Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When the door finally opens, it's not the hick or cranky old man she expected. It's an elf. Ellana sizes him up silently and rapidly. Bald, no vallas'lin, tall and broad-shouldered but stooping. Dark eyes, looking at her without expression. Indeterminate age - no wrinkles, but the slightest of eyelines. Dressed like an old country vicar, worn cardigan, wool trousers, slippers. Some sort of bone on a leather thong around his neck. Can't see his hands. (Handsome, strong features, even with the baldness.)

He's probably doing the same to her. She knows what he will see, and a lot of it is accurate. Young, Dalish, dedicated to Mythal, absolutely soaked, lost as hell, not from around here, shabby clothes and huge backpack and sturdy boots suggest an itinerant long away from her Clan. Her hands have a set of relatively indeterminate calluses, and she thinks few could trace them back to her particular mixture of pen and rope and knife and gun. His gaze is keen, but hopefully he sees a few slightly misleading things as well: innocent, harmless, not an enemy in the world.

He breaks the silence. "Anderan atish’an, stranger. What brings you here?” His tone is courteous, without a hint of wariness. His voice is a delectable baritone, smooth, velvet, inordinately civilized (keep it under control, Lavellan!). His elvhen is impeccable, if archaic in accent. His use of it raises the stakes. She’d taken him for a regular flat-ear and hoped for some of the wonder or reverence the city Elves would occasionally show the Dalish. Unfortunately, he is a worldly type, at least somewhat of a traveler or scholar. Still, it seems respectful to follow his cue. “Abelas, hahren, for disturbing you on such a night. I am Ellana Lavellan, a traveler, and I am stuck in this town for the night. The Sweet Bones has no rooms to let, but a Master Tethras told me to ask at the house across the bridge.”

“Ah, who else but Varric,” the elf said, with a hint of fond exasperation. He looks at her for a moment, and then steps inside, beckoning. “Please, come in. I will fetch some things to help you dry off.” She hesitates for a moment on the threshold of this strange elf in this strange village. He doesn’t have the look of an axe murderer, but then he wouldn’t, would he.  But it’s dark and the rain is turning to hail and she really has nowhere else to go, not out here on the edge of everything. And she can take care of herself.

So Ellana steps into a cozy cottage-type of house, with one big room, two beds visible against the far wall, several closed doors.  One wall is almost totally taken up by a few huge bookshelves, all filled twice over by ancient-seeming tomes and literal scrolls (she tries not to look overtly covetous). There’s a painting over the mantel that seems nice, though she can’t quite get an idea of what it looks like. The rest of the furnishings are not too remarkable. Some dried herbs hanging at each of the windows. Maybe slightly too many candles, orange and white and horrifically pink. But then, too many for what? Compared to other elvish book-hermits? Who am I to judge?

She gratefully sits on a towel in a chair by a merrily crackling fire, as he rifles through what appears to be a linen closet and emerges with another large towel. He hands it to her. “Please, dry yourself off. I will prepare something to drink.” She dries and watches him as he steps into a tiny kitchen area with a small campers’ stove and a handful of pots and pans. “Cocoa, perhaps? It seems appropriate for such a night.”

“That would be most welcome, hahren.”

“Please, call me Solas,” he says absently while preparing the drink. In only a moment, the air is redolent with promise of pleasure, and then she’s nursing an enormous mug in both hands. Perhaps the best cocoa she’s ever had, dark as mud, luxurious, with the slightest flavor of tropical fruit. She sits back and rests, letting the fire and cocoa warm her flesh and bones. Many hosts at this point would interrogate their guest to some degree. But Solas is either exceptionally trusting or has reason not to fear or suspect her, and they sit in comfortable silence.

The howling wind and driving rain seem to have no effect in this library cottage. It feels like Mamae’s aravel, a safe haven from her legion of troubles. It’s lulling Lavellan to sleep, and the hot milk drink isn’t helping, even as she tries to keep a cautious eye on her host. The other elf gives no indication of imminent axe murder; he is merely sipping his own cocoa, slow and deliberate, and gazing into the fire. His tongue flicks out to catch a stray drop on his lower lip, and her eyes follow involuntarily. But then a distant bell rings out, and her host starts.

“Abelas, Miss Lavellan, I was enjoying this cocoa so much that I quite lost track of the time. You must be exhausted. I suspect you can tell which is my spare bed. You’re welcome to sleep in your own clothes, or I can offer some of my spares. The washroom is through that door.”

“Tel’abelas, Master Solas, and thank you for the offer. Some clothing would be lovely, much of what I own has become rather cold.”

He hands her a tunic and leggings and she slips into the washroom. When she comes out, the remnants of their drinks are cleared away. Solas is bent over a tiny writing-desk near the bookshelves, scribbling something, but after a moment he looks up at her. The sight of her dressed in a comically large tunic that goes down to her knees seems to take him by surprise, because he breaks out into the first real smile she’s seen from him, radiant and warm, wrinkling his eyes. She suddenly feels almost foolish for her earlier caution; danger from this elf seems unimaginable.

“I generally break my fast around sunrise, but feel no obligation to keep to my hours, I shall leave you some food. Good night, Miss Lavellan.”

“Good night, Master Solas. I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality.”

He slips into the washroom, and by the time he comes out she’s buried deep under her blankets, blissfully asleep.

---

When Ellana wakes the next day, she feels exceedingly well-rested. The sun is decently above the horizon – she’s clearly slept in. At that realization she leaps out of bed, feeling a surge of adrenaline. But then she realizes where she is, the little cottage in the little village, the quintessence of remoteness. She’s probably safe from pursuit here, at least for the moment. Briefly she considers returning to the unaccountably comfortable spare bed. The sense of warmth and security she’d felt last night is dissipating in the cold light of morning, though, and her senses are alert and watching for danger. She quickly takes a census of her belongings and tools. Everything seems in place, knives and shoulder holster where they should be, enormous backpack secure and untampered with.

The smell of fresh bread reminds her that she is hungrier than she’d thought; pointing out to herself that Solas could have murdered her any number of times by now with no need to resort to poison, she tears into the hearty loaf her host has left for her, with a portion of what seems like a fresh local cheese and an unbelievably juicy pear.

Once Ellana’s finished, she washes her plate, changes out of the borrowed outfit, and then starts poking around the room, procrastinating her necessary future planning. Naturally, she is drawn to the wall of books. Something tells her that she can look but definitely not touch. Kind as the elf may appear, he also seems the type to be fussy about his books. And these books look worth fussing about, ancient and valuable. Her heart leaps when she sees that some of the titles are in Elvhen, many with the curlicue scripts of the Dales, one or two with lettering even she didn’t recognize. Her First’s sense was tingling. A trove like this would have sent Deshanna over the moon with excitement. Just knowing the list of titles, even -

“I appreciate your forbearance in not touching the books,” Solas says from the doorway. Fuck, how long has he been there? “Some of them are most fragile.”

“You have books from the Dales? I thought most of them were destroyed in the Exalted March.” Where the fuck did you get them?

“Far too many of them were, yes, but a few remained, either overlooked by the rampaging mobs, or stolen away by Orlesian nobles and the like. Most of these are only replicas of some of those originals, though a few were copied long enough ago that they are antiques in their own right.” He pauses, looking at her consideringly. “I’m impressed that you recognized that script. There are few who would, these days.”

“Oh, Clan Lavellan was really big on history. Huge nerds. Finding new ruins, trying to translate Arlathani elvhen, all that stuff.”

“Ah. The Dalish do like their scraps of history,” Solas says, suddenly expressionless. Hm. A sensitive topic, it seems. Good that I didn’t mention the whole First business.

Ellana is stung by the dismissal, maybe if all of our cultural heritage hadn’t been stolen into private collections the Dalish wouldn’t have to settle for scraps, but entering into some sort of academic debate would be unwise, not to mention ungrateful, and it’s not so hard to play the wide-eyed ingenue. “So, Master Solas, are you a collector? An antiquarian? This seems like a really impressive collection, even to me.”

He softens. “I completely forgot, you came here at night, in the dark. Come with me, Miss Lavellan, I’d like to show you something.”

“Ellana, please.”

“Ellana, then. Come, you must see the House from out here.”

She follows him outside. Solas’s cottage is high up on a hill, and there’s a magnificent view of Brancrug. It’s picture-perfect, like a souvenir photograph of ‘typical Rural Ferelden.’ Idyllic. And the bridge is not bad either, tall dark stone against the white cliffs. Gulls are crying in the distance.

“Behind you, Ellana.”

She turns, and her breath catches in her throat. What she took for a single house in the dark is in fact a mere gatehouse to intercept visitors crossing the bridge. Behind it, there is an enormous, sprawling manse, with several wings, at least four floors, an observatory, a fucking bell tower. It’s palatial, the kind of place that calls for a staff of dozens.

“Solas,” she says, letting the awe fill her voice. “What is this place?”

He laughs again, smiling. “This is Hush House, the Library, and I am the Librarian.”

---

Ellana hardly hears what Solas says next, and mumbles something polite, desperately thinking through the memories that are unfurling in her head.

In the shadowed world of forbidden texts and lost entities, there are some figures that stand out among the mass of thieves and grave-robbers. The Nightingale. The Tower. The Purohit. People with resources and powers that strain the imagination. People to curry favor with or studiously avoid.

It is almost impossible to imagine cardigan-clad Solas in that dark morass at all, let alone as one of its Entities. But she has heard Librarian said with that peculiar emphasis, with the Capital Letter, exactly once before. Years ago, before she was First, in Val Royeaux. There had been rumors of a trade in illegally trafficked Dalish books and artifacts. The possible transactors had been meeting out in the open in a little bistro, and she’d unobtrusively taken a table nearby. But the sale had been called off; all she’d heard was snippets of Antivan - “had to run, heard the Librarian was after ‘em.”

“Caught ’em, looks like. They found two stiffs in the moat in Strathaven last week, I hears.”

“Alas, my friends, it appears that our business must be concluded then. I am glad you remained safe. Perhaps our paths will cross again in future.”

With no books to be had, Clan Lavellan had no further interest in that matter, and no desire to attract the attention of the formidable Gendarmes de l’Anormal. Ellana had let it slip from mind. But here she is now and it’s suddenly relevant again. The goons hadn’t specified a librarian; the referent needed no explanation. What are the odds that there are two ‘Librarians’ like that?

Of all the villages, all the nowhere places she could have chosen to hide, she has come to this one, with a possible Entity and his inexplicable collection and this insane palace. Did Solas kill two guys in Starkhaven for one of those books? What the fuck is this place? The mysterious Solas, the dead-eyed innkeeper with his hostile patrons, even the oh-so-charming Varric, all take on a sinister cast in her mind. Every rational instinct screams in warning, Go, move on, get out.

This is how she’d felt on that night in Hightown. Right before everything went to complete shit.

But. But, but, but … if Ellana could read some of those books, if he had more, if she could take some or make copies even. Even the knowledge that these books existed would be incredible for the Clan, more precious than gems, and here they are on a shelf in a cottage in a fishing village. She can’t walk away from this … this quest. It’s in her blood and bones.

Neither, however, could she charge in blindly. Not this time. Her instincts aren’t wrong. Ancient knowledge like this has never been free of danger, and this time it’s barely pretending. Ellana knows in her bones that if she simply grabbed a few tomes of the shelf and ran, it would be disastrous, the kind of disaster that ends in bodies in the moat.

She has to do something. But it has to be careful, and quiet. And Solas can suspect nothing.

Chapter Text

It turns out Solas has gone back inside. She follows him.

“Ir Abelas, Solas, I was just – it’s really striking, that house.”

“It is, isn’t it? Tel’abelas. It took me the same way, when I first came here.”

“Is it a library? That whole house, full of books?”

“Unfortunately, though there are many volumes inside, the collection has been disordered and the bulk of the House abandoned since a terrible fire some years ago – hence my occupation of the gatehouse. In fact, I took up this post only recently, with the goal of recovery and restoration.” He smiled again. “I recognize the scholar’s lust in your eyes, Ellana. Most remarkable coincidence, that you should arrive here. If I may ask, what and where do you study?”

She can tell that this is going to be a bit of a minefield of a conversation. There was something weird with him and the Dalish, and many of her past activities were not strictly speaking ‘legal’. But she hardly had a choice, especially if she was going to follow up on the admittedly insane plan coming together in her head.  

The best lies are not false, merely well selected truths.

“Well, I wouldn’t call myself a scholar, really!” she says with a shy smile. “I haven’t had any formal education beyond the Clans’ training. But in the course of our activities gathering lore, I’ve come across a lot of old books, tapestries and the like, so I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

“I see, yes, though I have a feeling you’re selling yourself short. Is that what brought you to Brancrug? Is there a treasure trove of Elvhen history somewhere on the moors?” Besides your own, you mean?

“I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to do any exploration or scholarship for a little while. I – well, I ended up in a bit of a, uh, dispute with other Dalish about our approach to artifact seeking.” All technically true, if understated. “So I found myself without a base of operations, and decided to leave the city for a little while, doing odd jobs, roaming the countryside, you know.”

“Ah. I’m sorry to hear that, Ellana.” He looked at her again, with a sort of amiably curious expression. “I know for a fact that there are many such jobs to be done in the villages here, including Brancrug. The village in fact sees surprisingly many folk pass through here for this or that. Now, in the spring, there are always a couple of miners who stop and do a little work on the way to some sort of gathering.”

“That’s good to hear! It sounds like I may be able to spend quite a while out here.”

“This is your aim, then? To roam the countryside for the immediate future?”

“Well, the roaming isn’t imperative,” she said. Cheerily. She didn’t want to look too much the part of hapless waif, after all. “I’ve spent my whole life wandering. Always been taken by the idea of building a home somewhere. Most un-Dalish, I know. Maybe I’ll even do it here! It depends on where there’s work, of course.”

Solas didn’t look at all unhappy about her apparent un-Dalishness. “Well, if you find yourself still here and free at teatime, feel free to stop by.”

---

Ellana’s visit to the village is, well, mixed. She decides to knock on a few doors and ask about wok to be had before heading to the inn. The door of the rectory opens, revealing a tall Elf with Mythal’s vallas’lin. As soon as he sees her, his expression sours and he slams the door shut. A mystery to add to the list, I guess. The Postmaster dismisses her with all the majesty of his high office, the midwife Josephine (married to the undertaker. Cradle to grave service - hah) isn’t home, but a sign on a door says she is looking for an apprentice. That seems more of a long-term thing. A commitment. Varric isn’t at his forge, so she finally heads to the inn, which is probably relatively empty at this time of day.

It's not empty when she gets there. It contains Varric, who seems capable of being somewhat of a crowd all by himself. The undertaker’s sitting with him, a bluff-looking bearded man who seems far more cheerful than his job would suggest. He waves a tankard at her. “Firefly!” he calls out. “Come, come, take a seat!”

Ellana grins. She could tell already last night that she was going to like this man. “Firefly?” she asks as she swings a leg over a bench. He slides her a tankard, and she nods in gratitude. “For the little lantern you were carrying last night. Looked like a firefly in the dark! And, of course, your overall radiance,” he says with a cheeky grin.

“Oy, leave the poor girl alone,” the undertaker says, giving Varric a companionable cuff upside the head. “She’s just got here and you’re driving her off already.”

“I promise I can handle it, Master…?”

“Hero,” Varric says, at the same time the man says “Thom.”

“All right, Master Hero, then!” she says brightly, and the undertaker groans and puts his head in his hands.

“Well, what brings you to the ol’ Bones this afternoon, Firefly?”

She takes a pull from the tankard. “Well, I was thinking of staying out here for a while, and so I’m looking for work.”

“Ha! See? She ain’t scared off yet!”

“Give it time, dwarf. You’re like a rash, takes a while before you really start getting under the skin.”

“You can’t fool me, Hero, I know you love me just like all the others.”

“Work, now, let me think. My work’s slow these days, though that’s good news for everyone else I suppose. My wife’s wanting an apprentice, but that may be not exactly what you want?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t know if I can commit to being here for a couple of years.”

“There’s always fishing, three parts of the year, if you don’t mind boats. Farmhands, too. But that’s hard work for poor pay. Some of the big houses in the countryside are always looking for staff, I suppose. Heard about anything, Varric?”

The dwarf stared at her for a heartbeat too long, with eyes that saw just a little too much. “As it happens, Firefly, I do know someone who’s in need of assistance. Thing is, he just doesn’t know it yet.” He grinned again, warm and sharp. “How did you get along with Chuckles up the hill?”

The nickname took her a second to figure out, but then she smiled. “Chuckles, eh? You do have a gift, Varric. But he seemed like a nice man? Very welcoming. Cares a lot about his books, and his library.”

“Excellent, excellent! Knew you two would get along. Well, I think he might have something for you, but like I said, he might need a little talking around. Why don’t we stop by his place again later and have a little chat? Hero, you should come too, he always likes to see you.”

“Hah! He just appreciates an occasional rest from your chattering, Varric. But no, I’ve a commission I have to finish today.”

“As it happens, Solas said that I could stop by for tea today if I was still around.”

“Perfect! I’ll just go and scrounge up a few gifts to make it up to him for inviting myself along.”