Chapter Text
They'd come to an arrangement that when the stresses of being the Herald of Andraste had become too much, Eve was welcome to 'hide' in Solas's cabin for a few hours to decompress. No one seemed to come looking for her here. It could easily be assumed that it was because they didn't expect someone so important to spend time with an elven apostate. More accurately, however, it was because everyone did their best to avoid the easily irritable Adan next door.
The downside was that the chatter from the tavern below was clearly audible as sound traveled upwards in the cold air.
"She don't look like any Free Marcher I've ever seen."
"Aren't the Trevelyans known for their unusual dark gray eyes?"
"I've only ever heard of the Trevelyan line producing males."
"I overheard Lady Montilyet and Sister Nightingale talking about how they can't find no official portraits. Maybe she ain't a Trevelyan."
"And there it is," Eve whispered, letting out a dejected sigh and closing the book she had been reading with a snap.
Across from her, Solas looked up from his sketchbook. "It is the fate of those trapped in a position of public opinion to become the subject of rumor and gossip. Try not to let it trouble you."
She sighed again, leaning her elbow on the arm of her chair and resting her chin on her fist, staring out of the window at the sky. "Most of the time, it doesn't bother me. I've never had a particularly strong attachment to the Trevelyan family name, and they've never had any kind of attachment to me."
"You said 'most of the time'. Why does it upset you now?"
"It's difficult to explain. I've never thought of myself as being vain, but..." She looked at him and made a circling gesture around her face. "I didn't always look like this."
That she didn't look like a Free Marcher was a vast understatement. Something had happened to her in the Fade that had bleached her honey skin to an alabaster white and her dark brown hair into a pale ash color. The gray eyes so often referred to as being the color of steel that matched the Trevelyans' resolve were now colorless save for a bright green corona around the pupil that mimicked the glow of the Breach.
Solas tilted his head slightly as he examined her features, his own completely neutral. "Does this appearance displease you?"
She shrugged. "Sometimes it startles me to catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. It's like seeing my own ghost." She looked down at her palm, at the faintly glimmering gash that was the Mark. "It's only a change in how I look, but they don't know me; they don't trust me to be who I say I am." Lowering her voice to a whisper, she huffed, "It's ridiculous. I'm still me," as if to reassure herself.
"Are you?" She frowned, so he explained, "If you expect a spirit to be a demon, it will adapt. So, too, have I found that people will alter their behavior to meet others' expectations. You stood between me and what you perceived as a threat before you even knew me. You have helped those that other humans would ignore without a second thought. You have shown a strength of mind and morals that surpass any I have met outside of the Fade. Is that the real you? Or have you changed yourself to become the Herald of Andraste people need to see you as to join your cause?"
Suddenly offended, she opened her mouth to speak -- they'd had this conversation before that she didn't do all of this to be a 'good Andrastian' -- but then she caught the look in his eye and understood.
He nodded in approval. "Such superficial perceptions of those who do not know you do not matter." He rose and moved to stand by her chair. "Perhaps I can offer some comfort, however?" He handed her his sketchbook.
She was struck speechless for a long moment as she studied the charcoal drawing of herself. His skill was beyond impressive. In black and white, she almost looked like she had before the Conclave. The angle of her cheekbones, the full curve of her lips. He'd even managed to make her hair look soft and deliberate. It was lovely. Far more lovely an image than she had ever seen in a mirror. But more than that, the sheer intensity he'd captured in her eyes...
She couldn’t stop staring. “I'm…" She paused to clear her throat. "Your artistic vision is too kind to me.”
“I draw you as I see you.”
She shook her head. “It’s too beautiful.”
“As are you.” He gently caught her chin and turned her startled gaze to his, his voice firm and unwavering, “It is not a subject for debate.”