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Taashath Adaar was two years old when his mother bent from her great height and sat down beside him, her lute cradled in her lap. He reached out compulsively to pull at the strings and she caught his hand adroitly, steadying it. “Like this,” she said, and he plucked one string, then the next. He lifted his head to look at her, his face shining, and she beamed.
At twelve Taashath was rawboned and gangling, as tall now as the tallest human in the village, and he drove the wagon into town, keenly aware of the way his elbows stuck out at odd angles when he held the reins and the way his trousers barely brushed his ankles. Even for a Qunari he was growing quickly. He kept his head down, embarrassed even among the folks whose faces he knew, if not their names. While he waited for customers for his parents’ wares, he plucked idly at the lute he had beside him, humming quietly to himself as he played.
The wagon was empty of eggs and produce and bacon by the time he finished, and loaded high with blankets and fresh tools and spices. And to his pink-cheeked surprise, his purse was more than a little heavier than he had come in with, despite the purchases. Seemed the townsfolk were happy to overlook the patches on his elbows and a few inches of exposed ankles when they had something nice to listen to.
He was nineteen years old and seven feet tall and he wore his first set of armor poorly. The daggers hidden under his vest felt alien, and he sweated constantly, despite the older merc beside him who kept muttering under his breath, “You’re doing fine, big guy.”
Taashath nodded, trying to play it tough, while his fingers strummed along. His fingers were so long he could actually play a few of the bass strings, which his mother had told him was impossible for human players. A small crowd began to gather, distracted by the enormous Qunari playing intricate music, and the merc beside him sidled off and got shit done.
Twenty-five was a good age. Young enough to be cocky. Old enough to start to know a little better. He got paid a lot better than he used to. He sent money back home to the farm and he bought himself a new lute with fourteen strings, so many not even his enormous hands could play them all. It had ivory inlay and silver settings and he guarded it obsessively. He brought his old lute back home to his mother and showed her the new songs he could play. She accompanied him on the old one, laughing with delight.
After a rough job a rival company found out where his group was staying. They’d been paid to cut the throats of every last Qunari in town. They sent a few of his mates to an early grave, but the assassin in his room who flowed like smoke and carried poison blades was found behind the inn with his skull crushed. No one could figure out where the ivory embedded in his face came from, because Taashath took the ruined lute with him and buried it. He told the guys it was to get rid of the evidence, but he buried it with tears in his eyes.
Thirty was a bad year. Thirty was Adelaide and Denerim, kisses in the alienage, lute in the slums and fire in the sheets. He’d never said those words before. I love you. And she said them back, her dark eyes bright in the candlelight.
Thirty was plague. Thirty was elves sick in the streets. Thirty was a boarded up alienage and guards at the entrances and walls too high even for him to scale. When they finally opened the gates again, she was gone, and his lute wouldn’t tune right for a year.
He was thirty-four and Bors was witty and handsome and clever. He’d grown up playing the lute too, but he knew fancy noble songs, things they liked to play at parties. Taashath learned a few, thinking it would come in handy when working noble parties as protection. Lessons turned into laughter turned into more.
Funny, for all his toughness Taashath was the one who fell too fast. It had been stupid, playing a love song to a human nobleman. How did he think this was going to end? The way Bors’ smile faded when he realized what Taashath sang… His fingers slipped on the strings, sour notes spilling out like he was a beginner once again.
“Sorry,” said Taashath.
“It’s not your fault – I can’t –”
“Yeah, no, I know. I know.”
His fingers found their places once again, but it was just an empty party song, frilly, pointless, light. He fixed a smile on his face and kept playing.
He was thirty-nine and his left hand crackled and flared. He woke up shackled on a cold stone floor, his head pounding, his hand throbbing, and he thought some shit went down. This thought was only reinforced when Cassandra dragged him outside, yelling about the Breach. The green light that boiled in the tear in the sky made him want to puke. He wondered, not for the first time, what the fuck happened.
When they reached the Temple of Sacred Ashes, winding their way through crisped corpses and raw lyrium and stone rubble, he finally gave up hope of finding his travelling lute intact.
Val Royeaux was always bawdy despite its fancy reputation, and today was no different. People hollered in the streets, nobles whispered vicious gossip, people thronged and people crowded. Taashath and Cassandra browsed supplies in the lower quarter while Solas and Vivienne searched for new staves. They wandered out of the smith’s shop, Taashath admiring his new daggers, when Cassandra elbowed him in the waist.
“Look, there. Did you wish to see what they have?”
He followed her nod toward the shop across the street. A luthier’s shop. He was surprised, gazing at the fine instruments hung in the window.
“How did you know I played?” he asked suspiciously.
“Leliana has heard rumors,” she allowed. There was almost something like a smile playing about her lips, but… a smile from Cassandra would be crazy. “Tales of a Qunari who plays the lute for nobles, while working for them in other ways.”
He shrugged. “Maybe that’s just work shit. Maybe I hated doing that.”
“Maybe,” said Cassandra, watching him closely. “But I have seen the way you stared at Master Dennet’s lute in Redcliffe. You looked…” Her cheeks were oddly pink. “Lonesome.”
He grinned crookedly. “He had a nice one. Fourteen courses. Solid construction. It wasn’t dusty, either.”
She chuckled. “You see. We Seekers are not so easily fooled, Herald.”
He hesitated, looking at the shop front. There was a big, bold lute hung in the window. His fingers itched. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s see if this luthier’s worth his salt.”
An hour later his fingertips were no longer itchy. Instead they hummed pleasantly, the buzz of recent play still pulsing in them. It felt good to have a lute on his back again.
As they left the shop, he nudged Cassandra – lightly, so as not to actually throw her off balance. She barely budged, solid and steady as ever. “Hey,” he said. “Thanks.”
“For what?” she asked, folding her arms.
“Noticing.” He gestured toward the new lute, snug in its case. “That I missed this.”
“It was nothing,” said Cassandra. “The shop was here, as were we. Why not investigate?”
“Yeah, but – I’m just saying, thanks. Seeker.” He smiled at her.
He was gratified when she smiled, really smiled, back.