Chapter Text
PREFACE
Solas was soaked to the bone when he and his mother Mythal ended up at the Gull and Lantern. They had been traveling by air for the last twelve hours as a family. True to her style, his mother had insisted on taking public transit from the airport to the ostentatious hotel as a cost-saving measure. By the time they make it to check-in, it’s in the middle of the night, and the lobby is deserted except for two clerks at the front desk, yawning discreetly.
Behind the desk is an oil painting of a grim-looking human, the brass placard underneath reading Ban Teagan Guerrin. Solas is trying to make sense of the place. Its marble floors mixed with heavy wooden cross-beams. It has a look that he understands from the action movies he and his cousin June have secretly watched as typical of the Feraldin aesthetic: bearskin rugs and red velvet tapestries. It’s so different from Arlathan, the city-state where he is from, warm year-round and built out of crystal spires.
Solas is glad that, unlike June. that he won’t be in boarding school here. His mother, Mythal, would never abandon him in a place like this. At least, not for a few more years.
His cousin Astrid is shivering next to him while his aunts mutter in Elvhen close to the entryway. His youngest aunt, Ghilan'nan, complained to his middle aunt, Sylaise, about how his mother had insisted on taking the train. It’s raining outside. Cold, hard droplets, and now all the kids are soaked. They’ll all catch a cold and be forced to stay in this dreadful country for weeks eating bland food and, lasa ghilan *, why did their brother marry such a stubborn woman who always had to have her way.
Solas isn’t really paying attention. He’s freezing and starving, and all he wants is a large bed to curl up in. Fereldin’s streets are mostly mud, and he’s tracked in a great deal of it into the hotel, accidentally making large circles that one of the clerks has noticed and gaped at.
Astrid takes his hand in her own. She’s his favorite cousin. Sweet and fun to play with. They are almost the same age, she at nine, one year older than him.
“Do you think we can go to bed soon?” She groans.
Solas isn’t sure. He’s watching his mother barter with one of the desk people. She’s put on the posh accent she uses whenever she speaks to humans. “I’m Mrs.Fen’Harel. I have a reservation, the largest suite.” Her voice gets tenser when a portly dwarf runs out from a back room. He’s obviously just woken up, his suit rumpled. Solas likes to think he was sitting in a chair and watching a black and white television as some security guards do at home.
“Hello, I am Oghren, hotel manager,” The fat dwarf continues. Closer and Solas notices that he has a red beard matted with crumbs. His mother hates disheveled individuals, thinks that they are unworthy of her time. She’s constantly telling Solas this as she cleans off his face, making sure his pale skin is always perfectly scrubbed so that “everyone can see his cute little freckles, da’len. ”
“Is there a problem?” His mother repeats. Her mouth is drawn in a firm line. The halla skin coat she is wearing slick with moisture. Usually, she is so composed and put together, wearing elegant suits and expensive jewelry. None of which she has brought on this trip as she's convinced the shems might steal it. Solas isn't sure who the shems are but he's heard his aunts using the word a lot.
“I’m afraid we are fully booked,” Oghren insists. Solas isn’t sure what the stale smell wafting off him is. It smells like a drawer in his father’s office. He’s certain that he doesn’t like it.
“We’ve been flying from Arlathan for hours.”
“You must have made a mistake. I’m sure you and your lovely…” the dwarf pauses, looking at the bedraggled elves standing behind his mother, “family can find other accommodations. May I suggest you explore the old alienage?”
“Mah shemlin dara to anabanal,” Solas’ aunt Sylaise mutters to Ghilan'nan, who is tittering at her curses, pushing back a bit to whisper, “not in front of the children.”
Mythal sighs. Solas knows that if they were in Arlathan, she’d be throwing a tantrum, yelling and screaming at staff who are more than happy to oblige her every whim. Here amongst the humans, however, her standing is not so high. He’s not sure how he knows this, but some deep part of himself recognizes that his importance is also not as pronounced as it is at home, where he has a driver, a nanny, and a dog named da’fen like his favorite television show.*
“May I please then use your telephone to call my husband? It is the least you can do.” His mother’s voice is high, tilting upwards in tone, in sharp contrast to the pronounced glare she’s leveraging at Oghren. For a moment, Solas thinks the dwarf might relent. He’s obviously nervous at having this elven woman yell at him. Instead, he smiles and points to a phone booth across the street.
Mythal huffs over, unphased by the rain, which has turned into muddy sleet. Solas and Astrid sit down on a couch while June plays with the mud on the floor, tracing intricate circles with his feet, much to Ogrhen’s dismay. The dwarf is trying to reason with his aunts, who pretend not to speak Common, when Solas’ mother bursts back in about ten minutes later. She has a look on her face that Solas recognizes as dangerous. One that indicates that someone has done something shameful and she has caught them. His mother is not forgiving.
“Mrs. Fen’Harel, I must ask you to leave, or I will call the Grey Wardens!” Oghren exclaims.
“Go right ahead,” Mythal says. It’s not an explicit threat, but Solas enjoys the way Ogrhen blanches at the words. He understands that something foul is going on, that their exclusion is not a kindness, even if he’s not quite sure what is behind its motivations. It seems right that his mother would win.
An elevator in the lobby makes a jolly ding, and a grizzled man in a purple silk robe and slippers bursts out with his arms wide open. By the time the man reaches his mother to pull her into an embrace, Astrid leans over and excitedly whispers to Solas, “It’s the man from the painting!”
Solas is watching Oghren. The dwarf’s face is puzzled and then nervous. Drops of sweat are breaking out over his face, and the clerks behind the desk pale.
“Oh, Ban Teagan, I am so sorry for this disturbance,” Oghren yelps as the Ban raises a hand to silence him. Snapping, he gestures at the clerks.
“Get the suite ready! Now! I will not ask again.” Ban Teagan snaps. His face is turning bright red like Solas' father does when he's angry at work or the stock market.
“Surely you're joking, er. Sir,” Oghren says.
“I am not Oghren. As of this evening, my family’s long history as custodians of the Gull and Lantern has ended. I am selling this historic hotel to my dear friends, the Fen’Harel’s of Arlathan.”
Oghren faints and falls to the floor as Mythal looks smugly down at where he lays.
Everyone ignores the unconscious dwarf. The clerks scurried about with unexpected energy.
“Now, let’s go have a toast, dear Mythal. I’d be delighted to know how Elgar’nan’s golf game is going.”
Oghren sputters on the floor. Solas laughs as his mother winks at him and looks down at the dwarf, demanding in a voice that signals her disdain, “This floor is filthy, get a mop, and clean it up!"