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Nobody has been to the rotunda since Solas left.
She does not know why. Everyone has been very busy, sure, and she most of all. So many dignitaries to entertain, countless banquets to attend, and the list only keeps growing. Savior of Thedas, they call her, Inquisitor Lavellan the Blessed. Unnerving, but she has been putting up with excessive shows of adoration since the days back at Haven.
But more than that, it feels as if they are avoiding the place on purpose. Even Sera, who suggested turning it into a second cellar. Again, she can’t tell why.
Perhaps it’s because this will always be his room. He might be gone, but to her this is still his space, his own corner in Skyhold. Maybe the others felt the same and stay away out of respect for him – or her.
And here she is now, standing before his—the door, unsure what to do next. Or why she’s here in the first place. Is she forgetting some important date? An anniversary? No, this can’t be it…They never paid attention to such details.
Adalina shifts on her feet. This would be the perfect moment for her sister and Sera to swoop in and drag her to the tavern, or for Josephine to scold her for neglecting her correspondence again. She could simply return to her chambers and read that book on the history of the Circles in southern Thedas she bought yesterday.
But she can’t will herself to walk away and the throne room is almost empty. Odd at this hour, as it’s only midday.
She sighs in defeat. For someone so easily distracted, it sure is hard to find a distraction when she most needs it.
She casts a furtive glance at the empty hall before pushing the door open and slipping inside.
All the air in her lungs leaves her when the ground gives way beneath her feet.
The Sorrows are calling to her, their song so loud her head threatens to split open. She has to lean back on the wall to stop herself from collapsing on the floor, nails scraping against the cold stone.
Help, she wants to cry but no voice, no words come out of her mouth. It hurts…
The whispers are too sharp, too clear, a thousand voices speaking as one. Too much… It can’t end like this…
And just like that, they fall quiet.
Adalina blinks a few times, wiping the sweat from her brow with a shaky hand. Her breathing is steady now and more importantly, her mind is hers again. At least for the time being.
The voices never go away, not really. Sometimes it’s easy to pretend they’re not there; on her best days she can ignore them entirely. They’re no more than whispers, echoes of an era long past. Their meaning is never clear to her, not unless this collective consciousness behind them wants her to understand.
This is unusual, though. She chews on her bottom lip, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. What caused such a violent reaction? Could the Well sense her melancholy?
A shame Morrigan was gone too. Perhaps she could have offered some insight.
The braziers are alight with a flick of her wrist. A small sigh escapes her lips.
Everything is the same, yet feels completely different. This place has always been a sanctuary to her, Solas’ quiet presence a constant source of warmth and comfort. But now it is cold, empty, and even the buzz coming from the library sounds foreign.
She clasps her hands behind her back, her foot tracing patterns on the floor. It is not too late to leave… She feels like a thief, sneaking in here all by herself. Not that Solas would be returning to scold her any time soon.
The thought comes with a tinge of disappointment. He could be back any day now, Thalia insisted. Her sister means well, but she didn’t know him (Did you know him? she keeps asking herself on the bad days). She wasn’t in the Temple of Sacred Ashes; she didn’t hear his parting words. Besides, she has come to terms with his disappearance. It isn’t always easy, but she would manage.
A sweet, familiar scent draws her from her musings. Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise and her step quickens as she pads across the room to the source of the smell.
She cradles the blossom with both hands, fingers skimming gently along the delicate petals. This is the same bunch of crystal grace flowers she brought him from the Hinterlands so many months ago, as fresh as the day she picked them.
Every act of kindness seemed to surprise him, no matter how small. Even from her. Maybe especially from her.
“I like doing nice things for you. Is it so strange?” she would laugh, amused and perhaps a bit hurt.
“It has been a long time” was his cryptic answer. “It means more than you can imagine.”
She did not press him further. He would explain when he was ready.
It is too late for that now, but she does not regret it. He preserved the flowers she gave him even though they were no longer together. This has to mean something. That it truly mattered to him, what they had. That she mattered. She never doubted it, much to her own surprise, but the warm wash of relief floods her chest even so.
Her eyes wander to the murals adorning every wall, as breathtaking as ever. She would often visit him while he painted, to help clear her mind after a long day of signing documents. Seeing him at work was fascinating. This was the story of the Inquisition, her story, come to life through the masterful strokes of his paintbrush. Nothing could draw his attention from his art, not even her presence. But she was content to simply watch him in silence, only asking a few questions here and there. Adalina chuckles to herself as she recalls how he’d frown and curse under his breath every time the pigment turned out a shade darker than he intended.
“It looks the same to me,” she admitted one day, which earned her a scowl and a lecture on the mixing of colors. Not a topic she was very familiar with, but that note of excitement in his voice had brought a smile to her face and made her heart beat just a little faster.
It’s those simple, light-hearted moments she misses the most. When she could take off the weighty mantle of the Inquisitor and enjoy his company. A casual conversation over a shared meal, an evening walk around the garden, all the little things she had taken for granted. Once we’re done with Corypheus, there’ll be nothing to worry about, she would think. We have all the time in the world.
Another miscalculation on her part. Still, she feels no regret.
All his books are still here, she notes when she sees the small collection stacked atop the desk in the center of the room. He truly must have left in a hurry, to discard them like this.
What are you running from?
She trails a finger down the spine of Our Orlesian Heart. Josephine gifted her with a copy of this one about a year ago. As she’d expect, most of his books concerned magic and the nature of the Fade. An Enchanter’s Observations, Fade and Spirits Mysterious…
The next book she picks up is different. The leather binding is worn, barely held together, and she can’t see a title anywhere.
“Because it’s his journal!” she exclaims and quickly puts it back, an irrational fear of getting caught creeping up on her.
Of course. She had seen him carrying the old notebook with him; he had even shown her some of his sketches and the observations he had written down. She didn’t believe he would part with it, and yet…
She wrings her hands, uncertain what to do. Leliana once suggested investigating the room in hopes of finding any clues as to where he fled but she had refused. He is gone. There is no reason to go after him and it is probably for the best that she remains ignorant of his whereabouts. They have both moved on, after all.
But this is too tempting. It isn’t right, going through his journal in secret, and she is well aware that its contents could upset her. Just as she is aware that none of her qualms really matter. Curiosity always gets the best of her.
She flips the notebook open, smoothing the wrinkled pages with her thumb. It’s heartening to see his familiar handwriting again, the loops of his l’s, or the way he dots his i’s and j’s.
Her lips curve in the ghost of a smile. Each turn of a page brings forth a rush of memories, memories of their travels, their friends, of all their time together. But now they are all going their separate ways and she wonders if it’s too selfish to wish for another adventure to bring them back to her.
He put an incredible amount of work in all his notes; if she had the time she’d go over his entry on the lake rift in Crestwood more thoroughly.
His drawings do not lack in detail either. This outline of Din’an Hanin he was working on when she snuck into his tent that rainy morning in the Graves is one of her favorites. Even the sketches he didn’t like enough to finish are far from sloppy. Solas does not do sloppy. He would shake his head with an exasperated sigh and scratch at the parchment with his quill until he was pleased with the result. Sometimes she thought he was too harsh on himself, but such is his way. Critical and unforgiving of his own mistakes, even the little ones.
It’s halfway through that she realizes the rest of the journal is empty. She lets out an indignant huff and furiously browses through the blank pages, not knowing what she’s looking for. A clue, a hint, anything.
But she finds nothing. She has reached the last page and there’s nothing more, not a word, only…
At first she thinks it’s a trick of the eye, that her mind is playing games again. It’s the vallaslin that gives it away. The Adalina on the parchment still wears Mythal’s blessing on her face, delicate branches stretching from her cheeks to her temples. Her unruly black curls, usually tied back in a loose ponytail, are falling down her shoulders in soft waves, and she would laugh if her throat didn’t suddenly feel so tight.
“You should let your hair down more often,” he had told her more times than she cared to count. “It suits you.”
Yet her likeness smiles. It’s a wide, bright grin that reminds her of simpler times she never thought she’d miss.
She shakes her head. Now she’s starting to sound like an old woman. Leading an Inquisition does that to people it seems.
The wrinkles in the corners of her eyes, the arch of her eyebrows… It i a simple portrait in ink, yet more valuable than any of the paintings by the Antivan masters she had to pose for.
And what is she supposed to do with this?
She presses her lips together. The selfish, childish side of her wants to hide the journal away, to keep this last memento for herself. He might have even left it back on purpose, so that she would find it.
But this is only wishful thinking. If he wanted her to have this drawing, then surely he would have told her, would have given it to her. But this was his journal and she had pried. She had no claim on it; she shouldn’t have read it at all.
She would respect his decision. It is not for her to keep.
The door closes quietly behind her and once again she is grateful for the empty throne room. She does not quite understand why, but she feels lighter now, relieved, like a great weight has been lifted off her shoulders. Dropping by the tavern might not be such a terrible idea after all.
Solas is gone. There is nothing she could do about that. She will always hold the memories they created close to her heart. And perhaps their paths would cross again one day.