Work Text:
Traveling with the Inquisitor was a mostly silent affair. Certainly there were moments the Inquisitor was very conversational, even playful, but those moments were reserved for their time in Haven—now Skyhold—and very occasionally during the group’s travels.
Here in the Hissing wastes, it was a different kind of silence. The only sound was the hissing of the wind, the crunch of shifting sand beneath boots, and the breathing of the four companions. It was no lush forest, teeming with wildlife and plants to create a calm, almost serene background music to accompany the group on their journey.
No, it was not the landscape Solas remembered. Hopefully in time it would be restored, but now was not that time. Not while he had other pressing matters to attend to. One of which was the Inquisitor himself.
His mostly silent presentation outside of Skyhold and other more populated areas was intriguing, his talkativeness seemed to fluctuate greatly. In fact, Solas recalled he was at his most conversational during the ball at the Winter Palace, and it was quite the spectacle in the end. He was surprised one of the Dalish could pull that off, though the Inquisitor was very unique, so he suspected that certainly helped.
He suspected the Inquisitor was just a quiet man in general. The Dalish were known for being secretive, and the Inquisitor was no different. Though in regards to himself personally than in regards to his customs and culture as a whole, he was very willing to share that information freely to whoever asked. It was curious.
The Inquisitor had paused now, standing at the top of a sand dune, staring off into the distance at something Solas couldn’t see. The wind hissed, Lavellan’s long, braided hair swaying in the breeze. A moment passed before the rest of the group joined him, Solas absentmindedly taking his left side. He could see a few lights in the distance, campfires perhaps..
“It’s freezing! Why is a desert freezing?” his fellow mage muttered, kicking a clump of sand. Why Dorian had willingly come along to the sandiest place in all of Thedas, the elf would never know. Cassandra he could understand, the Seeker was a warrior who had no issues about trekking in miserable places.
The Inquisitor stood there for a moment longer before taking off on a winding path down, leaving a trail of footprints in the sand as he went around collecting the scarce flowers that grew. He was humming quietly, a familiar song Solas had not heard in ages.
The trio followed the winding path, Lavellan reaching the base of the dune long before the others. He waited for them to join him before wandering again, this time towards the light in the distance.
“Does our illustrious leader know where he is going?” Dorian asked, studying the Inquisitor’s path. It seemed aimless, zig zagging between plants, doubling back to the occasional rock and continuing on, only the trail of footprints in the sand to indicate where the elf had gone.
Solas considered the question, staff in hand to steady his balance in the ever shifting sand. “Perhaps. I do not claim to understand the Inquisitor.”
“Even though you’ve known him the longest? Present company excluded, of course.”
“I am right here, mage.” Cassandra gritted her teeth. Solas let slip a smile, holding back a chuckle.
“Well, yes. I may have kept him alive while he slept, but I was not the first to officially meet him. That honor belongs to the Seeker. We were introduced when Cassandra brought him to the rift where Varric and I were. He closed it, and then we took a moment for introductions, and then we were off to close the Breach. Temporarily, anyway.” the elf explained, eyeing Lavellan’s crouched form as the man tucked away yet another flower into his bag.
“Ah. Well. There goes that line of questioning.” Dorian muttered.
“You may have better luck asking Varric. Or better yet, the Inquisitor himself.” Solas said.
“I considered it. But he is all the way over there, and I do so like watching him from back here.”
“So, you study him.”
“I— well, yes I do. His use of magic is fascinating. Did you know he shapeshifts? It’s remarkable! I’ve never seen a mage do that in person!” Dorian said, the rings on his fingers glinting in the moonlight as he waved his hand towards the Inquisitor.
It certainly was fascinating, though not in the same way in Solas’ mind. He questioned further. “Shapeshifting? Now that is fascinating. Where did you learn this?”
“Yes, Dorian. Where did you learn this?” Cassandra asked. Dorian waved them off.
“I saw it in battle, actually. He turned into some kind of dark colored bird and attacked from above. Dropped a jar of bees on the poor fellow he was fighting I believe. When I asked later, he said his Keeper taught him the skill.”
Solas tilted his head at the description, his brows furrowed as he frowned. “Shapeshifting is rare among the Dalish. I have not heard of such a thing in recent times. Perhaps it is just his clan?”
“It’s possible. He mentioned some of the clans do know shapeshifting, but not many. Apparently his clan is one of the few that do.” Dorian said. He did not continue, instead turning his attention towards the Inquisitor.
Lavellan had his back turned to the group, busying himself with yet another desert flower. Another moment and he rose, the flower carefully tucked into his bag as he headed back towards them. They had not been far apart, though only because Solas and the others took a more direct path in contrast to Lavellan’s winding, aimless trail of wandering.
“Campsite’s not too far off. I was thinking we’d stop there for the night before continuing on.” He said. There were no arguments or protests. Dorian was still freezing, Solas admittedly would like to rest from so much traveling, and Cassandra was of the belief her friend had his reasons for the suggestion. And so, the journey continued.
Lavellan had the fire going by the time the others caught up to his less aimless wandering. His bag was tossed aside in the sand, the man himself crouched and poking at the logs with the bladed end of his staff to keep them burning. Dorian was the first to plant himself by the fire, a mere inch or so between himself and the Inquisitor.
Solas chose to sit a little further away, eyeing the two. Cassandra sat to his right, opposite the Inquisitor. There was little talk as pots and eating utensils were produced, and even less as dinner was prepared. There was only the sound of spoons scraping against bowls, the occasional insect chirping or buzzing, and of course, the hissing of the wind.
After a while, they began to talk. Idle conversation to pass the time.
“Inquisitor. I have a question.” Cassandra spoke up during a lull in the conversation. Lavellan looked up, pausing with the spoon in his mouth. He gave a nod, humming quietly.
“I have an answer.”
“Hilarious. I wanted to ask about your supposed shapeshifting.”
The Inquisitor tapped the spoon against his bowl, head tilted so that his braid slid off his shoulder. “Anything specific? It’s not all that impressive really. Just something the Keeper taught me, as I’m his First.”
“And a First is what exactly, amatus?” Dorian asked. The Inquisitor let out a half laugh.
“The most simple way of putting it is the one who is the next Keeper. There's the Keeper, who leads the clan. Then the First, which is me, who will become the next Keeper. Sometimes there’s a Second, who can become the First. Does that make sense?”
There were nods all around. Well, mostly. Solas was still frowning. The Dalish ways were unfamiliar to him, it seemed wrong. “And being the First means you were taught how to shapeshift?”
“In my case, yes. I was shown the ways, but the shapeshifting was my own. My clan was always followed by ravens and crows, so I knew them best and I chose that form first. And flying looked fun.” Lavellan said, spooning more food into his mouth. “Why? Did you want to learn to shapeshift too?”
“No, I was simply curious.” Solas insisted. Dorian raised his own spoon at that, waving it at the two elves.
“Well, I for one find this whole shapeshifting business fascinating! What else can you do with it? Besides fly?”
“I can prank my fellow Dalish into thinking I’m the Dread Wolf come back to steal their stuff.” Solas almost choked on the remains of his food, his coughing drowned out by the other mages’ laughter.
“Inquisitor, you didn’t.” Cassandra held her face in her hand, Lavellan’s wide grin causing her to groan.
“It was funny! But I only did it once because it scared my father half to death. That particular form doesn’t see much use beyond that one time, and now we have a funny story to tell the little ones around the campfire.” Lavellan chuckled, setting his now empty bowl aside.
“Amatus, you are an absolute menace.” Dorian’s laughter was muffled into his coat, unable to contain himself.
“You should see me when I’m with my twin. Between the two of us, we keep our clan on their toes. When I’m not trying to be responsible, or saving Thedas from the darkspawn that cursed the world at least.” The Inquisitor said, tugging on his braid. “Sadly, I haven’t seen any of them since I went to the Conclave. And we all know how that turned out.”
Indeed they had. With the exception of Dorian, everyone currently present had witnessed the explosion that flattened the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Though the Inquisitor had not been able to remember at the time, he certainly did now.
Walking physically in the Fade and facing an embodiment of fear certainly did wonders for a person’s memory.
The conversation petered out after that, the group finishing up and cleaning the remains of the dinner. Cassandra took first watch, remaining by the fire with her weapons within easy reach as the rest slowly wandered off to their tents.
The night was cold, making sleep difficult for all. Eventually, the watch changed. Unable to truly sleep, Solas was up next. The switch was handled with no more than simple glances and nods, few words were exchanged. Solas prodded the fire with a longer branch, the barest hint of magic urging the flames to keep burning.
It was silent except for the hissing of the wind, and the shifting of the sand in the breeze. So silent in fact, Solas could hear movement. Footsteps, the faint tingle of magic, up on the stones their camp was set up by. A single glance upwards gave him the answer.
The Inquisitor, sitting curled up on the highest point of the rock. His hair was still braided, the end resting on the rock like a coiled snake and collecting sand.
The Inquisitor didn’t acknowledge his approach, only the tiniest twitch of his ear giving away that he’d even heard Solas. He sat beside him, legs crossed. They sat there like that for some time, just watching their surroundings in silence. At one point, Solas heard a wince, felt the tingle of familiar magic. He glanced over.
The Inquisitor was holding his palm as if it pained him, a sickly green glow emanating from the gash in his flesh. Little pops sounded, a faint noise, like that of when one would hold a shell to their ear, accompanied it. It faded just as quickly as it happened, the sound and glow fading to nothing. The Inquisitor continued to hold his hand, massaging the palm with his fingers.
Solas reached over, taking his hand and running his fingers over the invisible tear. Back and forth, over and over, letting his magic flit over the mark with the subtlest blue-green glow.
Slowly, gradually, Lavellan began to relax. Tension easing from his shoulders bit by bit, legs uncurling from where he had tucked his knees under his chin. He stretched, slowly leaning his weight on the bald elf.
“Does the mark hurt often like this?” he asked, fingers pressed into the center of the man’s palm. Lavellan gave a hum, not answering for a moment. It was alright. Solas had waited longer before.
“Sometimes.” Lavellan began, head heavy on his shoulder. The Inquisitor drew vague shapes in the sand with a finger, some the older mage recognized as runes whose true meaning were long forgotten by the Dalish.
“Ancient elven magic sets it off the most often. Sites where ancient magics and traps linger, old spells in temples, the rifts we find scattered around. Where the Veil is thin. In Skyhold. I’ve learned to handle it.”
“You shouldn’t have to. It shouldn’t be harming you like this.” he said, rubbing his fingers over what must’ve been a particularly painful spot, judging by the way Lavellan relaxed further into his shoulder.
Lavellan sighed, scrubbing the runes from the sand. “It doesn’t hurt all the time, Solas. Just the times I described. But Mythal’s heart whatever you’re doing is helping. Better than the numbing poultice I was able to make.” he chuckled, hand limp in the other elf’s grasp.
“Well, I was able to keep it from killing you as you slept,” he reminded. “That certainly helps, I think.”
Lavellan laughed quietly, head tilting just enough to look up at him. Violet eyes contrasted the curling pattern of the vallaslin inked around his left eye. “Teach me your ways, oh great one?”
I should tell him the truth.
Solas just shook his head, letting a faint smile slip. “It is a much harder magic to perform on yourself, the concentration required disturbs the easing of the pain. It’s best to have someone do it for you.” he said instead.
Lavellan just nodded, turning that soul piercing gaze away towards the vast expanse of sand and jagged stone that was the Hissing Wastes in the current age. He was smiling though, humming a quiet little tune that was oh so familiar.
“Will you do it for me then? When it gets especially bad?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. Solas could only nod, tracing his finger over the Anchor one last time, the glow of his magic fading.
“You need only seek me out, Inquisitor.” he said, just holding the hand in his own for the time being. He gave it a final pat. “There, that should hold off the pain for a while.”
Lavellan made no move to get up or to take his hand away, remaining against Solas’ side with a deep sigh. “You’re a lifesaver. In more ways than one. Thank you, Solas.”
It was Solas’ turn to hum now, thumb gently rubbing over the back of the hand he still held. He could excuse it as part of the process, if questioned.
I should tell him the truth.
“Of course, vhenan.” he said instead, ear giving a small twitch at the hum Lavellan gave in acknowledgment. They stayed like that until it was almost time for the watch to change, unmoving until Solas nudged the Inquisitor from the man’s spot on his shoulder.
They climbed down from the rock together, hands clenched tightly together to avoid a slip. They parted at the campfire, Lavellan’s hand reluctantly slipping from his grasp.
They departed the campsite some time later, equipment packed up and fire extinguished. The Inquisitor led the way, his familiar wandering path leaving behind a trail of footprints that genuinely looked like a madman had lost his way in the sand. Familiar, and endearing in a strange sort of way.
Traveling with Lavellan was a silent affair indeed.