Work Text:
Rook can't ignore it.
The Dread Wolf, Fen'harel, Solas, is an omega.
To be fair it's a fact they'd known already—learned from countless nights listening to Varric's stories about his time in the Inquisition—but even so it had been a distant kind of knowledge. Far more clinical, just data really, just another piece of information about the person they were hunting. Even after meeting Solas in person it had remained abstract, and maybe part of that was because in the Fade there are no scents. It's not like there is even an actual nose for which to smell. The sense unneeded; no use for what was flesh and blood to root through the Veil to grasp here in what is really just a dream. Solas hadn't had a scent at the ritual site either, can hide it in the real world somehow, which is incredibly unfair an advantage.
But also, annoyingly, not a surprise.
After all, he had been playing that particular trick for years while Rook had been helping Varric track him down.
Though Rook had never gotten the impression that Solas had been trying to hide that he was an omega. It was more that the only times they had caught his scent, sugar sweet and something tart like berries, they’d been led the wrong way. Always so deliberate a trail, always so expertly laid a distraction, and even realising Solas was doing it on purpose had never helped them figure out what he was distracting them from. Which, yeah, as far as tactic went was an absolutely insane approach; risky as fuck, ballsy to the point of reckless arrogance. Solas remains the only omega Rook has ever known who would do something like it.
Who would think it possible to use his scent strategically.
Who would set a trap and bait it with himself.
So, yes. Rook has known for a long time that Solas is an omega. But they'd not really thought about it outside of being begrudgingly impressed at his sheer gall. Until suddenly Rook is on the winning side of said gall for the first time. They want time to process, instead end up falling asleep only to open their eyes to Solas in the Fade. It's not been long since they got back to the Lighthouse after freeing a group of Dalish elves from ending up sacrificed in some insane ritual, and that also means they spent the whole time listening to Elgar'nan croon degrading, explicit insults in that voice and Solas is an omega—
And suddenly it's no longer such a cold, clinical fact.
It's something very, very different.
Real.
And distinctly uncomfortable. What could easily become the elephant in the room—well, the elephant in this shattered, gloomy ruin within the Fade—what Rook knows will be far too revealing of their discomfort if they don't mention it. Because to avoid bringing it up means there is something to avoid, and that will only end up being far more conspicuous than simply asking him outright.
So that's what they need to do.
Ask Solas, that is.
Which isn't going to go well, even if Rook can't deny that they have questions. That they find themselves curious.
Fuck it, “At the temple, what Elgar'nan said to you when you distracted him, I noticed some of those barbs seemed pretty…personal.” It's clumsy. Try as they might Rook still can't help skirting around the question they actually want to ask. It's a mistake. A weakness. They hate sounding so awkward in front of Solas, know it for the disadvantage it is, but the alternative is to actually repeat some of the things Elgar’nan had said to him.
And the thought of that is even worse.
It's already a fight to look Solas in the eye and not blush at the memory.
The small, wry smile on Fen’harel’s perpetually smug as fuck face says he knows exactly why Rook’s dancing around specifics. He nods serenely though, and it might just be too easy an opening for him to take, too easy a victory for an ancient rebel remembered as a god. Solas too gracious to stoop, to call them out on their reluctance. “Indeed they were, understandable, surely, given that we have known each other for a very, very long time. And now you have had a chance to learn of him for yourself. To learn of them both…the last of the blighted Evanuris. So, after meeting both Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain, I trust you have formed your own judgement?"
Rook shrugs, "I already knew I didn't like them when they triggered a Blight and started killing everyone."
"An easy moral assessment to be sure," Solas agrees, mild and barbed like the smug asshole he always is. "Tell me, is that the extent of issues you take with them?"
"Well, no," Rook replies, then frowns as they realise the conversation has somehow flipped around to position them as the one being questioned. They grapple to turn it back, uncaring of seeming clumsy this time when it's far more important to turn the tide. "But we were talking about your issues with them."
"Were we?"
Pedantic prick. That condescending head tilt is going to get him punched one day and Rook really wants it to be their fist that does it. For now Rook settles for rolling their eyes. "Alright then, their issues—Elgar'nan's issues—with you."
"Of that there are many," Solas smiles.
Fuck. He's playing with them, isn't he? Solas is going to make them say it, knows they are fumbling, probably decided not to take the easy opening and taunt their discomfort because he wanted the slower pleasure. Rook just knows this is his way of rubbing his victory in their face. They really don't want to start talking about Solas and sex, but needs must. Rook pushes aside their discomfort; squaring their shoulders, standing tall and tipping their chin defiantly, "He called you a disobedient Fan’isalal’girem."
Solas nods. "He did."
Ok then, Rook managed to get this far without blushing, time to push a little more, "He said the ways of warfare are beyond one of your nature. Too delicate for battle." They add, pointed, "Too easily broken by it."
It's far from the most explicit of the taunts, all of which had been laced with a faux, needling concern, but it does get across the patronising tone that had dripped from Elgar'nan's every word rather well. Solas retains his smile throughout, pointedly calm, in the greyscale of the Fade his eyes are sparking challenge. "Elgar'nan has always been prone to reusing the same lines when he attempts to insult me."
Rook won't let Solas win, steps things up a notch, "Right. So this isn't the first time he's said you'd be less mouthy with a bite marking your neck? Less stubborn when you'd been properly bred, that he looks forward to showing you your place, that even outside of a heat you'd be begging for it?" They pause, paraphrase. "He basically called you a needy slut."
Solas doesn't even flinch.
In fact, he sounds almost bored, "And this isn't the first time I have told him that ambition does not equal capability. We both know someone else will have to subdue me for him, since I doubt he can manage a proper knot himself—unsurprising, even before Mythal told me he had a disappointingly small cock," Solas’s retort is as scathingly dismissive as the raise of his brow, "What is your point, Rook?"
"My point is—" the words catch up, the implication that Mythal had gossiped with Solas about the size of her husbands cock and her dissatisfaction with it stopping Rook short. They blink, then snort. "Wait. I don't remember you saying that?"
"Ah, yes. It was in Elvhen."
"It was the first thing you said to him, wasn't it?"
Solas smirks, "Also true."
"Huh. That certainly explains his reaction," Rook replies dryly, remembering the wordless roar of rage that had shaken the temple before Elgar'an had started on some of his lewder taunts. Now they knew exactly what Solas had said to goad him to it. "You knew he'd react that way because he had before."
"He is an alpha," Solas says simply, as if it is all the explanation required.
Perhaps for him it is.
Rook, however, bristles, "Were you not part of his pack?" They ask, unable to help it; probably a foolish response, maybe a bit too genuine and definitely soft with what Solas will see as too much naivety. But they don't understand. Even to a bunch of villainous, cruel 'gods' surely pack has to mean something.
"I was," Solas confirms, obviously unhappy about the admittance, mouth a thin, disgusted line. "But that is nothing to aspire towards."
"But—"
"Oh? Is my perspective an uncomfortable one then? Am I to regret how it was, would you have me pretend I grieve for the loss of the Evanuris as my pack? Tell me, have you ever thought,” Solas’s voice comes slow and mild, a contrast to how his eyes glow, violet gleaming as they catch the light, a hint to how his tone might just want to tighten, “have you ever even considered what it was like being what you call an 'omega' in Arlathan?”
It’s a rhetorical question.
They both know it.
It's another of those cold, clinical facts that they now realise has weighty, uncomfortable implications. Because Rook hasn’t actually thought about it. Not really, not at all; they find but an instant to do so now and are fairly certain it isn’t long enough. Nonetheless they try. They have to. The alternative is to let Solas win this point unchallenged and that is no choice at all. So Rook compares what they know about the way omegas are treated now—how they have been treated across history, in Tevinter, in Orlais, in every place there's ever been an Empire—sets it against what they know of the Evanuris and their obsession with power.
The ruthless way they hoard it.
And what they might do to an enemy when presented with the advantage of a biological shortcut.
It's an uncomfortable line of thought. The moment stretches. The Fade soundless around them. A place of shattered stone and a chasm between them both; as always Solas seems entirely at ease, comfortable in the silence falling following his words, posture loose. His hands still clasped behind his armoured back but nonetheless he appears utterly relaxed. Solas watches Rook think with cool, unblinking eyes. As always it’s pretty unsettling; a wolf reclined and yawning as it allows prey to make its attempt to run away.
Rook has to do something before the silence lasts too long, so they shrug, match his cool, light tone, "It was probably pretty unpleasant.”
A faint smile, “Indeed.”
As before there is something rhetorical here.
They both know ‘unpleasant’ is an understatement.
Rook dares say more. "Given how the elvhen empire was built by slaves I'm not surprised equality of the genders wasn't really a thing either."
“Another basic deduction, but nonetheless correct. We were considered valuable, in many ways sought after, one might even argue we were precious. Cherished. Yet never free. My people had another name for those you now call omega, one you’re now familiar with—Fan’isalal’girem,” Solas says, then answers the unasked question, translating the unfamiliar term before Rook can speak, “a rough equivalent would be ‘jewel needing to be owned’.”
Urgh.
Revulsion twists Rook's expression into a grimace.
It's remarkable that there is not a trace of bitterness to be found in Solas; not his expression, not his tone, just an acrid disgust, scathing but not the least bit ashamed. He is clearly not embarrassed. Rook doesn't know if Solas ever felt differently. They haven't seen anything about social dynamics between the different designations in his memories, in what snippets the Crossroads have been showing them, and it probably makes sense that gender norms hadn't been the focus of his wartime regrets. Still…it leaves so much of Solas unknown. Rook itches to line everything up.
They desperately want to ask why a bunch of spirits had ended up so obsessed with a physical dichotomy in the first place. It seems so contradictory.
Almost juvenile.
But as curious as Rook is they still know when, and how, to bite their tongue.
Because they really don't want this to be how Solas finds out that they know he was once a spirit.
"Bet any alpha dumb enough to try something quickly learned better than to push their luck with you." Rook observes wryly, an assumption not without cause, not when the bare, unmarked skin of Fen'harel's neck definitely speaks for itself. Solas has never been bitten. Never been claimed. Not in the thousands of years he's been alive. The taunt of it now makes more sense than it ever has before; why Solas does not hide, does not cover his unmarked skin, why he does not protect what is always an omegas most dangerous vulnerability.
Rook doesn't think such a deliberate flaunting is a new tactic.
It must have driven his enemies mad.
Solas smiles properly this time, the expression softer yet even smugger than his smirk—it welcomes Rook to the trick, lets them in on the joke—pride preens a little, pleased to be assessed as a threat not in spite of his designation but as well as it. "Yes. Though alphas are commonly rather obtuse. Those that did not learn gained no reward for their foolishness. I, however, found there could be much enjoyment in the opportunity to repeat the lesson."
Some very explicit comments drift to the forefront of Rook's mind and they can't help but ask, "Did Elgar'nan ever…?"
"No," Solas replies instantly, shaking his head, "No."
"You don't even know what my question was going to be." Rook points out.
An arch of one elegant brow. "Then by all means finish it."
Damn. They hadn't thought that through, lured by the back and forth until it was instinct not thought in their riposte. It's trapped them in the need to be explicit. Fair enough, Rook won't balk, they can do this; refuse to return to dancing around their questions. Rook feels heat rise to their cheeks, irritated at how they flush, had repeated Elgar'nan's taunts without blushing and so ruthlessly shoves down the squirming embarrassment. Rook forces themselves not to look away from Fen'harel's eyes. They won't buckle under the weight of that regard. "Did he ever try and use your dynamic against you?"
"The idea probably occurred to him, once or twice, but regardless of my unmated status Elgar'nan always considered me as belonging to Mythal," Solas answers, his tone making it very clear what he thinks of that, "He believed her too soft a mistress. I was hers to discipline if I disobeyed, and any treason would always be hers rather than mine, because anything I did must only be by her order. It could therefore only ever be her responsibility. To admit otherwise was to puncture the lies our society was built on."
That…answered a lot of other questions but not the one Rook had asked.
Why was he avoiding it?
Despite all Solas had just revealed, despite still more he'd implied, Rook realised that he hadn't actually said that Elgar'nan had left him alone. Was Solas actually avoiding discussing it or just being difficult because he can? Both are equally likely, just as it's possible there is a secret third option that is actually the real truth. Rook searches for a suitable follow up question. They don't flounder for long. It isn't really difficult to find another train of thought, to keep confusion at bay by considering less opaque sources of information, because the things Elgar'nan had said are still (unfortunately) pretty clear in their mind.
So Rook goes out on a limb, asks a question they don't think Solas will answer, "And if you'd belonged to someone else?"
It doesn't so much as ruffle that cool composure. Solas only tilts his head while he considers, an acknowledgement of their manoeuvre. But his answer comes swiftly, "Then responsibility would shift alongside ownership. I would become theirs."
"The Evanuris killed Mythal," Rook says, puzzling through it with a frown, going cold as they start to realise what that famous moment might mean given additional context. The repercussions that definitely went further than proving one of the 'gods' could be killed. "They murdered her. Where did that leave you?"
"Exactly where I imagine you have just concluded it would leave me," Solas replies smoothly. "Ready to be brought to heel by a stronger hand."
Yeah.
Ew.
Rook nearly winces at his wording but manages to stop themselves just in time, knowing that a reaction like that was the whole point. They are the only one here for these words to be so sharpened for. Rook doesn't think Solas is exaggerating, has no doubt that this is exactly what it had been like, but it is still Solas deliberately crafting his phrasing to provoke a certain response. Well. Two can play at that game. Rook nods, "So it solves two of their biggest problems; they kill Mythal, and one of them gets her omega, you. It's a neat solution. You had always been unmated, but Mythal's death left you unclaimed. "
There.
Wonder what Solas thinks of that phrasing.
"Neat indeed, if it had worked," Solas smiles, practically purring the words, because apparently his response is to go sly. "They thought it would be easy to end my rebellion."
Instead Solas had trapped them in the Fade, and in doing so created the Veil.
Rook squints.
See, despite Varric's choice in nickname Rook is only passibly familiar with chess, but they don't need to know how to play to recognise strategy. And there's something significant in how the game changed once Mythal died, isn't there? What Solas had done to the Evanuris after they killed the only one of their number that he'd trusted, what Solas had done to the alphas that believed Mythal owned him. At any other time this might be a leap of logic, but not three hours ago Rook had listened as Solas baited Elgar'nan into a rage so fierce Rook slipped through his fingers despite literally being in the palm of his hand.
And Solas had done it while imprisoned in the Fade.
Entirely off the cuff.
Now Rook wonders what Solas can do with a bit more time. They look at his unmarked throat; lure and trick and trap scented sugar sweet and tart like berries, wonders what distraction Fen'harel might have used to bait seven alphas who—
Solas smirks; all cold, callous mischief, "I have always been, by their own definition, a jewel without a leash."
"Then to repeat my original question," Rook says, having still not gotten a straight answer, stomach churning as realisation blooms at the back of their mind, "did Elgar'nan ever try to use your dynamic against you?"
There is a flash of teeth as Solas smirks even wider, sharper; and if before he'd preened now Pride gloats—
"He did not get the chance."