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Ellana. Is not. Paranoid.
She is not. She is a pillar of confidence, a tower of… assuredness. She is a peak example of someone who is logical and can approach things with— logic and… logicalness. And she is definitely not spiralling. Or picturing things she has no business picturing that may well haunt her nightmares for the next decade or so. Possibly longer, but she's trying so very hard to stay optimistic. Or something.
She glances down again at the dog-eared notebook in her hands even though she is not paranoid and is, in fact, entirely logical and hadn't even intended to pick it up, and takes another significant hit of potent psychic damage. Solas is meticulous about his things and she'd been surprised to see the thing on the floor in the first place, thought maybe he'd knocked it there and not realised and she'd be ever so helpful and pick it up for him because she's nice like that. It's hardly her fault that it had fallen open and that she'd caught a passing glance as she straightened up. A first passing glance that had then turned into a startled second and then a particularly nauseated third.
Binding practices, Solas has scrawled at the top of the left page, heavy-handed and underlined twice.
She should have snapped the damn thing closed and left it there but unfortunately she is cursed with eyes that work and an unending sense of curiosity that has absolutely gotten her into trouble before and will most likely continue to do so until it kills her.
Which it really might. Because firstly: what the fuck. And secondly: what the fuck??
Solas' notebook and borderline illegible chicken scratch handwriting have no sympathy for her alarm or her bewilderment, unfortunately, so the words don't helpfully rearrange themselves into anything approaching reasonable once glances one through three fail to enlighten her. Given a sudden and intolerable dearth of understanding, Ellana's panicked eyes skip a little further down the page. Something, something, pursuit of knowledge or whatever. Citation needed.
unable to reach mutual agreement on process, Solas has scribbled out. The weight and brevity of the handwriting paints a picture of a man distressed by whatever circumstances led to these notes. She can picture him so clearly, hunched over his desk, pen in one hand and head propped up by the other, brows drawn severely as he puzzles out whatever is vexing him. It would be charming at literally any other time. Right now the aforemention panic is— panicking her. Slightly.
unsure why it needs further discussion. I have offered my hypotheses, but agreement is obviously preferable. will attempt to reach common ground.
Ellana might be starting to sweat a little. Someone's fucked with the thermostat, obviously. She emphatically does not keep reading.
complete subjugation of will? understandably complex procedure, requires additional preparation and care. potential consequences need to be addressed. secrecy paramount, but may not be sustainable. it has been some time, uncertain if I will be able to perform well.
What, Ellana thinks succinctly, the ever-loving fuck.
Put the notebook down. Put it down. Douse your eyes with bleach. Go find Solas, demand a reasonable explanation. These are the steps that Ellana needs to take, that any sane person would take when finding Questionable Materials in their lover's belongings, but for some fucking reason unknown even to her, Ellana does none of them. Not a one! She'd really like to, but the fucking thing is fused to her hand. She grips the notebook with terrifying force and continues to read instead, because fuck knows why!
(She knows why. She will not admit why.)
must maintain absolute focus. Morrigan's cooperation is not easily won.
"Morrigan?!" Ellana barks aloud, then flinches at the volume of her own voice. Clearly she is handling this exceptionally.
It's fine. Obviously it's fine. She's fine— everything is fine. There is, of course, going to be a perfectly rational explanation for all of this. For example, it's probably just… Well, it couldn't be anything but… It's. There's.
Oh, she is not doing well. Death is coming and it is heralded by the deranged scrawl of the utterly unhinged. (How is his handwriting this bad? He writes so prettily in Elvhen!)
Alright. Ellana needs to be sensible now. No panicking, no falling apart, no committing acts of surely-fully-defensible-arson. Put the notebook down. Go and find Solas. Strangle Cry on Scream at Talk to him. Calmly. About questionable notebooks with questionable topics contained therein. If she can keep a level head for long enough, Solas will undoubtedly be able to offer a perfectly, wonderfully reasonable explanation for all of this. He is her heart. He is her Solas. Of course she trusts him. Of course she does.
She needs to find him. If she's quick—
"Oh— Vhenan!"
Well. Fucking okay, then.
Solas blinks at her from the doorway before his expression of surprise morphs into one of devastatingly beautiful delight. He steps around her quickly, smile wide and eyes bright, and reaches out to cup her face. Her skin feels horribly clammy against his and she doesn't know if she should lean into the caress or do something stupid like headbutt him or attempt to jam the entire notebook down his beautiful throat. Unsurprisingly, she does neither. "What a lovely surprise. Were you looking for me?" His hand drops to her waist, broad and warm. The lightness in his voice — he is so happy to see her. It's been barely a handful of hours since they wished each other good morning to now, and yet the simple delight of finding her in his office seems to have brightened his day considerably.
Ellana opens her mouth. Hello, is probably what she should open with. Followed by a very reasonable, could you please tell me what this means? Tentative and reasonable, that's what she's going to go with.
"Why do you want to tie Morrigan up?"
So… Yeah. Nailed it.
Solas' smile doesn't falter, exactly. It sort of… freezes. The joy drops from his eyes long before the smile itself does, so for a terrible moment he's looking at her with the sort of dead-eyed and manic smile more suited to serial killers than ancient elves she loves beyond reason. It's honestly a relief when it finally does release completely, melting like the first thaw of spring without all the hazy warmth of the new season that comes with it. He stares at her that way for a very long time. His unsmiling mouth hangs open. It's unsettling, honestly, but that's okay. She's also very unsettled, so…
Finally, Solas manages a delicate clearing of his throat. "…What?"
Thankfully Ellana has sailed right past panic and into the zone of utter zen attainable only through a complete mental breakdown. "Oh. Did you want her to tie you up?"
…Maybe she is still panicking, actually.
Prior to this Hell Moment, Ellana has had the pleasure of watching Solas puzzle through a great many subjects. He gets the most endearing furrow to his brow when faced with a problem he can sink his teeth into, and has an endearing fondness for anything that challenges his mind and gives his logical skills a workout. It's cute, she likes it. This is… not that. Not even remotely. He blinks at her, nonplussed to the nth degree, and when she offers him his notebook as an explanation, he turns a very rapid, very worrying shade of green.
"…What?"
"I, uh." Ellana flaps the notebook at him a tad helplessly. "It was on the floor. And I looked. And it said. And I. Yeah. And maybe don't keep your— diary? Journal? In the office because. Someone who isn't me might. And if they read? Bad."
Ellana misses when she could form full sentences. Those were the days. Like… fifteen minutes ago.
Solas' wide eyes dart from her face to the notebook and back again. Several times in quick succession. His jaw flexes, his lips form several incomplete words that he has no breath to lend to volume. He offers her a sort of… wheeze. He doesn’t look very well at all. It's not the sort of "oh shit I’m so guilty and I’ve been totally found out" sort of unwell, either. If Ellana had to try to describe it, it's more of a "my very old and very clever brain is on the verge of a major catastrophic shut down, please can you run everything you just said by me one more time?" unwell.
Not that she's an expert. But she considers herself helpful even at the worst of times, so she points a finger to the words branded into her brain and the top of the page, helpfully drawing his attention to his own notes. Binding practices. Just as glaring and upsetting as they had been at first glance. Solas' eyes cannot get any wider and Ellana is genuinely concerned that if his jaw drops further, the whole thing is going to unhinge and clatter to the floor and then she'll have to deal with that, too.
"That." Solas coughs. The movement convulses his whole body, as if the word has lodged itself in his throat. "Is not. Morrigan?" He shakes himself, controlling a gag that honestly has Ellana feeling slightly affronted on Morrigan's behalf. "In what world would I ever— Do you honestly believe that I—?! When you?!" He gestures violently at her. "Morrigan?!"
"Well, I don’t know!" Ellana blurts out. "The notebook said!" She flaps the offending stationary at him again. "What was I supposed to think?!"
"That you might be missing some incredibly crucial context!"
"I really fucking hope that I am!"
"Of course you are!" Solas scrubs a hand over his still-very-green face. "They’re not— Fenedhis, Ellana. They're for Elgar'nan, not—"
"Elgar'nan?!" Ellana shrieks, horrified. Horror that is mirrored and abruptly amplified a hundredfold on Solas' face. It should not be possible for anyone to turn that shade of green. Really. It's very unpleasant. Not that she minds too much. The horror seems genuine, so it's suddenly a lot less likely that Solas is looking to enter into a kinky arrangement with either Morrigan or the All-Father.
Honestly? Thank fuck for that.
"No, I— Not like that!" Solas covers his face, exhaling roughly into his palms. "That. No. There's. If you'll give me— a moment. To try to expunge these images from my brain, I will explain. And hopefully allay your fears that I am capable of being unfaithful to you."
Ellana shuffles guiltily from foot to foot. "I… Okay, I'll admit I might have panicked."
"Understandable," Solas tells his palms and her with a calmness that really doesn’t suit his current demeanour. "Just a moment, if you please."
Ellana pleases, and is quite happy to toss the notebook onto his desk. Solas peers through his fingers, ears pricking to follow the sound, then drops his hands with a sigh heavier than lead. "Morrigan—" He winces. "—and I and I have been… researching ways to neutralise the threat that Elgar'nan poses," he offers at last, a more healthy colour seeping slowly back into his cheeks. "The current path I am investigating involves very old magic — binding wards and the like. They would be highly effective if successful, but they would require far more power than I could muster alone."
"Oh," Ellana ekes out. "That… makes so much more sense."
Solas arches a brow at her. "I should hope so." He pinches the bridge of his nose and looks suddenly exhausted. Oh, the guilt. Ellana does not care for it. "Did you honestly believe that I could ever do something like that to you? That my gaze could ever stray from all that you are? All that you mean to me?"
"No," she admits quietly. Without panic dancing a fucking jig through her veins like a pirouetting druffalo, she's honestly thinking a lot more clearly. "No, I don’t. I just— I panicked and nothing made sense and I jumped to conclusions I shouldn't have. I’m sorry. Ir abelas, vhenan."
Solas softens at once, pulling her into his arms and tucking her head under his chin. She clings to him, hands fisted in the back of his shirt, nuzzling as closely as she can in both reassurance and apology. He has every right to be angry with her, both for snooping and also sort of maybe accusing him of cheating on her—indirectly, but still—but he just seems relieved to have convinced her of the truth. "I could never," he murmurs into her hair. "Ar lath ma, vhenan. Only you. Only ever you."
She mumbles an answering ar lath ma into his chest. "Not to belabour the point," she ventures after a moment. "But your handwriting is dogshit."
"A bold claim from someone who recently believed I had plans to—" He shudders. "I can’t say it. The imagery is far too upsetting."
"That seems a bit rude, I have to say."
"I will apologise to Morrigan the next time I see her, if that will appease you," Solas says dryly. "Though I would imagine her disgust would be far more extreme than mine, were I to tell her of your assumptions." He shakes his head. "I'm honestly rather stunned that you immediately jumped to that being the explanation, rather than anything more apt." He quirks a brow at her. "Something on your mind?"
Ellana's face flushes so quickly her head spins. "Wh- No! Don't turn this back on me, you're the one writing in your journal about how you want to get kinky with Elgar'nan."
Solas blinks. "…Vhenan, I will do literally anything if it means you'll never utter those words in that order again."
Ellana considers. If genuine, that's a very weighty promise to hold in her favour. "Anything?"
Solas' eyes narrow suspiciously. "I dislike the way you said that. It's making me wary."
Ellana pats his shoulder consolingly. "Yeah, it probably should."