Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The city bends around them as the angry pace of Templars behind them grows closer. His head spins as he runs, disoriented by the suppression of his mana as Fen’Emrys jerks them suddenly down yet another road.

The two rush over the cobblestones together. Solas leans on the other like a crutch as they curse beneath him, one arm corded with lean muscle around his back, long calloused fingers pressing down onto the slash in his other side, commanding it, through pressure and determination alone, not to bleed out. Despite the threat, the chase is in his veins. The clumsy, panic-filled way they run through the city is reminiscent of those first days of rebellion. Amateur revolutionaries uncertain about everything but the need to act. That heady young ambition and recklessness Fen’Emrys embodies so well.

He hadn’t realized he had forgotten how that felt. The fresh excitement of getting away with something you shouldn’t have. How his heart beat wild with adrenaline and the near miracle of their escape. Lightning, Shattered glass, and Luck.

He supposed there were better ways to die. Ways that did not include being attacked in the dead of night by Templars in the heart of Orlais. That, in part, was his fault. He forgot the fallibility of his own body after uthenera, the weakness of his own magic. They had cornered him, left him with nowhere to go. He had waited for the final blow determined not to flinch when the burst of electric light, hot with mana and desperation, crackled past him. The sudden spell had knocked out the lights, and they fell into a darkness quickly filled with the sounds of struggle. The only clarity came when he heard the rush of his name for the voice he had grown familiar with in these past few days. Clipped with desperation and worry as Fen’Emrys pulled him towards the light. They run wild into the night and they cast no more spells as they flee. His thoughts that were not set on their exit reels at the sudden opening of possibility. The new discovery of the rogue’s magic. A secret they unfolded simply for his sake. The promise made in the frost-bitten afternoon to do “Whatever” they had to in order to defend him suddenly felt large a real. The memory gaining warmth and purpose. He is lost in the importance of the moment that he is taken off guard as he is jerked once again into another dark crevasse of the city.

Emrys presses him up against the stones as their ears turn to listen for the footfalls that have been chasing them. Their red hair is a mess, sticky with sweat to their face as the glow of magic lingers with topaz light in their eyes. The light is still there when they turn their bewildered and angry look towards him.

“Are you insane?” They demand as if actually expecting an answer.

He finds the action helplessly endearing.

Tucked into the alley, his breath catches on the delirious chuckle that bubbles up unbidden from his chest. The sound fills the narrow space between their faces. Emrys breath mingles with his as they take in gulps of air after running so long.

They are far from the rest of their party. Half a city away. He is bleeding and they are alone. But the night seems to crack open with possibility as a strange smile breaks out across their face to meet his own odd amusement. Emrys tucks themselves back beneath his arm to half carry him from the alley. The electricity of unspent magic dances on their skin meets and he thinks perhaps there are better ways to live as well.

Chapter Text

Looking out onto the skyline of Val Royeaux, with its swinging lanterns and the low hum of distant music gurgling up from the sleepless corners of the city, Fen’Emrys could see how easy it would be to forget the war that rages leagues from here. In the gilded walkways of the Orlesian capital, the effects of war were muted. Here, war was something to be debated and philosophized over. Not something truly felt or feared. The great mask of the Orlesian Empire hiding the grotesque rot beneath it.

Their mother, an Elvhen mage born and raised in the Alienage of Val Royeax till she was taken to the White Spire, had raised them with a disdain for the entire terrible country. Being at the heart of it sets their mind on fire.

Never had they been so painfully aware of their ears and face. Every ounce of unspent mana that they kept under firm lock and key filled their thoughts with the oppressive reminder that it was there. And would always be.

The winter’s cold slices in through the open window, the smell of expensive perfume and salt water clinging to the night as Fen’Emrys leans on the sill of the cheap board room.

They’d only spend the night; their mind reassured them. Then they could go back to the important tasks of saving the world with thoughts of magic pushed firmly out of their mind.

An arrow turns between deft fingers as they think, halting only when a knock sounds at the door.

“Are you two decent in there?” Varric asks, not really waiting for an answer as he pushes open the door with one hand while the (poorly) covering his eyes with the other.

“I’m decent, V. ” They reply with an edge of humor as they hide the arrow they were inspecting in their cloak.

He drops his hand, revealing a roguish smile.

“Ah, that’s too bad. I was hoping for immodesty,”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

Varric saunters into the small matchbox bedroom with an unearned familiarity that Emrys can’t help but find endearing.

Though they’ve only known Varric a little over two weeks, Emrys was inclined to anyone willing to crack a bad joke during a bad situation. They were inclined to trust even the worst liar if they were a novelist in the middle of a war who decided to pick up a weapon and fight. Obviously, there was more to the man but, for now, they could appreciate the basics.

Especially when, if not for Varric’s constant mediation on the road, they were certain they would’ve murdered Cassandra somewhere in the Hinterlands or pushed Solas off a cliff in the Frostbacks. For that, he was allowed to walk into a room uninvited.

He peers around the tiny bed frame as if he were going to find Solas somewhere in the shadows.

“Where’s Chuckles?”

They huff at the question. “Hell, hopefully.”

Varric makes an expression that they can’t place, full of knowing and amusement, as he moves to join them by the window. “What’s the problem this time?”

Emrys winces at that. This time.

The two elves had clashed so often during their two weeks of traveling together that there were enough times to begin losing count. On foot, it was a long way to Val Royeaux from Haven. Given their current reputations and finances, finding suitable mounts for this journey would take time they didn’t currently have and no decent captain would risk ferrying their lot across already perilous winter water. Their best bet was the Imperial Highway and a pass through the Mountain Solas knew. A pass that (he claimed) could shorten their journey significantly.

Despite the shortcut, there was still time enough for petty arguments and unavoidable misfortune. At first, they had to practically drag Cassandra down this route. She was strongly against taking any path not marked on a map. Then, despite agreeing to this path, Varric began complaining about the steep pass and the difficulty on his legs. Then came the first dead-end. The pass Solas had known was one discovered during his journeys into the Fade. The turns he knew had long since been changed. They burned a whole night so he could dream there to discover a new route. Despite the wards he set out, they had inevitably attracted the attention of demons.

Even with their many setbacks, the party was still making good time. That was until the pass let out onto the other side of the Frostback Mountains and into an elvhen ruin somewhere in Emprise du Lion.

It did not take them long to realize they were not alone. Mercenaries or bandits had found this place. Attacking anything that moved with ruthless abandon. They seemed crazed and ravenous. Close to possession and accompanied by large black wolves with the same disposition. The attackers blocked the entrance and had no intention of letting them pass without a fight.

When the fighting had forced them to hide behind pillars and fallen debris, Emrys had searched the space for anything they could use in the crumbling ruin to help them. Their eyes instead landed on faded paint chipping off the far wall. “These murals honor the Forgotten Ones!” They exclaimed. “Dalish know to stay away from these places. They bring only madness. Who would come here!?”

“We must mark the occasion of the Dalish remembering something correctly. Perhaps we should plant a tree.”

Their head had turned towards where he hid behind his own column in such disbelief.

“Excuse me?”

The insult was thrown with such ruthless efficiency, Emrys hardly could believe he actually said that… aloud! Mid-battle! He threw an irritated glance their way as if put out by their annoyance.

“Have I done something to you?” They press.

He cast a spell out from behind the pillar.

“Pardon me?” It had been his turn to be bewildered.

“Have I done something to you?”

“Now is hardly the time-”

Fen’Emrys bent around their cover, letting loose an arrow before ducking back down. “I would agree! But I’m not the one who instigated this conversation.”

“Uhh, gentlemen,” Varric teased warily from where he and Bianca hid. “Perhaps we can bicker later when they’re no crazy ass mercenaries trying to kill us.” Varric was ignored.

“Because I feel like I have been perfectly cordial to you and you insult my people.”

“They insult themselves.” He threw back. Seemingly unable to hold back when Emrys challenged him.

Later, Emrys would be loath to admit Solas had been right to say that it had not been the time for an argument. While It had been good to direct their frustrations on a common enemy rather than each other, it had left a cloud of bitterness over the party.

The rest of the journey out on the Imperial Highway was dominated by their shared silent treatment of each other, interspersed only by passive-aggressive comments thrown when communication was unavoidable.

It had been disheartening to see the rapport Fen’Emrys thought they had, crumbling the instant they stepped foot out of Haven. Emrys knew they were not the easiest person to get along with, but with Solas, they hated to admit that they had been trying. An effort that the apostate did not seem to appreciate.

They shrug at Varric’s question. They didn’t know what truly spurred the argument that scared Solas from their shared room. All they had was their best guess. “I don’t think he approves of staying here.” Fen’Emrys speculates.

Varric’s brow pinches. “Why didn’t he say that earlier?” Varric asks with the same confusion Emrys felt.

“That’s what I said.” They exclaim, throwing their hands up in frustration.

“Well, you know he’s been living out of ruins and forests. Maybe he just feels uncomfortable with four walls and a bed.”

They contemplate Varric’s assessment, biting their lip as they stare at Solas’ abandoned bed. “Maybe.”

Maybe he just hates me.

The thought was fleeting. Fen’Emrys was smart enough to discern that there was more to Solas’ many malfunctions that had nothing to do with them. Plus, they were all feeling the effects of the journey to Val Royeaux begin to weigh on them. Adjusting to the growing pains of working alongside new companions and the tension of their unwelcome arrival.

Cassandra had anxiously wanted to return to Haven straightaway after encountering Lord Seeker Lucious with his half-crazed speech about the Templars, punctuated by his assault on Mother Hevarra. Even Fen’Emrys was reaching the end of their patience when teh Chantry mother continued to reject the Inquisition even as she lay on the stage, clutching an injury. It made sense that Solas was feeling the strain of it as well. It’s why Emrys had insisted on finding room and board for the night. Traveling under the mire of stress and uncertainty was a spell for disaster.

It had taken some convincing, but eventually Emrys corralled the party to an inn that would take elvhen patronage. Cassandra grumbled all the way, but Varric (despite the Seeker’s claims that she couldn’t stand the man) had managed to settle her into the idea of staying the night. They were certain Varric could’ve and would have done the same for Solas if the man had said something prior. But he hadn’t. They hadn’t even sensed his disapproval until they were in their shared room.

Emrys had pointedly handed Cassandra one key while taking the other. They hadn’t cared who they shared a room with as long as it was not Cassandra. Even though the war-table had claimed they believed their innocence, Cassandra’s non-stop observation made them feel like they were still under lock and key. Varric peeled after Cassandra while Solas followed Emrys the rest of the way before stopping at the door.

They already had their rucksack spilled onto the poor excuse for a bed when they realized Solas still standing in the doorway.

“Are you coming in or are you going to haunt the doorway all evening?” They meant to make their voice light. To let him know they were not trying to be rude.

Their attempt clearly failed. Though his face hardly changed when he refocused and stepped into the room, the space quickly filled with unsaid words as he gingerly placed his staff against the bed’s frame.

The room is impossibly small. It held two narrow cots with moth-eaten mats atop them, separated by a small wooden table beneath the window that is cracked. There were two lanterns that need to be lit to illuminate the small space, though they would only truly need one to light the entirety of the space. Solas looked so fantastically out of place here. He dwarfed the bed merely by standing near it. Fen’Emrys was tall enough by elvhen standards, but they didn’t have to dip their head to move beneath the slanted ceiling like he did.

He continued to say nothing as Emrys watched him settle down on the edge of his own bed and began unpacking his own small traveling pack.

Perhaps someone else could’ve sat there and said nothing. Take his silence in peace without reading into him. But Emrys trusted their instincts. They knew when someone was holding their tongue.

They sighed, sitting down on their bed across from Solas. “What?”

He continued, barely sparing them a glance. “I said nothing.”

“Yes, but your face is loud.”

He looked up then. “My face is…loud.”

“I’m merely saying, you’re not nearly as proficient at hiding your feelings as you think you are.”

He straightened and turned to fully face Emrys. In the small room, their knees had brushed in the narrow space between the two beds. A detail they really had no reason to remember so acutely.

“So I am being judged for what I do not say now. I will bear that in mind.” Solas had responded coolly.

Emrys rolled their eyes. “You are impossible. No, I’m not saying that. I just mean that if there’s a problem, I can’t fix it if I don’t know what it is. I can’t help you if you don’t say anything.”

They had been trying for earnestness. They truly hadn’t known what went wrong between them. Emrys didn’t know Solas but the handful of conversations they had before leaving for Orlais had been full of a quiet understanding. He had been a bit distant, but they had assumed it was on account of him being a Hermit. Now they didn’t know. Everything they had said had been met with sour disapproval.

He had pursed his lips slightly at Emrys inspecting their face and intention before he spoke again.

“Perhaps you can help me understand why you insisted on staying in the city.”

That had thrown them. “We’ve been traveling for days in less than ideal conditions. I figured everyone would appreciate a warm bed for the night. It’s not the Winter Palace,” They shrugged, “but it’s not the frozen ground either.”

His face immediately told them that it had been the wrong answer.

“So comfort then.” He concluded. “We will have many hard days ahead of us that do not end in a soft bed.”

They scoffed. “You think I don’t know that? I’m Dalish. I can survive in much harsher conditions than the Imperial Highway if the need calls for it.”

“Yes, so you’ve mentioned.” Solas had replied sourly

That had been every conversation with him. Every question was a test they couldn’t pass. Every conversation a battle they were doomed to lose. Fen’Emrys didn’t know what he wanted. Their eye twitched.

“If you hadn’t wanted to stay in the city, you should have said so. If you didn’t want to stay at the inn, you should’ve said so. If you don’t want to room with me, I’m sure there is room in the stables. The horses will certainly enjoy your company more than mine.” They spoke through clenched teeth as they attempted to restrain their anger.

Emrys caught only a flash of his surprised face as they abruptly stood to leave the room. They had gone downstairs for some food and drink just to get a moment away. When they returned, they found the room empty save for Solas’ staff.

They feel too embarrassed to recall the caravan-crash of a conversation aloud to Varric. Suddenly, it feels small and ridiculous. Solas’ disapproval should not sting so much. They shake the memory out of their head as they look back down at Varric leaning next to Solas’ bed.

“He’s probably in the stables if you are looking for him.” Emrys jokes.

Varric laughs at that but waves his hand dismissively. “Nah, let him brood. I’m looking for drinking company. You up for it?”

“You’re just trying to get a story out of me.”

“ Can you blame me? Mysterious elf steps out of the fade straight into heroism and worship. My pen is curious!”

They laugh, shaking their head. The offer was tempting, but the arrow in their cloak stuck into their side— a reminder of the other reason they had wanted to stay in the city.

“Another time. I’m bad company tonight.

Varric takes the rejection well, turning from the window with a smile. “Sometimes bad company is better than no company.”

Varric’s voice is light, but he suddenly looks very lonely walking to the door by himself. “I’ll remember that for next time, V.”

“Now that won’t do. I’m the one with the nicknames. This’ll give me time to workshop a few. Red? No, too on the nose. Maybe Crimson?” He muses as he makes his way out the door. Fen’Emrys looks at the door until they can no longer hear Varric mumbling to himself down the stairs.

Now, in the silence of the room dim with the flickering of a single lantern, the bad idea they have been mulling over for most of the day begins to grow an edge. The winter wind whips through the room once more before they draw up their cloak around their ears, place a booted foot up onto the sill, climbing out of the window and down into the night below.

Chapter Text

The streets of Val Royeaux were dangerous for an elf even during the day. Without a mask marking an elf as the servant of some noble or another, their mere presence was seen as a threat. At night, elves were expected to be tucked away into the alienage following a strict curfew. At least Emrys assumed. After the tragedy of Halamshiral, city elves everywhere felt the sting. So they thought it best to keep to the roofs and shadows as they picked their way back to the marketplace.

Earlier today, when the arrow whizzed by them after speaking to the Templars, they had been unmoved. Lots of people wanted them dead. Emrys was only insulted that their enemies couldn’t be fucked to send an assassin that could aim. Then Cassandra noticed the strip of paper attached to its end.

The message was written in a large flowing hand and bordered with doodles; an image of a glowing hand, a poor depiction of an Orlesian noble with a big X across his face, alongside a myriad of dicks and arrows.

People say you’re special. I want to help, and I can bring everyone. There’s a baddie in Val Royeaux. I hear he wants to hurt you. Have a search for the red things in the market, the docks, and ‘round the cafe, and maybe you’ll meet him first. Bring swords.

Friends of Red Jenny

Only after reading the title of the sender did Emrys grow wary. Fen’Emrys knew Red Jenny or more accurately, was familiar with the loose network of troublemakers and problem solvers that considered themselves friends to little folk. In a past life they’ve attempted to leave behind, they even considered themselves part of their number. But that was a long time ago.

They had scanned the outskirts of the Summer Bazaar for the messenger even though they knew they would come up empty. Did the messenger know of their pass? Or was it merely a coincidence? The note was not enough to go on, so they took the note and pivoted.“Let’s find someplace to stay…”

Not their best plan, but they needed time to decide their next course of action. Attached to the message was a poor depiction of the Marketplace marked with red dashes. Clues the messenger wanted them to follow. They could ignore the message, leave the city and hope this didn’t follow them or find a way to investigate it alone, where there would be no threat of Cassandra and the rest of the inquisition learning about their past.

Again, not their best plan, but they had a few allies here whom they could bounce bad ideas off of. So there they were, skulking around shadows on the docks. Surprisingly, no one had touched the notes left behind as Emrys follows the strange scavenger hunt.

This part is easy. This is habit. Pulling the night around them like a dark cloak, unseen and unheard as they move about the rooftops. None of the blinding light of being the mouthpiece to a heretical offshoot of faith. They did not follow. No, this is an old skill and comfort running atop the city above it all as they got closer to their messenger. Their quick reaction to the sharp Orlesian accent that brashly calls out into the night is practiced as well. They stop abruptly on the roof, quickly, ducking behind a chimney at his voice.“You! Knife ear!”

It was an instinctual reaction to hide, but as they tilt their ear to listen for the voice, Emrys realizes the sound is too far away to be directed at them. They know they should turn the other way. Leave. Mind their own. But instead, they find themselves leaping across rooftops following the sound. “State your business.” Another voice demands. Emrys’s first assumption was that this was some poor elf out past curfew trying to get home to their family before unfortunately running into some drunken Orlesians, but the voice that replies is quiet more reserved, and Fen’Emrys recognizes the accent immediately.

Gods, what the hell was he doing out here?

They can almost hear Solas squaring his shoulders before he responds.

“My business is my own.”

They wince. Emrys knows Solas probably didn’t mean to sound rude but any answer that was not quick submissiveness from an elf would be perceived as such.

“Excuse me?” The man who demanded Solas state his business snarls.

Fen’Emrys reaches a hidden perch beside Solas’ alleyway just in time to see the elf switch tactics. He lifts his hands placatingly.

“Forgive me. I am in the city for the first time at the behest of members of the Chantry. I am not familiar with your customs if I transgressed in anyway please redirect me.”

Emrys notes that it isn’t a lie exactly, though a lie may have suited him more. The Orlesians loved their game and more importantly loved when it was played well and in their favor. Solas’ simple answer did none of those things. They curse internally when they hear the familiar sound of steel being drawn, maneuvering around their perch to get a good view of who had cornered Solas.

“An elf should know how to conduct themselves in front of Templars no matter where their from.”

There’s a gaggle of Templars that block the other elf’s exit. The one that’s closest to Solas, presumably the leader of this group, is the one who has drawn a sword that glints in the moonlight. Solas had probably attempted to run when he heard the Templars shout and took a wrong turn. Idiot. That thought is amplified the moment they see Solas decide to change tactics for a third time. His magic barely sparks in his palm when a Templar slams his shield against his sword, reinforcing reality itself around Solas before the spell can fly. The impact of the Templars attack on Solas is immediate. He staggers as if physically hit doubling over. Solas, the damn fool, makes a sudden sharp move, whether to flea or attack they can’t tell, and another Templar slashes out at his side in panic.

Emrys acts before they can think. Their instincts telling them to speak before it got any worse, while their mind screams at them to flee.

“Hey!” Emrys shouts.

Mythal preserve them. Their instincts compelled them to stand up out of their hiding spot and shout ‘hey’. Genius. They thought sarcastically. Perhaps Solas isn’t the only idiot wandering around the streets tonight.

The group below all turn to look up at Fen’Emrys in varying shades of bewilderment. Now out of shadows they could count that there were five of them. That was less than ideal. With a bow they could’ve probably picked them off from up here. But all they had was their blades. Emrys was good but not that good.

“What is the meaning of this?” One of them shout up, confusedly looking back and forth between the two elves.

Their thoughts moved quicker now. Emrys could still run. At the very least it would draw off some of the other Templars, giving Solas a better chance, but he still looks dazed, and he clutched at the side where he had been hurt.

“Are you with him?”

Yes. They are. They couldn’t leave him. They had made a promise. For all their bickering in the past few days, the memory of his face, ruddy with wind-kissed pink, blooming with surprise when Emrys said they’d protect him. Like he never heard it before. They would not risk that now. A promise is a promise.

“He is a member of the Inquisition and he will leave with me.” They push every ounce of authority they have into the word as they make a show of resting their glowing hand onto the pommel of their sword.

The men below begin speaking in rapid Orlesian that is too fast and too chaotic for Emrys to sparse, but when one of the younger members of their group begins scaling the wall, it doesn’t take much thinking to figure it out.

What happens next only works because the Templars aren’t expecting it. The way Emrys leaps down into the alleyway, bounding off the other wall with a graceful turn of their foot, before landing with their palm cracking against the hard stone at the epicenter of their loose circle. From their calloused hand, Fen'Emrys lets the storm of magic they’ve been holding back thunder out from deep within. Purple lightning, strangely tinged with the verdant glow of the mark, strikes out towards the Templars hungrily in a web of chaos as it runs up anything made of metal. The swords and plate mail were the conduit for their attack. Nothing deadly they hope, but the thought is muted.

Emrys wastes no time in using the opening they’ve created to their advantage. They rush towards Solas, who still looks a bit dazed. They can’t tell if it’s due to the effects of the Templars or him still processing the past thirty seconds. Whichever it is, Emrys knows they have no time for it. They unceremoniously grab his hand as they drag him into the street beyond. They offer him no explanation, just a simple instruction.

“Run!”

Chapter Text

Red hair tickles his face as Emrys lifts him off the wall. The other Dalish he had the misfortune of meeting barely reached his shoulder. He hadn’t noticed that before. How tall they are for an elf. Well, at least for a very modern one. 

That would make them what— 175…180 centimeters? Another irrelevant detail concerning Emrys that his brain can obsessively stow away. 

The two of them take that first four-legged step out of the alleyway, and the movement fills his mind with the scent of wood fire and magic, and the thought is gone. 

“Do you have some death wish I should know about?” Emrys demands irritably as they adjust his weight draped across their shoulder and side. 

The irritated grumble fails to match the fierce way Emrys holds onto his bleeding side. Both their hands cross over the wound, slick with red as they, together, stem the flow. 

Whatever brief, delirious joy they shared moments before in the alleyway abates as he sobers at the question.

 “I did not get attacked by Templars on purpose.” He says with a wince.

“Didn’t do a great job avoiding it either.” Their words are wry and wrung out with irritation that disappears the next moment. “No, it’s this way.” They hush as they gently guide him to a turn.

He supposes, despite his pride, they are right. All of this could’ve been avoided if he had stayed at the inn. It was no palace. But it was four walls, a hearth-warmed room, and a bed. He had told himself that he was leaving the inn on a mission. That Emrys’ angry departure from their shared lodgings offered him the perfect opportunity to descend into the Orlesian night without notice to locate the handful of spies Felassan had recruited in the capital. 

In truth, he simply had no desire to be in the room when Emrys returned. 

Their questions, their penetrating eyes of amber and gold, the persistent pulse of The Mark beating against his own magic like waves against rock— They were suffocating him, and he could not withstand it for a moment longer. 

So he had gone out into the night for a moment’s solitude. He was glad he could at least say he left a message in the contact location before trouble and Emrys found him. 

“Did you come looking for me?” He asks. 

It suddenly feels very important to ask. Like the answer will set something right in his brain about Emrys. 

The type of hero they are—if they are one at all— evaded him. He wonders how the world would shift to find that Emrys was the sort to descend into the night to find and rescue a fool they barely even liked. 

They adjust him on their arm as they lead him through shadows and moonlight, as they look at him with consternation. 

“No.” They answer succinctly. “But lucky you.”

Yes. Lucky . 

He doesn't feel lucky; he feels dazed and confused as Emrys shuttles off once again into the realm of mystery and obscurity. 

Nothing about the other elf quite makes any sense to him. While Cassandra and the others have their faith to set things right. Solas had the truth. To the rest of them, Emrys is a sign from their distant god. A divine hero. A Herald! To Solas, a fluke. One step into a miracle and the other a mistake.

There is no reason why Emrys should’ve survived the blast. That alone cast them in doubt and suspicion. He didn’t imagine there was some great conspiracy, but it made him wonder. If it was a miracle, some grand orchestration of the universe, why Emrys?

He did not know, and it raised his hackles to look at something strange and impossible and to have it stare directly back. 

Even the worried glances Emrys gives him now confuse him. Strange and impossible for them to care at all when he clearly vexed them. Perhaps the confusion was merely the blow to his side he had taken. Perhaps he understood them perfectly and simply did not want to.

They guide him through the streets like they know where they’re going. It's oddly comforting even as his brain spins theories as to why Emrys seems to know Orlais like the back of their hand.

The other elf grumbles something beneath their breath, sounding reluctant, before hefting him up once again so he leans more comfortably onto their side. 

“I suppose a thank you is still in order.” He says with forced levity as Solas feels the full impact of a Templar’s training. 

“For?” They ask as if only entertaining him. Their head is on a swivel as Emrys leads them through the city with their distant familiarity. 

“For helping me.” He does not say save. Or rescue. Something about those words feels bigger than they are. He tucks them away. “I wasn’t sure you still meant it after you told me to sleep in the barn.”

That earned him a rare puff of laughter. 

The fierce promise to protect Solas, however they had to, was endearing, not because he felt as if he needed to be protected, but because no one had ever tried to.

When it came down to it, they were just words. He had not expected Emrys to stand on them. Especially when he had been halfway across a new city. And especially when he left their last conversation in such a place. 

But there Emrys had been. All magic and storms. Draped in night and anger, Dropping from the roof like a vengeful spirit.

…He must be losing more blood than he previously assumed. 

“Remind me to be offended at your lack of faith when you’re not bleeding on me.” They tease as they stop at a cross of four backroads. They remember the right road and keep walking. 

“Come on, Trouble.” They order as his feet drag. “This way.” 

It takes a moment for his Templar-struck mind to realize that “Trouble” was him. Well, it was marginally better than Chuckles for any matter. He follows.  

Emrys brings him to an alcove that’s bracketed with caressing statues of Orlesian nobles wrapped in a loving embrace. There is only a small bench that Emrys unceremoniously seats him on with a heavy FWHUMP. 

“Sorry.” They whisper. 

They don’t seem very apologetic. 

Another shout, and the sound of heavy footfalls from around the corner has Emrys pushing him further into the shadows. They push into the small space as well, chest to chest, with the cascade of their red hair around them both like a veil as the other elf stands between his legs. 

“What are you—“

“Shush.” They hiss, with their breath tickling his face. 

Their head is turned to the side, ears twitching for the sound of an approach, and Solas’ eyes catch on their profile. A sharp jaw, full lips, and a broad nose that tips up just so at the end.  So close, their face is all he sees. Strong furrowed brows, Thick eyelashes framing bright eyes still crackling with electric purple magic. 

He is definitely losing blood. 

When he thinks he might drown in the moment, Emrys takes a step back, letting the cool night air flood between them. 

“Alright. I think they’ve gone.” They turn back to him, worry written all over their face. “We okay?”

He frowns. “Were you injured as well?” He hadn’t noticed. 

They laugh, gesturing near his head with magic gathered in their palm. He barely has the coordination to jerk away. “No. I’m fine. Let’s just take a look at you.” Whatever they just did alleviates the haze in his mind. Emrys reaches for his arm to get a good look at the stab wound, hissing at the sight. “They got you good, huh?”

“There is nothing good about this situation.” He shifts on the small seat. “Just give me a moment, I can—“

Emrys slaps his hand out of the way as he attempts to summon a simple healing spell. They both take a moment to look mildly offended at each other before Emrys wins their silent battle of wills. 

Their magic is a deep, bruised violet as it glows over his damaged skin. The color of old, ancient things. It’s unrefined but raw and powerful as they begin stitching him back together with a spell. He doesn’t know how he missed it before. It was effortless the way magic eked off of them. 

He thinks back to all of their strangely insightful questions about The Mark and The Breach. He had been happy to answer to the best of his ability, but Emrys would simply hum at the answer without any outward affirmation that they understood. He saw now that they, much like himself, hoarded knowledge away like animals in the winter. Saving it for when it's useful. 

He wonders briefly who taught a Dalish elf magic theory, but decides there are better things to wonder about.

“If you have questions, you should ask them now.” They say breaking the silence as if reading his thoughts. An eerie talent they seem to possess. “If you ask while we’re with everyone else, I’ll pretend not to know what the hell you’re talking about.” It’s said in a light tone, but Solas knows they’re deadly serious. 

The obvious questions hang there between them like lead. Heavy and poisonous. Emrys was a Mage . And they hadn’t thought to tell anyone . Clearly hadn’t planned to. Clearly had practice with not having to. Suppressing their mana so well that even Solas hadn’t sensed it.  They were a far better apostate than he pretended to be. 

There were thousands of questions he had for them.

He thinks of asking for their name. The party had been half a day's travel into the Hinterlands when he addressed the fact that they had (pointedly) neglected to introduce themselves. At first, they stared at him while their mind turned him over. Then their face had cracked into a cat’s grin, and they lied . 

It was no grand fabrication, no deception. The lie, their name, had been thrown out like a card onto a gambler's table. A bluff that dared him to up the ante. Because that was the game. They were lying. And he was lying. And they knew. And he knew, and there was absolutely nothing either could do about it.  Emrys had him in perpetual check in the span of one conversation. 

He supposed it didn’t matter what their name was. No one else seemed interested in using it. But names were powerful, potent things, and “Emrys” withheld theirs. It made him question what else they are withholding and whether or not it could ruin his plans. 

He thinks of asking about their past. Perhaps the Inquisition had yet to realize they had a player in their midst, but he had. Cassandra, Cullen, and Lelianna seemed happy at the moment to simply use Emrys as a convenient tie breaker and spokesperson with little concern as to where they came from. But there were moments where Emrys showed a startling alacrity for command. It would happen quickly. a sharp biting remark. A rhetorical question. A scathing and poignant joke that could be written off as dry wit.

Then they caught themselves. Swallowing the words and letting everyone else continue on as they are. Cassandra labeled it petulance. Which was easy enough to do with how Emrys would descend into thunderous silence after these lapses in judgment. They would scowl at Cassandra, and rocks, and trees. And everyone would simply see the angry Dalishmen. But Solas noticed more and found that he couldn’t stop. 

He thinks of asking why they had helped him at all. He thinks and says nothing for a long time.  

“Why this alcove?” He finally asks.

Their hands stutter, and they look up at him incredulously. “ That’s your question?”

“That is my question.” He affirms. The question feels safe enough. “You seem familiar with the city, and I am curious.”

They remain quiet for a bit, returning to his wound. Hesitant for some reason. 

“It’s a Lover’s Alcove.” 

He blinks. 

“A what?”

“Orlesians don’t declare things outright. They act in gestures. Symbols. No one is going to say “I love you” aloud. They show it. One would take a paramour here to declare affection.” Their eyes flick to his nervously. “Amongst other things. The guards wouldn’t bother us here.”

Embarrassment bloomed in his cheeks. “I see.”

“Yeah, I bet. Any other asinine questions?” Emrys took the hem of their sleeve and began swiping the blood from the now-sealed wound. 

The fog from the Templar’s attack was clearing from his mind as he sat up straighter. 

“One more question.” 

They hum, prompting him to continue.

“If not to find me, why are you out here in the middle of the night?” 

They pull back, straightening to their full height from where they had knelt before him. 

“Probably the same reason you are.” Sweat beads on their forehead despite the cool air, and their stoic expression wavers. 

The two elves look at one another and see plainly the lie that is. He fights back an unamused smile. 

“Indulge my curiosity.”

Their gaze is a sword of judgment falling on him like an executioner’s blade as Emrys weighs his request in their mind. Their thoughts are so far from where Solas could reach, and he is about to rescind the question when they finally speak. 

“I’m supposed to be meeting the Red Jennys.” They say it simply, as if those words mean something to him. They tip their head in the direction of the night in invitation. “Want to come along?

There were men without trousers shooting at him, and an elf, who may very well be drunk, cackling from a distance as she shoots enemies down like flies.

He thinks he may have finally gone mad, but the face of bewilderment and irritation that Emrys wears is a comfort. He’s not going insane. What is happening is just objectively strange 

“Why didn’t you take their weapons?” Emrys demands to know from where they’ve struck one of their pantless assailants in the shoulder. 

The hum and ebb of Emrys’ magic is a constant percussion in the flow of the fight. Impossible to ignore now that Solas got the first taste of it on his skin.

Emrys slips magic into their melee like one slips a knife between the ribs. A shot of ice beneath an enemy's foot, lighting along the edge of a blade, a healing touch on their own arm… 

He feels like he’s watching a grand performer on stage, an impressive show of sleight of hand, distracting him when he should be watching his own fight.

A stray arrow whizzes past his head. 

“Because no breeches!” The strange elf answers,  sing-songing into a laugh. “Cheeky, yeah?”

It was certainly something.

“Butt, butt, butt! Bunch of nutters!”

Fade preserve him. 

He had attempted to convince Emrys to abandon their plan to find the Red Jennys tonight, but they had been oddly persistent. Unwilling to let his plan’s only hope die in such a ridiculous way, he had trailed behind. 

“Well, at least they know who I work for,” Emrys commented wryly before going to work. 

The whole fight was a chaotic swirl. He has no idea who they are fighting or who this strange elf is. He worries over how close Emrys gets to the heart of battle and breathes a sigh of relief when the battle is done. 

“Friends really came through with that tip.” The half-manic elf says brightly as she approaches them. “No breaches!” Her laugh is a wild cacophony of joy that sets him on edge. She has jagged wheat blonde hair that somehow matches the red patchwork tunic and visually offensive yellow plaid pants she has decided to wear. He’s instantly wary of the way mischief glints in her eye like a knife. “So, Lady Herald. You’re a strange one. I’d like to join.”

The guttural and instinctual “absolutely not” bubbles up in his throat where it remains lodged as he waits for Emrys to answer. 

“I’m not a lady.” Emrys asserts politely, even as a displeased bolt of magical energy alights down the edge of their armor where only he can see. 

“Right, sure, whatever. This one’s that and the other thing. I get it.”

He isn’t sure she does. 

Emrys puts out a hand that begs the archer to stop talking, if for only a second. 

“Could we take a few moments for sense to reassert itself? Who are you people?”

“I’m not 'people’, but I get what you want. It’s like this. sent you a note to look for hidden stuff by my friends. The Friends of Red Jenny. That’s me. Well, I’m one. So is a fence in Montfort, some woman in Kirkwall. There were three in Starkhaven—“

“I know what the Red Jennys are.” Emrys looks dismayed and frustrated. 

Emrys had explained it to him on the way. The Friends of Red Jenny were an expansive information network that supported the little people. The poor, impoverished, and oppressed. Occasionally, when pushed, they’d commit acts of sabotage and assassination. 

‘I’ve dealt with them before, but they’re hard to pin down.’ Emrys had explained. ‘Someone put in the effort to get in contact with me. I can't ignore that. They could be useful.’

Pragmatism, he could work with. From what Emrys has described, the side quest seemed worth the time and the risk. Now he isn’t so sure. 

“Oh, then what’re you pissing about?” The blonde asked incredulously. “Here, in your face, I’m Sera. ‘The Friends of Red Jenny' are sort of out there. I used them to help you. Plus arrows.”

“But this,” Emrys gestures at the space littered with fallen enemies. “This is chaos. We don’t do things like this.” 

“Maybe We don’t. But I do. Ugh, it’s not hard to understand if you’re not trying to waste your day on it. Someone little always hates someone big. And unless you don’t eat, sleep, or piss, you’re never far from someone little. Doesn’t always work out, but a lot of people hated this guy. Someone got a laugh, someone got even, someone got paid. And someone has to have it explained to them that free help is good.”

We . The word turns over in his mind like a cog in a machine as things begin clicking into place. 

“You realize that you sound like a thief who acts out petty revenge fantasies?” Emrys points out. 

Sera gives a look.

“And that might be bad ?” Emrys leans into the last word as their temper strains on the thin veil of their patience. 

Whatever Emrys had been expecting at the end of this chase, Sera had not been it. 

“Oh, right. You want to prop that guy up so I can say my sorries? Bad things should happen to bad people. We find someone not so bad, maybe he’ll end up not so dead. Good enough?”

“No,” they draw out, their composure failing. “I want you to think. You say that like it’s obvious, but you didn’t know him.”

“I knew about him.”

They glance at Solas, as if begging him to say something, anything.

“You acted on mere rumors.” He interjects. “That is dangerous. Men are dead. Who do you think might take the blame for that?” He questions.

“Look, “ Sera says as if they are the ones not getting it. “I’d have been fine stripping his guards and nicking his stuff.” She continues. “Turns out, he deserved worse. Or was him trying to kill you a good thing? Are you the baddie? Didn’t think so.”

Emrys opens their mouth to respond, their face a tear between bewilderment and annoyance. But the words die on their tongue, and they turn away with a hand coming up to their temple. Though their cascade of hair obscures their face from him, waves of nauseating magical energy roll off of Emrys with a slight tremble of their shoulders. A dangerous static builds in the air like the pressure of lightning about to strike. Whatever grip they have on their magic slips with their failing composure.

“Oi, are you good?” Sera asks, leaning away as she too can feel the nauseous waves of magic rolling off of Emrys.

It is a prescient question to ask, though perhaps it could be done with more tact,  

Emrys puts up a hand, commanding Sera to give them a minute. And they stand there stalk still collecting themselves like they’ve done this a thousand times before. Contorting the chaotic shape of their spirit into the cage of their chest. Hiding it away while it attempts to burst free. 

They stand up rigidly with a straight face, firmly in place as they begin talking to Sera again. But Magic always reveals what words could not. The inner fight waged on. The energy in the air rattles the bars of its cage violently. 

He isn’t sure what possesses him to do this. Isn’t even sure the trepidatious wisp of his own magic is welcome yet he still reaches out a tendril of his own mana to touch theirs like a hand resting gently on another’s shoulders. 

The moment his magic meets theirs is white hot electric heat. A flash of light behind his eyes as the sounds of conversation melt distantly in the background. If not for the hitching of their breath and the sympathetic pang of the Mark beating in his chest, he would hardly know Emrys noticed his touch. 

The nameless shapeless feel of their mana lists into his like it’s giving out. There are only a few moments of Emrys attempting to pull back before they relax into the strength of his mana like he had leaned onto their broad shoulders just a half hour past. 

Though they still stood a meter apart, it had been centuries since he had ever been this close to anyone. 

He could see them all at once, all the infinite hidden layers that he has yet to unfold, and it leaves him breathless. Emrys is immense. 

Most magic of this age is obsessed with control. With shrinking oneself out of the notice of both demons and Templars. From the outside, that is how it appeared on Emrys. But in reality, their magic had turned inwards. Burrowing deep within their skin so that they were magic itself. Veins of old craggy magic he had once assumed were the result of the Mark while Emrys slept, are now alive and awake with magic so inarguably theirs. 

A secret garden of firestorms, rain, and thunder, Emrys quietly cultivated despite the mighty crack in the wall The Mark had caused when it split them through the Fade. There are very few questions he has for them now. In their magic, he understands them complete. 

Though rocky at first, he finds an old assuredness. A habit of a younger man who would lounge beneath the bows of Arlathan’s trees as he watched the younger mages practice their craft. Where they stumbled, he steadied them. Where they fell, he caught them. He steadies Emrys now.

He weaves himself into the edges of their shivering mana. Fortifying each pillar with his magic, like vines hold up old ruins. The beat of the Mark in their palm and his chest slows. Taking on a strong, thrumming metronome as his magic recedes from theirs. 

He comes back to himself in time to see the other elf, Sera, skip away, having missed the entirety of the conversation. 

Emrys turns and grips his forearm once to grab his attention, fingers sliding over the coarse wool of his tunic as they pass. 

“Come on, Trouble. We’re done here.” Their voice is as soft as the night he follows them into. 

There’s a look in their golden eyes as they pass one another that fails description. Soft and certain. Confused and joyful. An infinite contradiction. There is no language to put to what they just shared, so he does not try. 

Wordlessly, he follows with very little time to be outraged when he realizes that Emrys agreed to let Sera stay.