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He’s probably done for, Solas thinks as the Venatori soldier approaches him. There is only so much he can do anymore, at this point. The sun is starting to disappear behind the trees.
So he stands up, leaning on his staff. The soldier raises his sword, and Solas reaches for something, a barrier maybe, but everything aches and the Fade is too far, and—
And the Inquisitor lunges at the soldier.
She wraps her legs around his waist, buries her dagger into his shoulder. The sword nicks her thigh as it falls from his hand. She claws at his armor, looking for weak spots, fast and vicious. And the soldier whirls around, grabs her ankle, and slams her against the cold, frozen ground.
And then Iron Bull cleaves his head off.
It’s Iron Bull who carries her all the way back to the camp. She’s terribly limp in his arms, but at least the bleeding has stopped. Solas had tried what little healing he had left in him, but it hadn’t been enough.
Her heart is still beating. They should be grateful for that.
“She should tone it down with the whole self-sacrifice thing,” Bull says, nodding at the Inquisitor. He looks at Solas. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re alive. She’s just—”
“You’re worried,” Solas says.
“Huh,” Bull replies. “Well, yeah. It’s literally my job, keeping her alive.”
Solas hums. “And she’s your friend.”
Straightening his posture—carefully, so he doesn’t jostle her too much—Bull narrows his one eye. “Now you’re starting to sound like Cole.”
Solas doesn’t say anything to that. A few minutes later, Bull asks, “Hey, how long will she be unconscious?”
“I don’t know,” Solas replies honestly. “Vivienne could tell you, should she be here, but—”
“But she’s not.”
“She is not,” he agrees, and they continue walking.
She wakes up after three days.
On the third day, Solas is sitting in the chair next to her bed, a book in hand. She breathes, quiet and even, and that’s enough. There’s dried blood in her hair and bruises smattered across her torso, but she’s alive.
On the third day, Sera comes to check up on her. She comes in routinely, denying any claims of her being worried, but it’s a futile attempt to lie at best.
Now, Sera leans against the wall, arms folded.
“You’ve been here this whole time,” she says, her tone accusatory.
“Is that not allowed?” Solas asks.
“I thought you didn’t care,” Sera replies, and it stings.
They have talked. Of course they have talked, he knows, the Inquisitor talks to Sera about anything and everything. The line of Sera’s mouth curls down in dismay when she looks at him, and Solas doesn’t need to ask why.
“Of course I care,” he says, a moment too late. “Regardless of our… interpersonal challenges.”
Sera snorts.
“She did it for you, you know,” she says then. “Because she cares, even if it’s stupid.” Her eyes linger on the Inquisitor’s face, a face that’s calm and soft from sleep. “You don’t deserve that.”
It’s true. It’s true, and yet—Still—
“I never wanted to hurt her,” Solas says, an automatic response.
Sera barks out a short laugh. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? We’re here now.”
She’s more perceptive than she lets on. And she’s right, but hearing it from her of all people makes it worse.
“So friggin’ stubborn, yeah?” she says, not to him, but to the Inquisitor. Softly, fondly. And then her tone turns cold when she says, “If you cared, you’d tell her the truth.”
Solas swallows. “That’s between me and the Inquisitor,” he says.
“A bloody coward, that’s what you are,” Sera mutters, and leaves, her shoulders tense and hands squeezed into fists.
In the evening, when she finally wakes up, one of Iron Bull’s men comes to make sure everything is alright. A healer, though Solas doesn’t remember his name. She seems to give him her trust easily.
He makes her drink water, then chew on some elfroot. Checks the bruises on her sides and takes a look at her swollen ankle. “I’d recommend you still rest, Your Worship,” he says. “Your ribs are fractured, and the ankle will take time to heal.”
“Thank you, Stitches,” she says, gently despite the roughness to her voice. “And I don't need the formalities, really.”
“Alright, Your—Um. Alright.” He clears his throat, and an amused smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “You should be thanking him, though, not me. He did most of the healing.”
Her gaze almost pierces Solas, who hovers in the doorway, not quite sure if he should step in. He cannot read her expression, a mix of hope and grief and anger, until she looks away.
“Yeah,” she says to the healer. “You can go now. Thanks.”
She waits until they’re alone, and then moves to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Well, thank you,” she says.
Solas replies, “You’re welcome.” The silence is too much to bear, so he goes on, “It was reckless. I do not—I don’t want you throwing yourself into danger for me.”
“I would’ve done it for anyone,” she says coolly.
He knows that.
“Better me than you.” She stretches her arms above her head and then winces, fingers brushing against the bruise, now hidden under her clothes. Her shirt is crusted with blood. “You’re the only mage we have currently, and we can’t go on without your support. A small price for making sure you stay up.”
“Practical, yes.” He can’t argue with that. She’d made a decision based on what would be best for everyone included, not just him.
It hadn’t been about him.
“Is everyone alright?” she asks. Rolls her ankle, brows furrowing in what Solas imagines must be pain.
“Yes. We had to retreat.”
“Shit,” she curses. “This can’t wait. We should move out tomorrow—”
“No,” Solas says sternly. Her eyes meet his, wide and confused, and he falters. “You need rest.”
“The day after, then.”
Solas’s sigh is exasperated. “Si—Inquisitor. Your injuries—”
Inquisitor. She stiffens, and it’s a mistake on his part, yes.
This he knows: in private, she hates her title. I’m serious, Josie, she’d said on one bright morning in Skyhold, it’s just us here, if you call me Inquisitor one more time—
Now she looks at Solas, and no traces of warmth linger in her eyes.
“Are you questioning my authority, Solas?”
“I do not mean it like that,” Solas says, “and you know it. Would you put everyone else at risk—”
“I know my limits.”
He wants to argue, but it’s not his place. Here they are: Solas and the Inquisitor. An apostate and a savior. The truth doesn’t matter, because this is all she has ever known. To her, he’s just Solas. To everyone else around her, she’s Andraste’s chosen, the leader of her divine force.
None of that is true. But here, in this small cabin, she holds onto those roles and draws a line.
And isn’t that exactly what he’d wanted?
She eyes the water basin on the other side of the room and stands up, palm against the wall. Her legs shake, but don’t give out. She tries her weight on her ankle and then hisses, and Solas doesn’t move.
“You should eat something,” Solas says. She nods.
“Yes.” She pulls her shirt over her head, revealing the bruises and scars, and Solas averts his eyes.
It’s not for him to see, not anymore.
“Solas,” she says, not entirely unkind. “Get out.”