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The Empress was dead. The Breach consumed the sky. The Elder One ruled the entire continent, if not the globe with it. Demons infested every corner they could. Friends and allies were being mined for that blighted, red and angry version of the lyrium everyone was much more familiar with. More were tortured to convert and surrender, or for what information they knew… or were being experimented on for who knows what ends.
This shouldn't be happening.
Mien’harel could only watch helplessly as they watched the demons come through those doors as Leliana and Solas stayed behind as second line of defense. The two of them, Varric and Iron Bull had gone on a suicide mission to buy Dorian enough time to cast the spell to get himself and Mien’harel back to the right place and time to keep this from happening to begin with.
The Venatori and demons dragged Varric and Bull's maimed bodies in, as though part of some twisted taunt. Leliana just kept shooting, Solas using his magics to the best of his abilities to stave them off.
There were too many. Far too many.
Leliana wound up shot in the shoulder by one of the Venatori, interrupting her Chantry prayers.
A separate group of demons had Solas on the backfoot, causing him to back closer and closer as Dorian did his work.
Even despite being outnumbered and overwhelmed, neither backed down for even a moment.
Solas was the closer of the two. Mien’harel could see how he bared his teeth, threw punches or swung his staff as a blunt instrument in furious attempts to keep them back by any means necessary. It was a tenacity they knew intimately well- an animal backed into a corner.
And then, one of the larger terror demons picked him up in one hand, and ripped him open with the other.
Mien’harel didn't even think as they screamed and tried to make a move to do- to do something , anything to keep it from happening. But Dorian held them in place, dragging them back- but not before Solas's blood coated the entire front of them from the vicious ruthlessness he was torn apart.
“You move, and we all die!” Dorian was quick to remind them, but that didn't seem to quite reach them.
Despite having to make an active effort of holding Mien’harel back while casting the spell in its final moments, the rift opened for the two to go through as Leliana managed to keep fighting.
But not before Solas, in his last moments, managed to look right to Mien’harel. He said something, and while not able to be heard, Mien’harel did manage to read his lips.
“Please, don't worry- I shall see you on the other side.”
The next thing Mien’harel comprehended, it was being dragged and set unsteady on their feet in front of Alexius. The ritual worked; they and Dorian were back where they were supposed to be. But for Mien’harel?
The world tuned out. Any voices that were speaking sounded distant and muffled. All they could focus on was the Magister in front of them as he fell to his knees. They didn't even register that Dorian was still holding them up- just that their knees shook under their own weight as they panted from the ordeal leaving them out of breath.
“When we offered the mages sanctuary, we did not give them the right to drive the people from their homes,” Queen Anora chastised the former First Enchanter, these being the first words Mien’harel actually registered in their haze.
Fiona put her hands up placatingly as she approached with reply. “King Alistair, Queen Anora, I assure you, we never intended-”
His fault. His fault. Awful. Terrible. Revolting. Abhorrent. He needs to die. Die by its hands. He stole away what was not his to take. HIS FAULT HIS FAULT HIS FAULT HIS FAULT HIS FAULT HIS FAULT-
“The mages forced people from their homes? With all due respect, your highness, try that asshole right there! The Grand Enchanter had no say in what he did!” Mien’harel's voice cut through the air like a blade, shrill and sharp with tears hot on their face.
Everything felt as though it were spinning as Mien’harel still felt the warmth of Solas's blood on them, and the heat made everything dizzying as they lunged at Alexius.
Their hands swiped out, managing to claw him in the eye- but that was as much as they could manage as they were held back by not one, but two sets of arms.
One was Dorian's where he still held them up the other was Solas's. The fact they were so distinctly Solas's made everything sharpen back into focus, but in such a way that everything was now a new sort of disoriented.
They then faced the King and Queen of Fereldan, wild eyes staring holes through them. The blood certainly didn't help- and gods know how this will have Josephine later.
“The mages are guests and allies of the Inquisition as of this moment- they're leaving with us!”
Just about everyone in the room stared at them in some form or combination of shock, awe, or confusion.
Before anything else could be said, Mien’harel make another, though unsuccessful swipe for Alexius. This prompted Bull to replace Dorian in holding them back and working with Solas to quickly escort Mien’harel to a separate area entirely.
Varric and Dorian stayed back- someone had to smooth over things with the King and Queen, after all.
Things began unraveling and unfocusing once again. They thrashed and struggled, but part of them couldn't bear to claw and bite like they would under most circumstances like this. These were their friends- or… were they?
Or was it the version of them, destined to die? Did they really get sent back, or did the magic put them somewhere some time else again? Was this a trick? Was this the work of the Elder One that was meant to have them lull into the security of the illusion?
The next thing that registered to them was being very firmly sat down. The room having changed as well as their position seemed to catch them off guard enough that they stopped struggling, stopped trying to run off- but they were still firmly untethered in their perception of reality at the moment.
Hands held their shoulders down, but not in a hostile way. The firm way one holds the shoulders of a friend to ground them. Voices spoke to them, but whatever they were saying was lost on them for the moment.
They suddenly became aware of their hands, then the warmth on their face and down the entire front of themself. And then, like an angry Druffalo, the nauseating, heady and metallic scent hit them full force. They were no stranger to blood and gore, but knowing the source made them start to gag and dry heave.
They don't know how long it was between then and actually vomiting, or when a bucket got placed in front of them between their knees.
The hands that were on their shoulder held back their hair. A different, more delicate hand just rubbed their back. Someone was saying something, the tone meant to be soothing. They could hardly even pick up that someone was talking over their own wretching.
Their stomach was empty. All that came up now was bile that left a strange, burning sweetness in the back of their throat. The heaving was broken up by coughing, only adding to how their body was shaking. But even the bile seemed to run dry, leaving them sore and exhausted and gasping for air.
The door opened at some point. The hands in their hair let go. The bucket in front of them was taken. The door closed, at least they thought it did. It left them alone with only the hand on their back. And then the door repeated the sounds.
A towel wetted in cold water touched their cheek, things finally starting to come back into focus again.
“-ey. Hey, killer, you with us?”
Warm. Earthy. Slight gravel. A Marcher, both in origin and to the beat of his own drum. Varric?
“Wh-... w-what?” Mien’harel's voice came out as a rasp, head raising from where they had leaned it backwards over the couch. When had they done that? What room even was this?
“There you are, boss,” Bull remarked as he saw them coming back little by little. “What the hell happened? I've seen you literally boil men encased in ice alive and hardly bat an eye- I'd hate to see whatever the hell made you lose it so hard you threw up.”
Mien’harel was listening, kind of. But as they sat up more properly, their eyes went to their still bloody hands. They didn't speak for a long moment, and not until prompted.
“Where did this blood come from?” Solas continued to wipe, rinse and repeat with the towel to clean them off. “This is… more than the standard battle would leave you. And I am not seeing an injury it could have-”
“It's yours,” they interrupted, visibly starting to unravel again. “You- you were- they- a-and the others-”
Tears resumed- if they ever stopped in the first place- as their stammering became incoherent.
The other three simply froze, neither expecting that answer nor quite being able to formulate an immediate response.
As Mien’harel was just starting to hyperventilate, Solas quickly put the towel down and grabbed their hands, not caring that they were still soaked in his own blood.
He placed one on his chest, over his heart where they could feel it beat. The other was at his neck, letting their fingers feel his pulse. It made them freeze up, comprehending what they were feeling.
“We live,” Solas said quickly, but softly. “You feel my heart and my pulse, yes?”
They slowly nodded, just… staring at their hands on him.
His skin was slightly cool, but only at the very surface. Underneath he was warm, pulse quickened with worry but very much there.
“Good, good…” He gently squeezed where he held them in place. “You feel them because I am still alive, here and now. If you were to do the same to Varric and Iron Bull, you would find that they, too, are alive and well. You are here with us in this moment. You are safe, as are we.”
Mien’harel stared a moment longer, then their eyes met his.
He would be able to see the somewhat lessened, but still very present terror in their eyes. The way they looked at him almost uncomprehending of what they saw. That kind of fear that puts ice in one's veins and fog in the mind.
Varric, on Mien’harel's other side, took note of how it seemed to do… something. Not quite enough to entirely bring them back down to earth, but somewhat.
“Here- can I have one of your hands?” He brought one of his own near one of their wrists, Solas letting go of the one they had on his chest. After a moment, the question seemed to actually register and they gave a nod. With that, Varric brought that hand to the pulse point on his own neck, and that seemed to soothe them a bit more.
Warm to the touch, pokes of stubble around the neck. Rhythm indicated he was confident about this, but still held nagging anxiety about the situation. Just the slightest quickening for worry.
Of course, with only two hands and both taken, Bull had to get a little creative.
“You up for a hug, boss?”
They… tentatively nodded.
Iron Bull came around the front of the couch, pulling up a chair. He coaxed Mien’harel to scoot forward a bit, gingerly bringing their head to his chest. His thumb rubbed the side of their head, almost absently.
Slow. Calm. A stubborn heart that would keep going until it was truly done. Not a care in the world- or so he'd have you think. He cares deeply. He wouldn't be doing this if he didn't care even just a little.
The fuzzy edges of the world sharpened to what they were supposed to be. The shake to their hands lessened, their own pulse slowing. Hell, they almost felt sleepy.
They then took their hands back from Solas and Varric, instead just… bringing both of them in for a hug. They would've included Bull, but that hug was already happening and there was only so much arm they had.
Both of them were taken off guard by the sudden change, but neither seemed to complain. Varric was a bit quicker to lean into and return the hug than Solas was. But to Solas's credit, he probably wasn't used to being hugged and was more surprised on receiving one.
There was a long moment of quiet before Mien’harel pulled back from the three of them, but only just enough to start explaining what in the name of Andraste's sacred knickers happened. Obviously, the story held ill omens and awful events, but at least they knew what to look into now.
The four then did their best to clean off the blood the rest of the way, some of it having transferred during the physical contact. If nothing else, to look a little more presentable to the royalty they probably still had to smooth some things over with. They'd only respond so much and so well to solely a Tevinter mage, after all.
~
It'd been three weeks. The mages were still preparing for handling the Breach, and some of the higher ups within the Inquisition were taking a well deserved break in the wake of Redcliffe.
Mien’harel had hardly been by themself in the daylight hours if they could help it. It was practically a game of hot potato as they cycled between Solas, Bull, Varric and Leliana. They'd seen their friends- their people- dead, dying or just about to get there in front of their eyes. Even if it was a future never to be, that didn't take away the impact it had of seeing that.
The first day, as they seemed to become easily untethered from reality once more, Solas and Varric both reinforced the feeling of a pulse as a grounding method. It worked before, it was likely to work again.
It was hard to get anything out of them as far as words that entire first week. If they didn't opt for nonverbal signage, they gave one word answers. They hardly ate, they were awake for days at a time.
Leliana's scouts would report back to her that they saw Mien’harel go hunting when the sun had set, and if they hadn't done that they had gone to check and see that all four were indeed still alive. Sometimes the latter would occur multiple times in a night.
They also made it a habit of scouting around Haven generally speaking if they felt something amiss, the scouts actually losing them during this time unless they took the same route as Mien’harel or bumped into them by accident.
If that was how they coped, that was how they coped. The scouts were told to leave it alone. Besides, Mien’harel's hunting meant extra meats for the people of Haven to eat. No one could complain about more food for the larders being added over the three week period.
Track. Kill. Drag. Check the pack. They live, but in a few hours it would be worth checking again. Can't be too careful. Fate may decide to be quiet this time.
Gut. Skin. Carve. Tan. Do something with every bit, so none goes to waste. It cannot afford to waste in these times. It cannot afford to lose. It cannot afford to fail. Not again.
Even if it'd been three weeks of trying to do anything but sleep.
~
The night was quiet, the moon about halfway through the sky. The fullness of it illuminated the sky, casting light through the window of Solas's room. It was a small structure, not quite meant to house someone, but he made it work. It was quieter out this way, and he enjoyed that.
Steps one would not hear coming if not for a sharp ear. Tentative and skittish, like the bright soul they belonged to. They may have been loud, opinionated and even coarse on the outside, but it hid the softer and more vulnerable core within. He heard them either coming or going from hunting, but every few hours they would come and peak in. Just to make sure he was still breathing. The direction towards him was rattled routine at this point, but the steps were heavier. It was like they were carrying something. What was it, he wondered?
Mien’harel's entrance was only given away by the brief, cold draft from outside. They were skilled at a stealthy entrance, but they hadn't counted on Solas being a light sleeper. He didn't have the heart to tell them. They already felt a sense of guilt- he could see it every time they sidled up to him and just held his wrist, every time they looked at him and the others- he didn't need to worsen it by telling them he was awakened by their visits.
They're lingering by the doorway. Now why was that? What made them hesitate?
Their footsteps padded against the floor, going to a dilapidated but sturdy enough chair he knew was in the room. They set something down, something heavy and that sounded similar to textiles. They only lingered briefly before making their way to the bed, gently shaking his shoulder thinking he was still sleeping.
“S-... Solas?” Their voice was a soft whisper, likely just going to leave him alone if he didn't respond. “I… brought something for you.”
Solas made a sound like he was just waking up. He may as well sell the bit. He sat up and stretched, rubbing his eyes.
“Is that so…?” He looked up to where Mien’harel stood beside the bed. “What might it be?”
Mien’harel went back over to the chair. The moonlight in the room revealed it was folded up… clothes? Pelts? It was three different items, stacked from largest on the bottom to smallest on the top. They tugged the one in the middle out from the pile and brought it back over.
Wordlessly, they unfolded it and draped it across his shoulders, revealing it to be a cloak made from wolves’ pelts and some additional cushioning. It was big enough that it could serve as either a cloak or a warm blanket.
Solas pulled some of it in front of himself to get a better look at it. It was rather sturdily made, practical techniques in the sewing as opposed to more ornamental. Practiced, as well, like they had done it a hundred times before. Then, something caught his eye in the cords of leather that made up the optional closure.
Runes. Very small, and very easy to miss, but he recognized them when he saw them.
“What magic did you weave into this?” Surely they didn't think it'd escape his attention. Besides, he preferred to know what magic was on something that he was to keep.
“It's… just to, um… to make sure you're still alive,” they answered. “I know I can't, um, be around you, Varric, Bull and Leliana all the time so… I-I made these. Leliana already got hers- I didn't think it'd, uh… be so hard to find snow cats. Y'know, in the snow. I mean- that's also kinda the point, right? But, uh… yeah.”
Admittedly, while they were talking, Solas channeled a little magic into the leather just as a way of identifying the magic. It was exactly as Mien’harel explained it to be, no more and no less. It made him feel… a little bad for doubting them.
“You picked different pelts for different people? Would it not have been easier to stick to a single source?” He tilted his head curiously.
Wolf furs for the wolf. The irony was not lost on him, but how were they to know such a thing? It was a sweet gesture nonetheless, to have been handmade such a practical and yet sentimental garment. Though, there was an odd pang of melancholy with it, knowing they would not be making their night time visits after this more than likely. But, at least it gave them more time to sleep instead of worry.
“Well, it… seemed more fitting,” Mien’harel answered. “Bull's is Druffalo hides. He's big like one. Not to mention his personality aligns well with them. He says he likes to hit things, but when he hits things with personal purpose it usually hits far harder. Like Druffalo. They like to headbutt trees, but that's mostly for the impersonal sort of reason as marking a territory. But have you ever seen a Druffalo when you try and hurt it or its herd members? That's what really makes the difference. The effort isn't diminished necessarily, but there's a difference between getting the job done and when it's personal.”
They looked back over to the remaining two cloaks they had made before they continued.
“Deer pelts for Varric. You don't expect a root digging deer to be violent, and they usually aren't. They stand their ground when pressed, though. Varric is much the same way- amiable, of the earth, prefers to talk his way out of things. But when it comes down to it, he will stand his ground with his allies with a force you wouldn't expect out of him.”
In their pause before they continued, Solas gestured for them to sit. They tilted their head, perplexed but taking him up on the offer. They sat on the edge, hardly on the bed at all.
“You are free to make yourself comfortable, you know,” Solas pointed out gently. “I know you must be tired, you have been busy after all.”
Mien’harel nodded, tentatively scooting to be more on the bed. They shifted and squirmed a bit to get comfortable, sitting cross-legged and slouching by the time they did. They then went on explaining who got what and why.
“Leliana's was made of snowcats,” they began again. “Snowcats are elusive, and a lot of people take their body language as this soft, sometimes skittish thing. They don't know the signs of when it will strike. Not to mention they're hard to find- not because they're low in numbers, but because of how well they blend into their environment and seldom leave a trace. Leliana does the same thing. But the few who do manage to find and tame one, they say that the snowcat is a stubborn thing that claws at people it can tell are bothering its person of choice. Just like Leliana in relation to the things and people she believes in.”
They put much thought into the things they created. Their reasons made sense, and not to mention the dedication that went into these. Seldom could he recall people who would go to such lengths for those they cared for- but he could recall them. One of them in particular rather well.
“Why pick wolves for me, if I may ask? It seems you saved that explanation for last.”
Mien’harel hummed in thought for a long moment. It seemed less about needing to think of the reason, but that they were conflicted.
… what might the little beast be hiding? What might it be that they hesitate to tell?
“You remind me of them. Wolves are very smart. Understanding. Loyal. And… protective.” they answered finally. “I… saw the way you fought. You snarled and swung at them. I've seen wolves in cages. They fight the same way when pressed. I like them. They're lovely.”
They paused for a moment, their eyes moving to the cloak on his shoulders.
“Those ones… were like the ones up by Dennet's farm. Had it not been for that, I think I would have struggled more hunting them. I couldn't find the demon responsible until after several of them came for me.”
“You went and hunted it alone?” Solas couldn't keep the worry out of his voice. Certainly, Mien’harel proved time and again to be skilled in combat, but the fact they'd gone and hunted the demon alone was cause for concern. “What if it had been multiple? Was anyone even aware of where you were?”
For just a moment, the same shame a scolded child would have flashed Mien’harel's expression.
“I… I didn't, um… I didn't attack it right away,” they replied. “If- if I couldn't do it myself I would- would've come back. And I mean, Leliana's people know everything right? So I… I think at least they knew where I was…”
The longer they'd spoken, the less confident they sounded in their answer. They were telling the truth the best they had it, certainly, just less confident in the way they presented it.
They see someone questioning them as reason for shame. That wasn't what he intended- he had only been worried, he hadn't been trying to make them feel bad about it. While it did seem reckless to him regardless, he did need to hand it to them that they could take care of themself. Now, who put that shame into them to begin with? They looked like they were going to cry if he pressed them any harder, that doesn't just crop up from an isolated incident.
“Mien’harel…”
He'd only said their name to get them to focus a little more on him, but that seemed to backfire as their gaze snapped to his- with fear . Tears welled up in their eyes, their posture stiffening. There was a heavy quiet that hung in the air, neither breaking eye contact.
… they're far more sensitive to something like shame than most. He'd never seen them this reactive to it before, but then again they hadn't been sleeping hardly at all. Of course they were going to be more reactive. And that was on top of the events of Redcliffe.
“Come here,” Solas said, scooting over slightly and patting next to him. He kept his tone softer, at minimum to keep from upsetting them further.
Mien’harel looked… confused. Their eyes darted from him to the spot next to him, prompting them to tilt their head.
“No one, especially not me, is upset with you,” Solas assured. “I bring up these things only because I worry for you. It is not to shame you, or to belittle your ability.”
With that in mind, Mien’harel looked between the two with contemplation. Almost absently, they scooted to the spot next to Solas, curled in on themself and leaning against him almost like a pet would. And then, surprisingly, took the hand that he'd patted the spot with and placed it around their own shoulders.
“... not used to people expressing actual worry about me,” they said quietly. “And I know better than most that being scared can look like being angry, but you take that out on something else, not the person you're scared for. I… haven't known a lot of people who think about that.”
Solas nodded, his hand rubbing their upper arm.
“I do apologize, I hadn't meant to trigger such memory in you,” he replied, matching their volume. “Rest assured, if I am worried for you I will not act angry with you about it. And if I do- because I know myself to be far from perfect- I am not above apologizing and righting the wrongs I would commit.”
Mien’harel nodded. They seemed to trust that.
“... I should… go give Varric and Bull theirs,” they said after a moment, eyes looking over at the two cloaks in the chair. But, even so, they seemed reluctant to go anywhere.
“If you would like, you are free to come back here,” Solas offered. “I do not mind it.”
The offer was met with a nod, leaving a bit of ambiguity as to whether they would or not.
~
Most people would be asleep right now, given the late hours of the night at the moment. The Iron Bull, however, was currently burning the candle at both ends. Ben-Hassrath reports about the happenings over the last few weeks were… hard to put into the right words. Should he mention the madness the Herald was going through after? Or anything else of what they were like?
He stared at the paper, conflicted.
He paused, his ears picking up on the lightest crunch of snow outside his tent. The Chargers were all in their own tents asleep- or, at minimum the booze put them to bed. The rest of the soldiers were in their bunks. He could only think of three possibilities: Leliana, one of her scouts, or Mien’harel.
He looked to the flap of his tent, and not a few seconds later he saw the black curls followed by big silver eyes peeking in at him. The fact they were so small compared to him, most people really, it tickled him how they looked peeking in like that.
“What's gotcha running around this late, boss?” He couldn't help the amused laughter that left him, even if it sounded a bit weary.
“Present,” they answered simply as they poked their head the rest of the way through.
“A present? Get in here, then!” Bull put down the quill he'd been using, making sure ink was dry before putting his papers to the side and leaning on the table in front of him. “What's got you in a present giving mood?”
Mien’harel came the rest of the way in, fumbling for a moment as they found a place to put Varric's down to present Bull his own. They then toddled over to the Qunari, Druffalo cloak in hand.
Bull scooted his chair back as they laid it over his shoulders, much like they had with Solas. They pulled the closing fixture in place, leaving it to Bull to decide if he wanted to close it or not.
Given Bull's occupation, the runes on the leather cords didn't escape his notice.
“There is… a little magic in it,” they said honestly before he could ask. “It's not much- just, uh… keeps track if you're still alive or not. Well- okay, generally tracking vital signs. If anything is wrong, it- it uh- lets me know. Nothing bad, promise.”
Bull had been a heavier sleeper, but things like touch- such as to check his pulse- was something that didn't fail to wake him up every time. He never said anything, having known a lot of people finding different ways to cope even if they were strange, but that put the note of the magic and what it did into a slightly different perspective.
“Redcliffe still has you messed up, huh?” His expression softened a but when he asked. It was phrased as a question, but was more of a confirmation. He received a tentative nod in response.
“It- uh- also is to keep you warm. Even Druffalo have thick hides and furs to keep them warm in this weather, and it's big enough that you can use it as a blanket when pressed,” Mien’harel explained. “I figured the practicality would be something you'd appreciate. Practical kinda guy.”
“You're not wrong about that,” he laughed, lightly tapping a knuckle against their shoulder. “And a cloak made of Druffalo? Those are some tough bastards, little thing like you had to have had a hard time taking even one down, let alone dragging that shit back here.”
It was Mien’harel's turn to laugh, shifting their weight from one foot to the other.
“I started hunting when I was young,” they replied. “I had an older brother who taught me, since I ran off a lot. He wanted to make sure when I ran off I'd still be able to feed myself, and how to use the pelts for things and how to put them together.”
“You ran off a lot? Why?” Bull leaned back in his chair, a foot scooting a smaller stool over.
They tilted their head, observing how his foot pulled away. Obviously the stool wasn't for him, so that only left the implication of him inviting them to sit. They went ahead and took it before they answered.
“It's… a lot, but I'll say my mother wasn't the greatest to put it lightly,” they went on. “Though, since you're Ben-Hassrath, you probably already could've guessed that about me, huh?”
“Absent father, terrible mother, someone who kinda cared for you in the way an adult should but not as much as you needed, but I didn't sus out a sibling,” he admitted. “Weren't close?”
“Well… yes and no?” Mien’harel leaned their elbows on their knees, resting their chin on folded hands. “He showed up when he really needed to, but we didn't hang out much. He was significantly older than I am, and decided to leave the clan first opportunity he was able.”
Source of their abandonment issues. Explained why they clung so hard to people- the ones they felt connection with. They felt a connection to him, certainly. It was the familiarity and preference for rigidity and structure. The common approach of frankness, and shared interest of hitting things. They both really liked hitting things.
“Explains some things,” he replied in that strange mix of blunt and somehow wise he had. Well, some people called it wise. If you asked him, wasn't so much wisdom as it was just picking shit up.
“I'm not hard to read, am I?” Mien’harel smiled nervously, shifting in their seat to sit cross legged with their hands in their lap.
“Sometimes you are, actually,” Bull remarked. “Thing is, when you are hard to read, feels like you aren't… all there. Usually when dealing with nobles and the Chantry. Like when we went to Val Royeaux- you were hard as stone, a lot more tactful, but a lotta the things that make you you weren't there. Like you got this mask you put on and you check out. Practiced, so it's not your first time having to do it. Had to keep it up for long periods of time, given the amount of skill you got doing it.”
“... yeah, that's about right.”
Normally, people would be freaked out at being analyzed. And yet, Mien’harel seemed… pleased. Weirdly pleased.
Neutral, impersonal analysis made them feel seen. They didn't usually like being seen. But that sort of being seen was being genuinely vulnerable- vulnerability meant weakness. They didn't like being seen as weak. Impersonal analysis meant they didn't need to do that.
“... you want me to keep goin'? You seem to like getting gently picked apart,” Bull pointed out with a raised brow. “Most people hate that.”
“I know, but I like knowing what you see,” they reply. “I guess it gives a weird insight into things I didn't realize I did. And it's this, like… safe way to be seen? I think? Maybe?”
“You like it because it's impersonal,” he replied, deciding to voice his analysis if they were going to at least enjoy it a little. “The neutrality of an impersonal analysis means a lack of judgement. You fear judgement, that's why you're so reluctant to be thrust into the spotlight. It's why you're constantly consulting with Josephine to get someone else to do the talking- her, Cassandra, Cullen or even Varric. Probably a display of having been repeatedly judged in a negative light, probably by your mother and likely most of the clan you grew up with. The people you grew up with probably emotionally and socially abandoned you, and even if you don't think of it that way now? Part of you feels like your brother abandoned you when he left. You cling to people you feel like you can be safe around, and you cling hard because of just how little connection you've had. You think of yourself as more like a thing than a person, which given how people talk about you being the Herald of Andraste? Even with you trying to express otherwise, especially not being Andrastian yourself? That shit reinforces it. You've been crawling back into a shell where you made maybe a little progress coming out of it.”
He paused, shifting a bit in his chair and mimicking Mien’harel's posture. Leaned forward, hands clasped in his lap, but he kept his feet on the ground. The chair he was in wouldn't have had the room for him to bring them up to sit like the elf across from him.
“You want me to keep goin', boss?”
Mien’harel nodded, both of them sitting and talking- or, mostly Bull talking- for a while longer before Mien’harel takes off for Varric's.
He resolves to only include relevant details about them in the report. They don't need to know more than that.
~
Well, shit. If he goes back to sleep now, he's gonna forget that twist that could work for Swords and Shields. He might not have a knack for romance, but this shit would really spice it up if he decided to finish it.
Varric, with the most resigned sigh that only other writers knew exactly what prompted it by the sound of it alone, dragged himself out of bed. He lit a candle at the desk in his room, pulled out a notebook and started writing down the idea and its details.
As soon as the last pen stroke met paper, there was something that caught his eye in his peripheral. Movement outside, without a sound to follow.
He was almost up out of his chair, given the vague shape and no sound it startled him a bit. But, he recognized the specific knock pattern that came seconds later.
Letting out a sigh of relief, he went over and opened the door for the familiar and squirrely elf on the other side.
“Shit, killer, you scared me half to death ‘til you knocked! What are you doing up?” He looked them over, noting the pelt-made cloak in their hands. He also noted the momentary slip of… something at the nickname. But just as quick as it came, it was gone. Regardless, he gestured for them to come in.
“Brought you something,” Mien’harel answered, entering at his behest. “Uh… something to keep you warm. And- and, uh… kinda put my mind to rest. At least a little.”
“Oh yeah?” Varric raised an eyebrow, closing the door and watching them with a head tilt. “Lemme see whatcha got, kid.”
Mien’harel unfolded the cloak in their arms, this one not needing to be as big given Varric was a dwarf, but still big enough that it served the same dual purpose on a practical level that the rest had. They draped it along his shoulders, stepping back just a little so he could adjust it as he needed.
Varric held the fastening bits in the front together as he looked it over, noting the fact this was entirely handmade. In his years as a businessman, he'd seen a lot of product, some being like this in nature. But this? This was made with hands that could craft with some of the best of them.
“Andraste's tits, this is beautiful work,” he remarked, his fingers running over the fur of the deer pelts. “And I've seen some good work with pelts. Some shops I've traded in over the years carried stuff like this, in varying quality, but this puts a massive chunk to shame. Good stitching, fantastic preservation of the original fur and leathers… who taught you?”
“I, uh, got taught the basics by my brother, but the rest I kinda had to trial and error over the years,” they answered. “Is… is it really that good?”
“Good? Kid, this shit is great,” he replied with a chuckle. “Excellent, even! And I get a new favorite cloak just because you felt like it!”
There was a slight pause, his eyes going back to them from the cloak.
“The quality isn't the only reason it's gonna be my new favorite thing. It's something a friend made for me with their own hands,” he admitted with a softer expression, then raised an eyebrow playfully with his grin following suit. “But don't tell anyone I got sentimental on you, killer. I got a reputation to keep.”
There it was again- that flash of something .
Varric's expression was no longer playful, brow knitting together in an honest bit of concern.
“You okay? Was it something I said?” He gestured for them to sit on the bed with him.
Mien’harel looked at anything that wasn't him- the floor, the wall, the candle still lit on the desk. Anything. And while they did sit, they had hesitated to do so.
“... I take it you don't speak a lick of elven- not that that's a bad thing, just, uh… an observation,” they remarked.
“I don't, no,” he replied with a bit of confusion. “What's that gotta do with anything?”
“My name translates to violent trickster . And I didn't choose it for myself.” Mien’harel had this sardonic, pained grin as they said it, like if they didn't smile about it they'd cry.
There was an almost tangible silence over the room for a long moment.
Oh, shit. That was definitely not the nickname he should be going with. Eh, he wasn't 100% committed to that one exactly anyway. He could easily come up with something else- maybe something that wouldn't have them looking at him with this… kicked puppy look. Wait, something like that might actually work-
“I… damn.” His words were quiet as he broke the silence, putting a hand on their shoulder. “I didn't think whoever named you would be that mean to you about it- I'm sorry.”
“No, no- it's- it's not your fault,” they stammered out quickly. They tried to say something else to finish whatever thought was going through their mind about it, but Varric beat them to the punch.
“Hey, hey, calm down. You don't need to freak out, I didn't think you were blaming me for something I didn't know,” he assured them. “I've seen you. I know you aren't like that. No big deal. I just know I've seen you go feral in fights before, so I figured it was fitting. I didn't think it'd hurt your feelings- but now I know it does. So, I'll think of something else that fits you better. Alright?”
Mien’harel took a deep breath, nodding. They… really did remind him a bit of a down trodden, lost puppy sometimes. In that way it was kinda hard to be mean to them in any kind of intentional way outside of both parties very clearly just ribbing one another.
“Uh… y-you, uh, should probably also know that, um- there's runes on the leather cord that fastens the cloak,” they mentioned after a moment. “It's nothing big and terrible! Just… something to put my mind at ease? Keeps track of your vital signs and such. And if anything is wrong, like you get stabbed, I just… kinda know? It- it uh, doesn't tell me a detailed list of the things you do- that'd be overboard. Like I said, just… just if anything is wrong.”
They were still real shook up about that weird future, huh? He wasn't terribly surprised- oh. Oh that was… probably another point of why they reacted the way they did at being called ‘killer’. Fuck, he should've thought about that. Oh, well, it's been kinda talked about now.
“You made runes that tiny?” He brought his free hand to the fastener on the cloak, taking a closer look. Sure enough, he found them. “The fact you were able to get them so small … that takes a really delicate hand. Just adds another point to just how impressive this thing is.”
“Had to do it four times over- and that's not counting the original composition of it,” they admitted. “One for you, and then one for Solas, Leliana, and for Iron Bull.”
“That- damn! Is that what you've been doing when you couldn't sleep? Just because you were making these for us?”
“I mean… uh… okay, the other thing I need you to be cool about for at least a few minutes.”
“... go on?”
“I, uh… have also kinda been checking on the four of you to make sure you were still breathing while you slept. Because if I inherently changed fate by seeing that future, it might decide to take you out early. And every few hours if I didn't know for a fact you were, indeed, still alive there's essentially a little goblin in my head that wouldn't shut up unless I checked.”
Varric took a second to just… let that information sink into his mind before saying anything.
“... I mean, people I know personally have coped in weirder ways than that. So, I at least see where you're coming from.” The hand still on Mien’harel's shoulder patted them a little. “Could be worse. You could've like, tied us all together with you in the middle so we could never be out of your sight.”
They finally looked at him, with this… utter bewilderment like they hadn't even conceived of that notion. And then, they just started laughing. The kind of laughter where they sounded like a damn tea kettle that was at its boiling point.
“Wh- where would I even find that much rope? How would we even move around? Would- would Bull just be dragging us everywhere?” Their laughter carried into their words, the first actual look of joy on their face since Redcliffe.
Hell yeah. He's still got it.
Varric couldn't contain the smile and laughter that infected him. The concept had been absurd, but it was seeing them laugh so hard at it that got him to giggle along with them.
“I think Tiny would be the only one who could drag us around,” he pointed out. “I mean, I'm the smallest of the group, followed by you. I don't think Nightingale or Chuckles would have the strength. Sure, they could try, but all he'd have to do was bend forward to pick all of us up and just start walking!”
Oh, that mental image just made them laugh harder before they started harshly coughing where they hunched over. Laughter was the best medicine, absolutely, but overdosing on it was something that hadn't occurred to him as even being a possibility.
“Oh- shit, I didn't mean to take you out being too funny!” He quickly hopped down, coming around to the front of them and trying to set them upright. “And here I thought it was impossible to just talk at someone and it kill them.”
Mien’harel's laughter had just started to die down when he said that, and that only started it anew along with the coughing in between. They settled after another minute or two, though, tears in their eyes and arms around their ribs.
“Fuck- I didn't- didn't know I needed to laugh so hard,” they giggled, the laughter softer now. They raised a hand to wipe the tears from their cheeks, a smile still on their face.
Varric's face softened at the sight, just happy to see his friend doing better than he'd seen them doing in weeks.
“Well, good. Now that you've had your medicine, the best medicine I may add, you should get some sleep. It's late. And there's no way you finished four cloaks without having sacrificed some on top of everything else.”
He was quick, though not entirely pushy, to get them out the door and off to bed. Though, what he didn't notice was that they weren't going back to their own bed.
‘Sleep tight, pup.’
~
Mien’harel quietly made their way back to where Solas was sleeping. They quietly let themself in, taking him up on his earlier offer of coming back.
They kept their steps light and presence minimal. It seemed he'd fallen back asleep, and they didn't want to wake him up again.
They then carefully snuck into bed next to him. They could very well be out by the time he woke up, right?
The exhaustion was finally really hitting them as they just… listened to him breathing. They let their eyes shut, curled next to him but careful not to touch him.
The pack was safe. Safe and sound. It would know if they weren't. It still had things to do. That was later. It rested, for now. The first real rest in weeks.
~
They woke to an empty bed, blankets pulled over them like someone tucked them in. If it wasn't for the magic on the cloak, they may have panicked on seeing the bed empty. The sun was higher than they'd expected it to be, squinting in the light of the day as they peeked out the window.
A single new trail of footprints. Solas woke before they did and headed to Haven proper, apparently not wanting to disturb them.
… how sweet.