Chapter Text
A moment.
He had so much on his mind. The orb. Elvhenan that was. His mistakes. His guilt. His plan. Corypheus. The Anchor marking her hand. This strange Dalish girl. Her lips. Her eyes. Her hair. Her hands. Her grace. The view walking behind her day in and day out. Her pale, naked body stretching through the lake as dusk settled on the camp. His lust. His lust. His lust.
It was annoying, to say the very least. Distracting was perhaps the better word. And he could not afford to be distracted.
So he purchased a pad of paper from a village they passed through and stole the best pieces of charcoal from the fire and when in the night he found his body and mind restless, racing, with thoughts and urges that were neither prudent nor sensical, he would hunch over his lap in the tent he shared with the dwarf and sketch and contour whatever was in his head out onto the paper.
It was always her.
Her lips.
Her eyes.
Her hair.
Her hands.
Her grace.
The view walking behind her day in and day out.
Her pale, naked body stretching through the lake as dusk settled on the camp.
But also her shy smiles, earned in such surprising ways. Her wariness and discomfort when they called her Herald or spoke of Andraste. The stubborn set of her jaw when she was determined to climb a cliff the Seeker had declared impassible. Her rapt attention listening to the dwarf’s stories by firelight. And what he was beginning to think was an impish, delighted quality beneath all her worry and reticence.
He shaped them all from ashes with his bare hands, his fingernails blackened underneath and his focus nearly as indomitable as hers.
Until one morning as he bent to wash his face and hands in the soft daffodil sun by a brook that numbed his fingers, she was there beside him, curious, watching, as always.
“Good morning, lethallan,” he greeted without looking up from his task. “You have a question.”
She always did.
“I’ve been wondering what it is you do all night in your tent that leaves your hands black,” she said leadingly.
He did not need to respond, so he did not.
“Then last night I saw you take charcoal from the fire.”
He worked at his fingernails and the long digits of his fingers until they were as clean as they could be without soap and proper washing, then drew his wet palms over his face and scalp.
“We used to take charcoal from the campfires as children,” she continued, unbothered by his silence, “We would draw pictures on wood and rock and tanned hides. Of aravels and each other and halla and what we thought Elvhenan had been.”
Finally he looked up at her from his crouch.
She smiled slyly.
“And dicks.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said before he could stop himself.
She grinned. Impish, delighted.
“Dicks,” she repeated simply. “We drew a lot of dicks.”
“Ah,” was all he could think to say.
Her permanently amused brows lifted. Her hips waggled slightly, as though she were a puppy in play.
“Is that what you’re doing at night?”
Solas could not help the amusement in his voice. “Drawing...dicks?”
And to his absolute pleasure, she laughed.
“Well, possibly,” she said. “But I meant...is that what you’re doing at night? Drawing? With charcoal?”
For a moment, he considered his options. How could he admit to this mortal creature, charming and bright as she was, that she was what he drew all night?
He would be vague but truthful as he always was.
“It is.”
Her face lit up, those extraordinary eyes suddenly sparkling.
“Are you any good?” she asked excitedly. “May I see? Is it like the shemlen do it or like The People?”
She knew nothing of The People. What remained of their art was threadbare and piecemeal. Most of it was graffiti, not high art. At least here, in this world she knew.
And she could not know the foolish, desperate fantasies of who she thought was only a lonely old man. No, it would not do. It might repulse her and he needed her trust.
And he would rather not know if she found him unattractive.
But she wanted to see his art.
His chest warmed.
Suddenly she was blushing and apologetic. “Ir abelas, lethallin,” she murmured, “I did not mean to intrude on your privacy.”
“It is not an intrusion,” he found himself saying, though it was. “It is...highly personal.”
She smiled again, cheeks still pink, her chin tilted down a little in that shy way of hers. “Well,” she said, and took a step back as though he were a spooked animal, “if you do ever want to show anyone...I would be...honored...to see your work.”
She wanted to see his art.
Solas smiled his earnest appreciation. “Thank you, lethallan. I will think on it.”
That night, hunched over his parchment, he filled his book with things he might show her, should she ask again.
And she did.