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Solas could not get thoughts of the servants from Halamshiral out of his mind. He knew, of course, that the situation of the elves–particularly in Orlais–was poor, but he had never imagined how very drastic it was, or rather, how the servants' attitudes were. As though they had made progress. As though they were lucky to simply live.
He found himself in Skyhold's tavern and, yes, he would do something, certainly, multiple somethings–but not just yet. Now, he was sitting in the corner, keeping to himself, drinking tankards of whatever swill the barkeep kept giving him. It tasted sour and acrid, but he drank it all the same.
"You're here earlier than me, Chuckles? I'm both shocked and impressed."
Solas turned around slowly to see the man standing before him; he was grinning.
"I am not in the mood, durgen'len," he said.
"Not in the mood for what?" Varric seated himself in the chair across from the elf and flagged the barkeep. "For talking?"
Solas sighed deeply and the barkeep refilled his tankard. He placed a hand atop the keep's wrist, and she kept the bottle on the table.
"You know I've never learned much Elven," Varric said, "but that doesn't sound like an insult."
Solas said nothing, took a long sip from his mug and grimaced.
"It's not the best stuff, is it? Although I can't imagine you encountered high-quality swill, being a traveler."
"You'd be surprised."
"Oh?" Varric laughed and took a sip from his tankard. "There's a lot I don't know about you, Chuckles."
"I'd prefer to keep it that way," he said evenly.
"I bet you've got lots of secrets, Chuckles."
"No more than anyone else," Solas said, finishing the rest of his tankard. The barkeep brought two more bottles to the table and took the empty ones. Solas refilled the mug himself.
"I have them, myself," said Varric, refilling his own. "And my share of regrets."
"Mm."
"So what brings you here? You don't seem like the drinking type."
"I didn't know there was such a thing as a 'drinking type.'" He enunciated his words with precision. "Apart from lyrium it seems the most popular drug in Thedas."
Varric smiled and drank from his mug. "I'm sure you have opinions on the Order's use of lyrium."
"I have opinions on everything," Solas said, and Varric laughed.
"I'd be interested in hearing your opinion on the Order, Chuckles."
"Anything that large is bound to be corruptible when mixed with the greed that so many of their leaders seem to possess. But anything that sweeping is easily exploited, in any case."
"Maker, Chuckles, you're so serious."
"The Order is a serious topic. If you want to know my thoughts on their ritual use of lyrium–I think any would disapprove of leashing another in that manner."
"'Leashing?' That's an interesting way to put it."
"How else would you put it?" Solas finished the tankard in front of him, and filled it.
"I agree with you, Chuckles," Varric said, "The phrasing is interesting, that's all. Spot-on."
Varric thought he glimpsed, for the briefest of moments, a small smile on the elf's lips. He watched as Solas took another prolonged sip from the tankard and frowned.
"You know, Chuckles," Varric said, "I get the feeling we're not very close."
"That would be correct," Solas said after a pause.
"Why is that?" The elf's eyes flickered upward to Varric's eyes, then back to his drink. He finished it, silent.
"As a gesture of goodwill," Varric began, slipping a clear flask onto the table. "It's no Orlesian wine, but if you want to get good and numb it's more tolerable than–" he motioned to the bottle Solas was pouring into his tankard "-that."
Solas picked up the flask with his delicate fingers. "What is this?" "A drink from Kirkwall," Varric said. Solas unscrewed its top with some difficulty; he could smell it and it smelled foul. Varric was drinking from his tankard. Solas put the lid to his lips and tipped it; the stuff burned his throat but did taste better than whatever came in the bottle.
"Maker," said Varric, reaching across the table and grabbing the container from him. "You don't have to drink that much."
Solas coughed and his stomach began to stir.
"You alright, Chuckles?"
"I am fine," he said, taking the flask from Varric.
"So," said Varric, taking a drink, "Have you ever been to Kirkwall?"
Solas shook his head. "I have not."
"I don't recommend it," Varric said with a small smile. "Where's the most interesting place you've been?"
"In or out of the Fade?"
"Out," said Varric thoughtfully.
"I believe that would have to be here. Skyhold," Solas said after a moment. "This is a living memorial of what was. Tarlasyl'an Te'las."
"Who built it?" Varric asked. "Obviously elves, but…"
"Years ago," Solas said, taking a long sip from the flask and clearing his throat, "This was built before the fall of Arlathan."
"That's old," said Varric. "How did you find out about this place?"
"Walking the Fade," Solas said immediately.
"What's that like?" asked Varric.
"In its unaltered form it is dark and desolate. Spirits are the wind, everywhere, silent unless something calls them. Otherwise the Fade is colored by memories others have left, or by one's own."
"Sounds…metaphysical," said Varric, taking a sip from his tankard. "It's nice to see you get excited about something, Chuckles."
"It must be odd not to dream," Solas said, taking another prolonged sip from the flask. "Though I suppose if there is nothing for you to miss, you don't miss it."
Varric nodded. "I'm sure it would annoy the hell out of me. No offense."
Solas shrugged and took a sip from his flask. As the liquid hit his stomach he felt ripples of nausea and his head felt unpleasantly light. His vision momentarily blurred, and he looked at the man in front of him.
"Did you poison me, durgen'len?" he mumbled. Varric laughed.
"No, that's the alcohol." Varric took a sip from his tankard and flagged the barkeep over; she brought him another bottle. She was a bit slower to reach his table now that the place was filling up.
"Poisoning the only one who knows how to solve this mess–how dumb do you think I am, Chuckles?"
Solas looked confused. "How do you know I know–"
"No one else has such a strong connection with the Fade…except maybe Lavellan, but she didn't spend her entire life studying it."
"Ah, yes." Solas nodded his head.
"Durgen…len–what does that mean? You've said it twice now."
"'Durgen' is 'stone,' 'len' is 'child'…there's not really a proper genitive case, it's implied."
Varric nodded. "I don't know what that means, Chuckles."
"'Child of the Stone.'"
"'Genitive.'"
Solas nodded his head and looked at his half-empty flask. Possessive."
Varric raised his head. "Oh, look."
The door of the tavern opened and a collection of loud soldiers and some others entered. Solas sighed and took a long sip from the flask.
"What's wrong, Chuckles?"
"I hate crowds," he said.
"They're just groups of people."
"I hate people," he said.
"You like the Inquisitor."
"Love the Inquisitor," he corrected. "No one else."
"That's adorable, Chuckles."
Dorian Pavus seated himself beside Varric. The man eyed Solas and said, "Been a long day for you, too, I see."
Solas nodded slightly and took another drink from the flask.
"I was just getting Chuckles to open up to me," Varric said. "He was telling me about the Fade, and elves."
"Your favorite things," Dorian said. Varric handed him the bottle and the barkeep brought another and a tankard for the third man. Dorian thanked her and handed her a handsome tip. Solas drank from his flask.
"Do tell me about the Fade, Solas," said Dorian.
"You've been there," Solas said. "What do you want to know?"
Dorian shrugged and took a long sip of his tankard, then refilled it with a grimace.
"I'm certain you've seen more than I have."
Solas' face felt flushed and there was thick fog in his head. "What do you think I've seen?"
"Something from the distant past, hopefully," said Dorian. "That's what I'm interested in."
"Regrettably," Solas sighed, "I know little that can help us."
"Oh, you think too highly of me," said Dorian, taking a sip from his tankard. "It's a point of personal interest."
The dusky sunlight through the window caused a glare on Dorian's glittery garb and it caught Solas' attention.
"I see you staring at me, love," Dorian said with a playful grin, "Should I take that as an advance?"
"Your clothes are too shiny," Solas mumbled, drinking from his flask. Both Varric and Dorian laughed.
"Do the Dalish not have silver?"
"That's silver?" Solas said incredulously.
Dorian nodded.
"I am not Dalish," Solas said.
"Ah, my apologies. I assumed that was the proper term."
"I did not live in a clan," he said, taking a sip of his drink, "nor in the gutter of some city."
"So you just traveled around?" Solas nodded. "Do you have a family?"
Drinking again from the flask, he said, "I had a mother and father and we spoke often…but an extended family, no."
"You said you had a mother and father…are they dead?"
Solas nodded.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
Solas shrugged. "Everyone dies after some time."
"Not my father," Dorian said with a small smile, drinking.
"I suppose even an Atlus has troubles in the Imperium," Solas remarked.
"Oh do we ever," said Dorian. "Not that I wish to be reminded of that at this moment."
Solas took a sip from his flask that ended far too soon. He placed it over his empty tankard and tipped it over; nothing came out.
"Maker, Chuckles," said Varric, laughing. "You drank the whole thing."
He did not feel like he drank the whole thing; he felt, he thought, less affected than he had at the ball.
"And in under an hour."
It felt like it had been hours. At least time was passing faster now.
"I don't suppose you have any more of it," Solas said, pouring the rest of Varric's bottle into his tankard.
"Give it a minute, Chuckles," Varric said, waving down the barkeep. She brought three more bottles to the table, and Dorian tipped her again. Over the next few minutes, Solas spoke more of the Fade, Dorian of Tevinter, and Varric of his novels. The tavern had become more crowded and the barkeep was taking longer and longer to get to their table.
"Andraste's ass," said Dorian, "I've had servants at a city-wide gala move faster than this."
Solas scoffed and took a long sip from his tankard, nearly missing his lips.
"Elves aren't the only people who choose to sell themselves, love. Qunari and humans do it, too."
"As if that makes it better," Solas sneered, taking another drink. "And don't lie to my face, Tevinter. The vast majority of slaves are elven and you know it."
"I wasn't lying to your face, love," said Dorian. "If I say they aren't the only ones, it doesn't mean they aren't the majority.
"But I don't see the problem with that. If that's the way they choose to take themselves out of poverty, so be it."
"For all your talk about how much you despise the direction in which Tevinter has gone," said Solas, "you certainly sound like every other mage I've encountered from there."
"You've met other Tevinter mages?" Varric interjected, seeing the look on Dorian's face. Solas stared intently at the bottle in front of him and slowly emptied it into his tankard.
"Mm-hmm," he said.
"Where?" asked Dorian.
"In the Fade," he drawled, "Orlais…Halamshiral…"
"So, exiles," said Dorian.
"Or those who left in disgust," said Solas, whose words were beginning to slur.
"Why don't you two kiss and make up already," Varric said, refilling Solas' tankard with the remainder of his own bottle.
"I'm nothing like the lot of them," Dorian said.
"Of course not," Solas sneered.
"I understand your reservations with servitude, but if it's voluntary–"
"Let me stop you there," started Solas. "Let me remind you…what you're attempting to defend is furthering the subjugation of entire…an…an entire…"
He trailed off and waved his hand, sighing and drinking from his tankard. "Era seranna ma…it does not matter. Whether you agree or not it doesn't change the state of the elvhen." He lowered his eyes and sighed. He felt suffocated and sick and waves of disgust washed over him. What was he doing? What was he doing? "
Chuckles?"
"Hm?"
"Are you alright?" said Dorian.
"I…I think I should leave," Solas said, although he felt that if he stood suddenly, he would simply fall backward.
"Do you need any help?"
Solas shook his head, making him dizzy; he gripped the table and began to rise when the door opened and the Chargers entered the tavern. Solas made eye contact with Bull and sat himself down as the leader of the group called his name.
"I was not expecting you here," he said, and seated himself beside the elf, to Solas' chagrin. Bull had grabbed a tankard from the bar when he walked in and took from one of his very large, Solas noticed (what was with everyone else and their peculiar clothes?), pockets a medium-sized bottle.
"This is the good stuff, right from Par Vollen."
"Anything like Kirkwall's?" Solas asked, his voice thick. He had given up any hope of standing and was instead focusing on sitting upright. Bull laughed and looked to Varric, who nodded. He filled each one of their tankards with the dark liquid and toasted to the Inquisition. Solas was the first to take a sip of it and he could hardly swallow the stuff before sputtering and swallowing bile in his throat. It burned. It was not a nice, clean burn like Varric's stuff produced, but a painful and shocking burn that he could trace all the way down. The next sip was less painful, and it did have little taste. It supposedly was felt quicker than other liquors, according to Bull at least, and he very much wanted to get back to that carefree and light feeling, so he drank. By the time he had reached the bottom of the tankard, his mood had improved greatly, although his tongue had swelled.
"You," Solas said, pointing a haphazard finger to Dorian, "well-" his tongue hung on the 'l' "–maybe not you..."
Solas pointed to himself and said, "me and dragon blood magic–" the words ran together "–and you get you," he said, pointing to Iron Bull.
"No!" exclaimed Dorian, laughing.
"Yes," said Solas, "that's the truth, that's how…and absolutely devastating, elven blood that can't even connect with the Fade at all…"
"Makes no difference to me," Bull said with a shrug, "but I don't believe you."
"It's true," said Solas, nodding vigorously.
"That's a far-fetched theory, Chuckles."
"Not a theory, drugenlen," he slurred, raising his voice. "It's true." He raised himself on the table and clapped Bull on the ear. "Where did you think these came from?"
Bull laughed. "These? Ears? They're nothing like yours!"
"More mine than his," Solas slurred, pointing in Dorian's direction.
"When you put it like that, love," said Dorian, "it is convincing, and I don't believe it's past the Imperium."
Solas nodded, the movement making his head spin. "Because it's true."
"Where'd you get that idea from, anyway, Chuckles?"
"I didn't get it, I saw it," Solas corrected, looking around as the room moved with his head. "It wasn't an elvhen idea, it was…obviously…"
He lost his train of thought and reached for the bottle in front of Bull and poured it clumsily into his tankard, spilling part of it on the table.
"A…seranna…mm," he mumbled, attempting to wipe at it with his sleeve.
"No worries," said Bull. "Maraas-lok." Solas nodded and drank, coughing and sputtering before being overcome with dizziness. He put his head on the table.
"You okay, Chuckles?" Solas mumbled something unintelligible and the door opened.
"Boss!"
Solas lifted his head.
"Have any of you seen–"
"Vhenan!" Solas exclaimed, toppling over in his chair. He would have fallen were it not for her, and she had caught him in some awkward half-embrace with his arms wrapped around her waist and face buried into her stomach. She was blushing furiously.
"Do you need any help, Boss?"
"I've got it," she said evenly, draping his limp arm around her shoulder. He was quiet at first but as they reached the door he began talking, first muttering apologies, then speaking to her as they crossed the courtyard.
"Ma'arlath, ma'arlath ma vhenan, ma emma lath ma sa'lath."
"Hamin, Da'vhenan," Lavellan said to him.
The Inquisitor took him the back way, so as to avoid people, and he groaned when they reached the stairs.
"Elvhen tu vir mana-mana," he mumbled.
"The stairs?" she asked and he nodded. "Da'vhenan, elves didn't invent stairs."
"Mm-mm," he insisted. "We did…We were the first."
"We?" repeated Lavellan. "I thought you said elves weren't your people." She walked very slowly with him to avoid tripping.
"Hm," Solas muttered. "Elvhen are mine, Vhenan."
"But not all elves are elvhen?"
He made a small noise, one of agreement she supposed, and he kept moving his mouth as they went up the stairs to his room. She sat him down on the bed and sat beside him.
"What put you in such a state, Da'vhenan?" said Lavellan. Solas mumbled something about Varric and Kirkwall and Qunari and elves.
"Stress?" she guessed. "There is a lot going on. But you need to tough it out like the rest of us."
"Seranna…s," he mumbled, and fell to the side.
"I need to help the People."
His voice was quiet and heavy with liquor but she could make it out easily enough.
"The Inquisition will help them more once it has defeated Corypheus," Lavellan said. "I will see to that, myself."
"Len'alas stole…harel, harel, that was my orb."
"Your orb?" Lavellan laughed.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, as though offended.
"And what would you do with your orb, if you got it back?"
"Revas," he mumbled. "Free the gods."
"I thought you didn't believe in the gods."
"Not as gods," he corrected.
Lavellan furrowed her brow.
"The destruction orb could set 'the gods' free?"
"Destruction of the seal," he mumbled.
"And how do you know this?"
"Because it's my orb," he slurred insistently before rolling on his stomach.
Lavellan laughed in spite of herself. "You must have had some very realistic dreams, Da'vhenan," she said, "or too much to drink."
He mumbled something else she didn't catch and then propped himself upright after some difficulty. He leaned to take her hand but fell over and into her lap.
"Ma emma lath, don't leave me," he mumbled.
"I won't if you won't," she said, looking at him. He frowned and then closed his eyes. When he was asleep she left quietly.