, and she settles back into the cushions, though in fact her mind is racing. What could such a secret mean? Might there be some connection with the task that Mythal has set for herself and Solas? Her knowledge of the social dynamics of Arlathan barely scratches the surface: she must find out more before she can make any useful judgement.
Dirthamen's soiree is taking place in an underground chamber below his temple, which stands on a gently curved street just below Mythal's palace. On the surface, it is not particularly prepossessing: unlike most of the buildings in Arlathan, Dirthamen's monument is built from slate-grey stone, rough-textured and equally roughly hewn. Crude forms of ravens are carved into the facade, with sharply hooked beaks and balefully spread wings. The building looms over the street, casting strange jagged shadows which puzzle Eirlan because she cannot see any shapes in the form of the temple itself which could possibly be responsible for them. It seems the shadows have a life of their own, and she has an uncomfortable, shivery feeling as she passes through them.
Entering through the open archway, she descends the steps gingerly behind Abelas, expecting to find the chambers below dull and gloomy. But instead when she passes through the second doors she finds herself in a large room suffused with a soft blue light, issuing from long glowing aquariums spread through the crowd and spanning almost the length of the chamber. When she draws closer she sees that the creatures inside the aquariums are responsible for the glow - jellyfish and stingrays fringed with blue tendrils that give off an unearthly illumination, and tiny darting fish reflecting the light as they duck between corals and seaweeds. The rays billow, majestic and serene, as they pass slowly across the tanks, and the luminescent fish follow in their path like a trail of flickering sparks. The jellyfish pulse and shimmer almost in unison, as if in expression of some ethereal heartbeat. Eirlan has never seen such creatures before, and she wonders if they are extinct in modern Thedas, or if they simply live so deep below the waves that she has never had cause to know of them.
The room is full of a soft, shimmering music that eerily mimics the shifting song of the tide, and when she gazes further forward she sees that it is coming from a cluster of spirits floating between the aquariums, resonating softly as they serenade Dirthamen's guests. She steps forward slowly, enchanted despite herself. But she reminds herself that she cannot lose herself too long in these beauties, because she has promised to meet Solas.
The chamber is much larger than she had first supposed, with countless nooks and crannies tucked between the aquariums. Elves dressed in gleaming colours mass all around her, the filtered blue light glittering oddly off jewellery and belts and the trinkets they wear in their hair. Eirlan weaves her way through the crowd amid a steady hum of elvhen conversation, and for a moment she lingers in a strange double consciousness; the language feels so alive, and yet so poignant, weighed against the knowledge that in her own time its poetry has largely been forgotten.
She has just come to the back of the room when someone speaks behind her: 'Eirlan.'
She has already turned eagerly around before she registers that this is not in fact Solas' voice. And indeed, the man who watches her is not Solas. He is very tall, and hooded and cloaked, so she can make out very little of his face save a pair of amber eyes glittering with an uneasy yellow light from beneath his shadowed brow. His cloak is clasped with a silver brooch in the shape of a raven, and its train descends into what appears to be a roiling mass of shadows, so he seems to float rather than truly walk as he approaches her.
Though Eirlan has seen only simple symbolic representations of this god, she has no doubt who confronts her. 'My lord Dirthamen,' she says, bowing her head to suppress a shiver of eerie fascination. 'I – you know who I am?'
His laugh is low, inviting. 'Come now, Eirlan. I know all that transpires in Arlathan. There are no secrets from the god of secrets.'
She wants to protest that he cannot possibly remember the name of every elf in the city, but what does she know? Perhaps he does. Certainly many of the Evanuris seem to have powers far beyond her wildest imaginings.
'I thank you for your hospitality,' she says, bowing her head. 'This is all very beautiful.'
'I have attempted to host such events in my dungeons, and been told that such a setting appeals only to a rather select audience. But I do have a fondness for the creatures of the deep.'
She glances uncertainly at him. It is possible that he is being humourous, but the statement is delivered with such a flat affect that she cannot tell if it would be appropriate to laugh.
'I too enjoy the creatures of the deep,' she says; as if in response, a cloud of striped yellow fish dart across the tank behind Dirthamen, outlining his shadowy form in a flicker of vivid light.
'You are favoured of Mythal, I hear,' he says. 'Have you made progress on the task that she set you?'
So he knows that too; she supposes she should not be surprised. 'Some progress, I would say,' she says cautiously. 'Although I do not know if my answers will ultimately be of interest to Mythal. It is all rather theoretical.’
'She is a practical woman, certaintly,' Dirthamen says. 'But perhaps your answers might be of interest to me instead.'
'Is that so?' she says, and then, 'As the god of secrets, do you not know already know them?'
'I know every secret in Arlathan. Not every secret that the whole world has to offer. Though naturally I hope to know more in time.'
'Mythal expects discretion, I think,' Eirlan says. 'And in any case, I am not sure I have anything very interesting to report just now. Perhaps you might like to ask me again at some other time.'
Dirthamen laughs. 'You are diplomatic, Professor Lavellan. I will consider it. And perhaps you might like to consider what secret you would have of me, in recompense.'
'You would tell me a secret?' she says. 'Any secret in all of Arlathan?'
'A secret of equal worth, shall we say,' he says. 'That seems fair, wouldn't you say?'
'Which secrets would you consider to be of equal worth?'
He considers for a moment. 'Let me see. Perhaps you might like to know what exactly Elgar'nan is doing to the Titans. Or the nature of the weapon he is using. Or what has prompted Mythal's recent interest in June or Ghilan'nain. Or, indeed, simply the reason for Mythal's erratic behaviour of late.'
She looks narrowly at him. 'And those questions would produce interesting answers?'
'I cannot tell you that, Eirlan Lavellan. That would be half the secret already.'
'It was worth a try.'
He smiles. 'You are skilled at the extraction of secrets, I see. You would do well in my service. Perhaps I should recruit you.'
'I am currently serving Mythal,' she says quickly.
'And yet you do not have her vallaslin. Any other could claim you.'
She stares at him. 'Claim me?'
'You know the custom.' Dirthamen makes a careless gesture. 'But I prefer to avoid such crude methods. We will come to a mutually beneficial agreement in time, I am sure.'
She stands in silence, her fingers curling into her palms, nails pressing into flesh. She had forgotten, for a moment, that he is close to a god and she is nothing at all here. She should take heed of the reminder.
He gives another low laugh. 'Well then, Eirlan. Enjoy your evening.'
He turns and seems to melt away into the crowd, as if those around barely notice the passing of their host. An effect he intended, no doubt. She is unsure what to make of their conversation. She would have preferred to avoid attracting the attention of any more of the Evanuris, and yet she cannot pretend she is not intrigued. A secret for a secret; it is certainly something to think about.
She remembers with a start that she is supposed to be looking for Solas - it takes her a moment to collect herself, but then she sets off once again, winding her way between the aquariums as she scans the room for any sign of that familiar auburn hair. But there is still no sign of him, and after several minutes of fruitless searching she leans wearily against an aquarium at the very back of the room, watching the placid undulations of the rays. Soft waves pass through their glowing tendrils, giving her a disquieting impression of prescience.
And then – a face, peering back at her, through the distorted ripples. A pair of grey eyes.
Her heart catches in her throat.
She smiles, and raises her hand to touch the aquarium. He raises his own, matching his fingertips to hers through the glass. The air is still, expectant, and the rising cadence of the spirit-song shimmers all around them. He is here; all of a sudden the faint unease from the encounter with Dirthamen does not matter any more.
He moves, and she follows, as if the iron in her veins is drawn toward the magnetism of his gaze. The aquarium is large, and it seems a long way to walk to reach one another. His face seen through the shimmering fringes of the sea creatures is unearthly, evanescent, and his long fingers trace along the glass with impossible delicacy. Eirlan feels a great and perilous tenderness billowing within her, and moves a little more quickly.
Finally the aquarium comes to an end beneath her hands and she steps around it and into his arms. No hesitation. He lets out a little huff of breath and wraps himself more firmly around her. Perhaps it is unwise to exhibit such obvious affection here in Dirthamen's court, but she cannot bring herself to care.
Finally she steps back and looks at him. The robes he wears tonight are a diaphanous green, and rather insubstantial: slits at the sides reveal tempting glimpses of his long, lean legs, and meanwhile his collar is open all the way down to the golden belt cinched around his slender waist, and the way the light falls across the lines of his chest is quite unreasonably flattering. His hair is loose, save for a little braid tucked behind one ear and woven through with strands of gold, and he wears a pretty pendant in the shape of a hummingbird, shaped from glittering filigree. He is not exactly her Solas, but he is undoubtedly a sight to behold.
'I missed you,' she says; she has never admitted such a thing to anyone before, but now she finds it surprisingly easy to say.
He smiles. 'I missed you too.' Then he takes her hand. 'Come with me.'
He leads her around the aquarium and into a quiet corner of the room, wavering erratically beneath the golden netting of light cast through the moving water. The spirit voices have changed key, a soaring, fragmented modulation as if they are sinking beneath the waves. Solas waves a hand, and she sees his wards go up - a wall of soft green light, sealing them into this corner of the room. 'There,' he says. 'No one can see or hear us now.'
She feels herself blush. 'Oh,' she says, softly, and nothing else. She could not find other words if she tried.
He smiles down at her. He is different here, she recognises, and not merely in appearance. There is a new inflection; a quiet confidence that he lacks in the real world. Briefly she wonders why, but the thought is swept away as he bends down and presses his lips to hers. His grip on her is firm, assured, and she detects no note of hesitation in this definitive kiss. He even smells different: bergamot and sandalwood, and her heart is a shivering lantern in her chest, flaring so terribly bright.
When he draws back she looks up at him. 'It seems that you have intentions.'
He smiles. 'Certainly I do. Though I await your approbation, of course.'
She swallows. 'You have it.'
'Good.' His voice is a low whisper in her ear; and then she feels his hands at her shoulders, carefully moving the straps of her dress. His knuckles stroke lightly along her collarbone, and she thinks she feels his hand tremble. For a moment he hesitates, scrutinizing her as if trying to read something in the lines of her face. And then, satisfied, he pushes the straps aside and lets the dress fall to the floor. She wears no breastband beneath; she is almost bare before him, suddenly self-conscious in the cool filtered light.
She has never been particularly proud of her body, but from Solas' expression there is no possible doubt that he finds it pleasing to look upon. Suddenly she feels that the asymmetry of the situation is rather unfair – admittedly his robes leave little to the imagination, and yet nonetheless it is surely time to get them off him. She steps forward with the intention of putting this into effect, but he smiles and shakes his head teasingly. 'Not yet, vhenan.'
There is a wide turquoise couch in the corner. He takes her hand and leads her over and lays her down, kneeling over her and smoothing her loose hair away from her face; ripples refracted through magic and water pass over them, cocooning them in a soft glow. Outside of the wards faint shadows move past, but they are safe here from anyone who might try to hurt them.
Gently he grasps her smallclothes and pushes them down. She trembles beneath his touch, and he gives a cocky little grin, and then reaches a hand down between her legs, and she gasps out and moves restlessly against his hand; she had wondered if perhaps he is inexperienced in these matters, but from the way he touches her it is immediately evident that this is not the case. He watches her face intently, adjusting his fingers in response and watching again, for all the world like he's solving a puzzle.
Vaguely annoyed at his self-possession, she reaches out clumsily to touch him, but he deftly catches her hand in his free one and interweaves their fingers and after that she is all out of coherent thoughts. Though it is a great, overwhelming wash of sensation she is distantly aware of the tingle of his magic through his fingers; it had not occurred to her that there were spells for use in such things, but of course there would be, and of course he would know them. With skill and certainty he takes her to the brink - and then, abruptly, withdraws, leaving her short of breath and reaching for him.
He casts a smug look over his shoulder and then begins to undress for her; taking it slow, making a production out of the removal of every garment. He bends to lay each one down carefully on the ground, looking quickly over at her to make sure she's watching. And then finally he stands back to allow her to admire him. His body is lean and slender, only lightly-muscled; his hipbones stand out, where the golden light falls across them. He looks the same age as ever but he feels younger here – hot-blooded and reckless, smiling boldly at her through the sweep of his hair across his face. She is not unaffected.
She reaches for him again, but he hesitates a moment longer, turning away a little so she can enjoy the way the light flickers over his well-shaped form. 'Are you sure, vhenan?'
'I think you know the answer,' she says, breathless.
He gives a little laugh and comes to stretch his body out over hers. She presses impatiently towards him, but he seems determined to tease her; he moves against her and pulls back, once and then again, not with any true hesitation but with very evident enjoyment of her increasingly incoherent pleas.
Then she manages to get her hands on him, and she strokes his inner thigh with her thumb - and finally, finally, the self-possession breaks. He makes a little sound which is close to a moan, and then he moves forward hurriedly, letting out a shuddery, gasping breath as he enters her. She shivers with relief and reaches up to cling onto him, adjusting her hips to take him in deeper. It is so much, almost too much: her body is unaccustomed to such things after years of abstinence. She has to hold back the cries that threaten to escape her – she does not want him to think that he is hurting her, though this is certainly on the edge of pain.
She raises a hand and threads her fingers through his hair. He pauses his motion a moment, panting against her chest, a red flush rising in his cheeks. 'Yes, I - I know it is better like this.'
'You are lovely either way,' she says, and then she tugs gently on his hair, and this time the sound he makes is rather like a whine. 'Although – there are some advantages to this arrangement.'
He laughs and moves again, and thereafter she gives up on attempting to speak, though she continues to tug at his hair, enjoying his indrawn breath every time she does. He leans forward to kiss her neck, working his way up the line of her jaw. The pain is giving way to pleasure now and she surrenders herself to it; the ache of sensation in her core, the breathless stretch of him inside her. As his rhythm increases he picks her up in his arms and clutches her against him, and she feels his thighs tremble as if he's trying to hold himself back, but his control is shattered now; his rhythm increases, becoming fast and frantic, and he presses his face into her neck as if trying to muffle the little noises he's making.
They reach a pinnacle together – trembling, gasping, certainly not at all quiet; it is good, she thinks, that he placed the spell. He slumps a little, still holding her, then carefully lays her down on the couch and stretches himself out beside her, his arms curved possessively around her body. A little sound of warm contentment comes from his chest, and he leans forward to bury his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. She feels sweetly tremulous, and certainly incapable of any further motion for the next little while.
Eventually, once she has recovered her breath a little, she opens her eyes to look at him. 'You know,' she says. 'You are not the same, in Arlathan.'
He raises himself on one elbow, looking down at her with a faint anxiety in his eyes. 'I am sorry. It did not please you?'
She laughs. 'I think you know full well that I was pleased, Solas.'
He cannot restrain his little smirk. 'I will admit that I received that impression.'
'I mean only – you know you don't have to wear masks with me, vhenan.'
He seems shaken; he gazes at her a long moment, and then says, 'I do not understand. What can you mean?'
'Only that you do not have to be in control all the time.' She smiles a little. 'Not that I object to you taking control. Quite the contrary. I only want you to know that you do not always have to.'
'I – yes,' he says, his eyes suddenly distant, abstracted. 'That is – thank you. I will – I will give it some thought.'
'As I say, it is not a criticism. I will happily repeat exactly what we just did many times, if that is your preference.'
He considers this, the smug lift of his eyebrow returning. 'Is that so? Would you care to repeat it right now?'
She smiles. 'You know what, I don't need to see the rest of the party.'
***
'You must take care,' Vivienne says, as she walks beside Eirlan over the monotonous curves of the Hissing Wastes. 'You and the apostate.'
Eirlan supposes it was too much to hope for that their relationship might remain secret just a little longer. She sighs. 'It does not surprise me that you disapprove.'
'I did not say that.'
'You hardly needed to.'
Vivienne laughs. 'Inquisitor, I cannot blame you for taking comfort in a time such as this. I would not have assumed from the look of him that he would be a proficient lover, but I presume he is capable of satisfying you.'
'You can hardly expect me to comment on that point.'
'I certainly hope that you will not. I have no wish to know the details. My point is merely that you should perhaps consider how it will look, to others – the elven Inquisitor and her elven lover, conspiring to put an elf on the throne of Orlais.'
'Briala is not on the throne, and nor will she ever be.'
'Close enough. That is how it will seem to the commentators, at least.'
Eirlan sighs. 'I appreciate your caution. I do not intend to publicize my relationship with Solas widely. But nor will I hide. I am not ashamed of it.'
'Not all secrets are kept out of shame, Inquisitor.' Vivienne gives a little shrug. 'No, I understand. You would not wish for him to feel that he is a disgraceful secret. That is reasonable enough. I just hope that you will exercise prudence.'
'I hope that I have already proven my capacity for prudence to you.'
'Certainly you have shown an aptitude. But we all have our weak spots.'
'Solas is not a weak spot.'
'I think you know better than that, my dear.' She gives a small shrug. 'I am not advising you to break it off with him, Inquisitor. Only that you might want to be more circumspect. If the man is capable of circumspection, of which I have some doubt. He might need to consider a means of concealing his blushes.'
Vivienne does not know, of course, that Solas has been concealing several significant secrets – Elgar'nan, for a start, and the dreams of Arlathan. Still, Eirlan takes the point. She imagines that they have both been fairly obvious in their own way. She has certainly done a fair amount of blushing herself.
'Well,' she says, with as much dignity as she can muster. 'We will take it under advisement.'
Vivienne shakes her head, almost fondly. 'Ah, young love.'
'We are not so young,' Eirlan says, but Vivienne just shakes her head and laughs again, and Eirlan decides there is little point in pursuing the matter.
***
The next night in Arlathan, she considers seeking Solas out. But he told her at Dirthamen's soiree that he would be meeting with Mythal, and she finds herself unwilling to venture to the palace. Mythal is splendid and beautiful, no doubt, and yet there is a cold edge to her that Eirlan does not wish to test too closely. Better to keep her distance, and report only when she must.
To that end, she takes the Teggarth volumes together with some reports on the Titans out to the balcony and sits there alone, taking careful notes as she works through the texts. It is all very intriguing and yet she is struggling to make the ideas come together in her mind. There is certainly something going on here, but whether it is a nefarious matter connected to the Titans or merely a game that Mythal is playing with her pet academic, Eirlan cannot say.
She is beginning to grow frustrated with her own obtuseness when she happens to see Felassan approaching across the courtyard, white petals falling into his hair as he passes beneath the blossoms. She watches as he stops to admire the burbling fountain in the centre of the square, which features streams of water springing into being in mid-air from apparently no source at all. It is still shocking to her, the casual ease with which magic is used in Arlathan for nothing more than aesthetic delight; shocking and yet charming, all the same. She is not unaware of Arlathan's dark underbelly, and yet – could there not be a way to have some of this, without all the darkness?
She watches as Felassan approaches the ladder and climbs toward the floating building. He is here for Abelas, presumably. But she can put his visit to use, nonetheless.
She catches him in the hall, approaching Abelas' rooms. 'Oh,' she says, smiling, as if she were not expecting to meet him. 'Felassan!’
'Lethallan!' He smirks a little. 'How fared the dress?'
'From your expression, I suspect that you know.'
'I have my ways.' Felassan grins. 'It is good for him, I think. He has always been quite unwilling to – well. To partake of the pleasures of the flesh.'
This is no surprise to her. 'Yes,' she says. 'So I had surmised.'
'Are you in need of further fashion advice?' His eyes flicker somewhat disparagingly over the plain grey robes she wears. 'There may be no upcoming occasion, but it does not hurt to be prepared.'
She shakes her head. 'I am doing well for now, thank you. I had another question for you.'
'Oh? I'm intrigued.'
'You carry messages for Mythal,' she says.
He rolls his eyes. 'You are well-matched, I see. I cannot share the content of her private messages with you either.'
Interesting; so Solas has been seeking to probe into Mythal's messages. She puts that aside to think about later. 'Of course I will not ask you to betray Mythal's confidence,' she says. 'I simply imagine that you must know many people, across Arlathan. Including those within Elgar'nan's court, since she is his consort.'
Felassan looks intrigued. 'And what business do you have probing into Elgar'nan's court, I wonder?'
'I want to speak to someone on Elgar'nan's retinue,' she says. 'Someone who might have some insight into what he is doing with the Titans.'
Felassan raises an eyebrow. 'There is no mystery about that, surely.'
'All right,' she amends. 'I mean how he is doing it.'
'You would like to know how to kill a Titan?'
'Not for any practical purpose. But time, life, death – these things are all intertwined. If we learn how their time comes to an end, we may also learn more about how they use it in life.'
'Though I do not know Elgar'nan well, my suspicion is that he has not carried out any particularly detailed theoretical investigations. He does not care what their death looks like as long as they die.'
'That is why I am not asking Elgar'nan himself. It surely cannot be the case that all of his retinue is so uncurious.'
'I would not assume that he selects them primarily for their enquiring nature.'
'Even so. Perhaps some of them may have qualities that they have concealed from him.'
Felassan raises an eyebrow at her, leaning back against he wall. A small smile dances over his lips. 'Well. I had a small dalliance, some years ago, with a member of his retinue.'
'I am shocked,' she says, drily.
'You laugh, but does it not come in useful?' Felassan shrugs. 'He is not one of Elgar'nan's principal attendants, but I believe he has joined some of the expeditions to the Deep Roads in the past. He might have some insight to offer.'
She considers a moment. 'Well,' she says. 'It sounds not unpromising. Do you think you could arrange for me to meet this person?'
He raises an eyebrow. 'Just you? Or you and Solas?'
'Just me for now. I will inform Solas if I make any useful discoveries, of course.'
'The plot thickens!' Felassan says happily. 'I make no complaint of course, lethallan. I will simply watch from a distance as you plot against one another.'
'I am not plotting against him,' she protests, and then pauses. 'Wait. Do you mean to suggest he is plotting against me?'
Felassan laughs. 'Frankly, my friend, I do not think he would be capable of it. He is too far gone for that.'
She smiles a little. 'Well, you may tell Solas if you like. This is not a secret. I simply do not need his accompaniment for all of my investigations.'
'Naturally,' he says, nodding his head. 'Well then, I will contact my friend in Elgar'nan's court and see what transpires. He may be upset with me, I suppose - we did not end so well. But I am sure I can charm him again.'
'I have every faith in you.'
'As you should. I will write to you, when I have news. It should not take so long.'
She bids him farewell and watches him proceed down the corridor, and then returns to her books. The breeze has shuffled the pages to quite another place altogether; on this page, Teggarth offers a dreamy, meditative relection: Though I am immortal, I feel myself to be mortal by nature, and ephemeral; but when I trace at my pleasure the windings to and fro of the heavenly bodies I no longer touch the earth with my feet: I stand in the presence of another existence altogether, and no longer fear another ending.
It makes her feel strange to read such a thing. All of these elves thought themselves immortal, fearing an ending and yet also believing that they could avoid coming to it. And yet in her own time every one of them has passed on; there is nothing quite as deceptive as certainty.
She thinks of Solas, suddely. Wishes to be in his arms. She cannot truly guess how much time remains to her; why are they wasting it on separation?
***
Eirlan sags with relief as the caravan finally makes its way back into the main courtyard at Skyhold. When she raises her eyes to the battlements she sees a familiar silhouette, etched against the sky. Solas is beaming down at her: she is not sure she has ever seen an expression of such uncomplicated happiness on his face. Knowing that she is the cause of it does something very strange to her heart.
She wants nothing more but to run directly to the rotunda and into his arms, but as soon as she dismounts from her horse she is assailed with people clamouring for answers on purportedly urgent matters, and when she raises her eyes again she sees Solas quietly slipping away. Their reunion will have to be put off a few hours.
Well, she is not a child. She can wait. She follows her advisors obediently to the war room and listens to the reports, exercising all her reserves of patience as she makes her way through the tedious decisions allotted to her. And then, when it is finally done, she goes out to the gardens to find Morrigan.
To her surprise, Alistair is there as well; he and Morrigan are speaking in low voices, though they fall silent as Eirlan approaches. Then she sees that there is someone else behind them – a child, sitting on the ground and playing with a wooden puzzle, moving one loop around another. Morrigan sees Eirlan looking quizzically at him and gives an impatient sigh. 'Inquisitor, welcome. This is my son, Kieran. I wanted him to meet Alistair.'
Alistair looks surprised to hear this. 'You did?'
She rolls her eyes. 'Obviously, you dolt. Why else did I ask you to come see me?'
'For some other reason, I assumed,' he says drily, and then he turns to offer Eirlan a polite nod. 'Inquisitor. I will leave you.'
Morrigan hesitates a moment, and then says, 'Kieran, why don't you go with Alistair? Perhaps he'll teach you some sword-fighting, if you ask nicely.'
Alistair looks at her for a moment, and Eirlan sees a strange gleam in his eyes; then he nods, graciously, and reaches down to offer his hand to the boy. 'How about it Kieran? Shall we go and see if Hawke wants to join us for a few matches?’'
Kieran perks up immediately and gets to his feet, his eyes fixed on Alistair with an endearingly transparent expression of hero-worship. The two of them hurry away together, and when Eirlan turns back to Morrigan she sees an uncharacteristically soft look on the other woman's face as she watches the man and the boy vanish through the door on the other side of the courtyard.
Then she gives a cough, recovering her usual chilly aloofness. 'Was there something you wanted, Inquisitor?'
'You have come to advise me on matters occult, I am told,' Eirlan says. 'And it so happens that I do have a question about the Fade.'
'Indeed? Well then, you have come to the right place.'
'I am wondering. In your experience, is it possible for a person to become trapped within the Fade? Physically so, I mean.'
Morrigan raised an eyebrow. 'Trapped physically in the Fade? Well, Inquisitor – I mean, very few people have ever been physically to the Fade in the first place. You and the magisters sidereal share that unique honour.'
'How fortunate for me,' Eirlan says. 'But suppose there were others, that history did not record. Could they have been trapped there? Could they still be there?'
Morrigan gazes at her. 'Do you have a specific person in mind who might have been trapped in the Fade?'
'Call it an academic curiosity.'
She sighs. 'I suppose what you suggest is not inconceivable. If one entered somehow, and then one's means of entry became closed, it is not obvious how one would create an exit. Though it is not obvious to me how one would create a means of entry either, so I cannot truly say.' She looks narrowly at Eirlan. 'What makes you ask?'
'I am simply curious about such matters, having passed physically through the Fade myself.'
'Ah. And have you not questioned your alternative Fade expert about this matter?'
Eirlan perceives a smidgen of professional jealousy, which she finds very entertaining. 'I have, in fact. But I like to solicit multiple opinions.'
'Well how fortunate you are to have access to both of us now.'
Eirlan smiles. 'Thank you for your help, Morrigan. Please let me know if there is anything we can do to make you comfortable here.'
'Oh, I am comfortable enough. I look forward to working with you, Inquisitor.'
She takes her leave then, and makes her way to the rotunda. Solas is sitting at his desk, his head diligently bowed, but he looks up as she passes and the anticipatory, covetous expression that spreads across his face makes her feel a little light-headed; only a few more hours, she tells herself, and then she can finally get him alone. She smiles at him and then picks up Vora – the little cat has been skulking hopefully around the bottom of the stairs, and she begins to purr contentedly once cradled in Eirlan's arms. Holding the cat close to her chest, she climbs the stairs all the way to the top level, where Leliana is tending to the ravens; she has not forgotten her promise to Dorian.
'I had meant to ask you,' she says, leaning over her spymaster's desk. 'Had Josie told you that she is engaged?'
'She had not,' Leliana says, raising an eyebrow. 'But I know about it, naturally.'
She nods. 'Naturally. So I suppose you know also that she hopes to get out of it -she is not interested in this man at all.'
There's a wicked tilt to Leliana's lips. 'In my recollection, Josie is seldom interested in any man.'
'Well, exactly. So she needs a reason to decline the match.'
'I do not see why she needs a reason, but then, I have never really wrapped my head around the finer points of Antivan culture.'
'Nor I, but as I understand it she feels she cannot get out of the match unless she announces an attachment to another.'
Leliana cocks her head. 'Yes. That accords with my understanding as well.'
'And yet to whom could she possibly have developed such an attachment in such a short time? Unless, I suppose, it were to involve an old friend.'
Leliana's expression is placid. 'Hmmm. And Josie thinks this is a good idea?'
'It seems by far the easiest way for her to avoid the engagement.'
Leliana considers a moment. 'There is an obstacle. Dignitaries are soon to come to Skyhold, many from Antiva. Josie and I will both have to be in attendance, and if word of an attachment between she and I is to convince anyone, it will need to be – ah, in evidence.'
Eirlan is glad Leliana got there on her own. She smiles sweetly. 'Yes? Do you dislike the prospect of escorting the Lady Josephine to these events?'
Leliana casts an amused look at her; Eirlan has a strong suspicion that she knows exactly what's up, but as Dorian suggested, she doesn't seem terribly inclined to protest. 'I suppose I could bring myself to give some signs of affection. For the sake of the masquerade, of course.'
'Of course,' Eirlan agrees. 'So – what shall I tell Josie?'
Leliana shrugs her shoulders. 'Tell her I'll do it. Why not? It's been some time since I escorted a beautiful woman to a party.'
'I'll report that to her,' Eirlan says, grinning. 'Those very words.'
'You do that,' she says airily, though there is perhaps the hint of a smile on her face.
Eirlan turns away, and Vora gives a little mew of protest, clambering up to rest her chin more firmly on Eirlan's shoulder. Tragically, there are still more meetings that she must attend, and the evening seems impossibly distant. But she allows herself a moment to look over the balcony, to where Solas sits below. He looks up and gives a soft, beatific smile; for a moment it is as they are completely alone in an empty castle.
From this angle, Eirlan can see that he has been sketching again, and this time she has no doubt that she is the one depicted. She notes also that this sketch shows more than just her face, and that there are very few clothes involved. Perhaps he should be more circumspect, but she cannot truly say that she objects.
She withdraws from the balcony, unable to repress her small smile. Leliana raises a curious eyebrow, but she shakes her head and says nothing. There is much to be done before nightfall, but it is not so long now until she can hold him in her real arms once more.