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talesfromthefade · 7 years

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Orana x Solas || SFW || 3479 words

It will be two days time to prepare the necessary supplies for Orana, Cassandra, Varric and Solas to make the journey to the Hinderlands to establish a foothold for the Inquisition there with some camps, helping the refugees, and with any luck securing some manner of help from Mother Giselle. In the meantime, Orana takes the opportunity to search the trunk in the room where she woke earlier while Cassandra and Leliana are busy spreading word of what’s happened both to the troops, and abroad with Leliana’s ravens carrying messages to more remote locations, finding a set of light wool leggings and tunic, along with a leather vest and longcoat which suits her fine and should do well to keep out any lingering chill she might encounter here. She still misses the clothes she wore when she first came here, but was informed that they were badly scorched beyond repairing either in the explosion, or her trip in the Fade and have since been disposed of. She’s had her coin purse returned though, and her set of lockpicks, with a suspicious sideways look from Cassandra, and what had looked rather surprisingly and a bit disturbingly like amusement from the quiet redhead. Determining she’s as ready as she is ever likely to be to encounter the rest of what their camp has to offer, she leaves once more to explore the other buildings that surround the Chantry.

There is a tavern, with ale that doesn’t taste nearly as bad she had initially feared, although she limits herself to half a flagon, pausing to appreciate the sultry and dulcet tones of the minstrel that sings in the corner and plays the lute. She’s very good. Far better than the ones that played at ‘the Hanged Man’ in Kirkwall, and Orana thinks that perhaps she’ll have to come back here some evening to relax if she finds an opportunity. Perhaps once the soldiers have gotten more used to her presence and stop staring and whispering quite so much, she thinks as she takes her leave.

There is a merchant with a small cart of items for sale just outside the bar. Orana thinks he’s probably charging a bit more than is charitable, even after he shares that this is all that remains of his shop, the rest of it having burnt down from flaming rubble from the explosion. The people of Haven have all been through a similar ordeal and have their own trouble as well, afterall, but the elf bites back any comment for the moment, and pays far too much for a large man’s pair of leather worked boots with a fur cuff that appears to be fox, or perhaps wolf pelt, Orana recognizes to be of good quality, tucking them under her arm with a smile as she walks away to continue exploring.

She finds and greets the man in charge of their Apothacary, who it seems was also in charge of her care while she was indisposed after closing the breach, and thanks him for his skillful intervention on her behalf. She finds and stealthily scans his notes while he is busy giving instructions to an apprentice, and thanks him again. It seems her mark and condition were far more unstable than anyone had yet told her after the stress of trying to seal the breach, she awoke after one day, but was given potions to slip and stay back under until her body had fully recovered from it. The man is a bit harried as it seems the man who is usually in charge, or at least helping the other to run things was in attendance and died at the Conclave without giving any of them any idea as to where he might have left his notes about potions he had been working on perfecting. Years of work, all lost. Orana nods sympathetically, not bothering to offer what might be an empty promise, but resolving to keep an eye out should she find any lonely notebooks around Haven somewhere. Apothecary Adan has far too many other things to worry about to busy himself with searching for his master’s notes, however valuable they might potentially be, and it’s not as if she has been tasked with any other chores yet.

She meets their Quartermaster, who mistakes her for a servant at first, and addresses her with the appropriate manner of abrupt and sharp directions as such, before realizing who she is while Orana is still internally blistering a little and quickly apologizes. Orana is not as fond of her as she is Master Adan, but similarly resolves to herself to try and help the young woman to find the wood and iron she needs in the nearby area to supply their Blacksmith with the means to make new weapons for their soldiers. The soldiers can hardly be held responsible, nor should they be made to suffer with less than adequate equipment for poor manners on her part after all.

Segritt, their blacksmith greets her with no small amount of delight and enthusiasm, asking immediately about her new armor and coat. Are they breathable, can she move well enough in them, are they warm? Orana decides of the various lower-level players of the Inquisition she has had the pleasure of meeting so far, she likes him the best. Segritt talks with her at length about what she might need in a belt to hold her various tools- lock picks, daggers, caltrops, and flasks of both healing and poisons, clapping his hands together with no small amount of glee and promising to get to work on drawing up some schematics for something straight-away, thanking her for a new challenge. She heads back towards the Chantry feeling considerably lighter, despite the unlikely circumstances that have befallen her in the past week. She could never have expected her trip to spy on the peace talks between the mages and Templars to turn out this way. But she can at least be of use here, and is surrounded by some very good and friendly people. She spots Varric talking to another Inquisition soldier by a large fire, probably regaling them with some wildly exaggerated tales about Hawke and the adventures the Champion of Kirkwall drug him along on, smiling before spotting Solas in the distance at the top of the hill looking out over the rest of the Village, and offers the dwarf a wave, which he returns with a smile and nod, before making her way over to the other elf.

“The chosen of Andraste,” Solas greets as she approaches, turning to greet her with a small half-smile, “the blessed hero sent to save us all.”

“Am I riding in on a shining steed,” Orana asks with an amused smile.

“I would have suggested a Griffon, but sadly, they’re extinct. Joke as you will,” the other elf adds, “but posturing is necessary. I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten,” Solas admits, staring out over Haven once more, before turning his attention back to her. “Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

“Ruins and battlefields,” Orana repeats before she can come up with an answer for his question. If Solas is in any way disappointed or annoyed with her non-response to his speculation, he doesn’t show it, smiling at little at the question.

“Any building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade, I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”

“You fall asleep in the middle of ancient ruins. Isn’t that dangerous?”

“I do set wards. And if you leave out food for the giant spiders, they are usually content to live and let live,” Solas shrugs with a hint of amusement.

“I’ve never heard of anyone going so far into the Fade, that’s extraordinary,” she assesses.

“Thank you. It’s not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning, but the thrill of finding remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything,” Solas replies. “I will stay then,” he declares thoughtfully after a moment. “At least until the breach has been closed.” Orana bites the inside of her bottom lip a little to keep herself from frowning. Had he not intended to before? They do not know one another all that well yet, of course, but Orana thinks she would almost certainly miss his company if the other elf were to leave now. At the very least it would be a terrible shame to lose all of the knowledge and understanding he seems to have of the Fade, the Veil, and his theories about the breach and her mark.

“Was that in doubt?”

“I am an apostate, surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion,” Solas points out. “Cassandra has been accommodating,” he acknowledges with a nod, “but you understand my caution.”

“You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you,” Orana replies firmly, shaking her head.

“How would you stop them?”

“However I had to,” she replies sincerely.

“Thank you,” Solas replies after a moment, eyes wide and eyebrows raised slightly in surprise at the unexpected loyalty and protectiveness she has even so early on, already deemed him worthy of. A moment of silence passes between them as the two stare back at one another, though it is not an uncomfortable one. “For now let us hope either the mages or the Templars have the power to seal the breach,” he assesses finally. “Closing the breach is our primary goal, but I hope we are also able to discover what was used to create it. Any artifact of such power is dangerous. The destruction of the Conclave proves that much.”

“You don’t think whatever created the explosion was destroyed in the blast,” Orana asks curiously, looking out over Haven as he had done earlier. It is rather beautiful here, in its way.

“You survived, did you not,” Solas points out. “The artifact that created the breach is unlike anything seen in this age. I will not believe it destroyed until I see the shattered fragments with my own eyes.”

“We would do well to try and recover whatever created the breach,” Orana agrees, nodding.

“Leliana’s people have scoured the area near the blast and found nothing. Whatever the artifact was, it is no longer there.”

“You think the person responsible for the explosion survived? Took it with them?”

“I don’t think we should rule out that possibility,” Solas confirms, nodding with a slight frown at the thought. A frosty breeze brushes by them, bringing a slight flush to the young elf’s cheeks and suddenly reminding her of the parcel she’s carrying.

“Oh,” Orana exclaims softly, causing Solas’s attention to shift back to her again. “I almost forgot. These are for you,” she offers, pulling the boots from where she’s had them tucked under her arm, and holding them out to the other elf. “Not that you complained about it or anything,” she adds hastily, suddenly a little less sure about the gift as the other elf studies them and her with wide-eyed surprise. “If you don’t want them you won’t hurt my feelings, I promise. You don’t have to accept or pretend to like them just because they’re calling me the ‘Herald’ now, or anything,” she continues anxiously. “Maybe it doesn’t even bother you. You said you’d traveled a lot…” Maker. Creators. Someone stop her babbling and making a complete fool of herself, she thinks a bit desperately. She swallows hard, forcing herself to take a deep breath and to look up to meet the other’s gaze again after she’s nervously dropped her gaze to her own feet. Solas’s expression is both patient and kind, perhaps even a little bit fond, softly encouraging her to go on. “It’s just that I never really saw snow before coming to Ferelden. I got terrible frostbite my first few days off the ship. Boots were actually the first thing I bought here,” she shrugs, smiling down at the well-worn pair she wears. “You joined the Inquisition to help, even though it could have been dangerous for you to do so. And I saw you helped to heal some of those soldiers when we went to the Temple to try and seal the breach, even though you didn’t have to and it must have been a drain to your magic and energy. I just thought, maybe it was about time someone offered to help you,” Orana concludes softly.

Solas gently accepts the boots from her outstretched hands, turning them over in his hands studying them, before slowly leaning against the nearby stone wall, lifting a foot and dusting off the snow, then sliding into one and repeating the same with the other with a soft, nearly inaudible, hum of contentment, a small smile slowly growing across his face as he straightens up once more, shifting his weight from foot to foot, testing them. They’ll need to be broken in a bit, of course, but they should help to ward off any chill at the least.

“You are full of surprises, Da’len,” Solas smiles warmly at her, shaking his head. “Thank you, this was an incredibly thoughtful gift, I will see that they are put to good use,” he nods gratefully. Orana’s face bursts into a relieved and delighted smile, she can’t help it.

“You are very welcome, Solas,” she replies warmly.

“Is there anything that I might give you in return? No,” Solas interrupts as she opens her mouth to protest, gently cutting her off. “I know you did not give these to me with the expectation of anything,” he assures her. “They call you ‘Herald’ now, but the last few days have been… incredibly trying for you. And yet- you took the time to notice and find me a fine pair of boots. Such kindness and concern for others is rare. It is noticed and rewarded even less. I should like to remedy that.” Orana hesitates for a moment, considering. As a slave she wasn’t allowed much in the way of possessions, even after she gained her freedom, the habit was largely ingrained by then. She didn’t need much and had long ago learned to want for even less to avoid disappointment, so she’s never been in the habit, or entirely comfortable with asking for things of others. But Solas seems genuinely interested in returning the favor, and there is one thing…

“I like stories,” Orana confesses softly, “and learning new things.” Knowledge was one of the few things no one, no Master or Mistress, however cruel, could take away from her. She cherished it. “Perhaps now and then- when we have the time- you could tell me more about your travels, places you’ve been, things you’ve seen in the Fade,” she asks hopefully, and Solas smiles.

“You ask for something I would already have given to you freely,” the other elf admits chuckling warmly, light icy-blue eyes shining bright, and for the first time, now that she has the time and occasion to truly study the other’s face Orana notices that pale as Solas may be the bridge of his nose and cheeks are littered with a dusting of faint freckles, “although I am delighted to hear such things are of interest to you. I would be happy to share some of my stories with you, Lethallan.”

She worries her bottom lip for a moment. To ask for anything more, she worries she might sound selfish. His stories, even the most boring ones, are sure to be unique, something she could not hear from anyone else, that should be enough. She frowns ever so slightly, internally scolding herself.

“Da’len,” Solas ventures cautiously when he notices the slight downturn of her mouth, drawing her attention back up to him once more.

“I don’t know what that means,” Orana mumbles softly, embarrassed. “Da’len,” she repeats. “Lethallan,” she continues, shaking her head. “They are elvish,” she asks, looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes for confirmation, frowning still more when Solas nods, looking apologetic, perhaps even sympathetic. She doesn’t want his pity. “It’s a part of my people’s history,” she continues. “I don’t know if I believe that I’m Andraste’s chosen,” Orana admits softly. “But the Inquisition needs me for my mark. People in cities I’ve never even heard of before are gossiping about me. …Having a position like this- it’s possible that I might influence the way other people see and think of elves. But how can I possibly be a good representative, a good ambassador for a people I scarcely belong to,” she frowns harder, brows furrowed. “Why should Andraste- why should anyone choose me? Why not a Dalish elf? Or you? You know so much more about magic, the elves we come from, about the Fade… You could do so much better for them. They would respect you.”

Solas laughs at this last note, “That is what you think,” he asks shaking his head, biting off his chuckles when he notices she looks impossibly more distressed. “Permit me to tell you what I think, then,” he interjects softly, one hand gently reaching out to clasp her own. “I think the elves are incredibly fortunate to have you to thinking of and standing for them,” Solas offers, smiling a little as bright green eyes, widen as they turn up to look at him while he continues to speak. “The Dalish are not the ‘true’ elves they claim to be anymore. After so many years of wandering, they forget bits and pieces of their gods, their language, their stories… Nor are they the only elves in Thedas, and certainly not the only elves worthy of aspiring to,” he continues, thumb gently dragging back and forth across the back of her hand in a comforting gesture, squeezing lightly, and then letting go, allowing his hand to fall back to his side. “I believe that there is every bit as much to admire- perhaps even more- in an unassuming elf who has managed to remain thoughtful and kind, when the world has not been,” he continues patiently. “Have a little faith, you give yourself far too little credit. You speak Trade Tongue, Tevene, and the common tongue of humans, these are the languages of a great number of our people,” he points out. “But, I would be happy to teach you Elven, if you would wish it.”

Orana’s eyes shine with tears, a few leaking out despite her best efforts to hold them back, shaking her head. Of course, she wishes it, but… “That hardly seems a fair trade,” she mumbles softly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Solas replies with a soft chuckle. “They are very fine boots.” Orana chokes a bit on a chuckle of her own, then laughs. Softly at first, then growing in volume- perhaps even just a little bit hysterical, with the realization this is the first time she has genuinely done so in months now. She doesn’t know how to convey as much to the other elf, or her gratitude for his company, his patience, and comfort, but she thinks perhaps the way he is smiling at her that he understands anyway. “Da’len,” he offers up softly when she’s finally managed to recompose herself once more. “It is a term of endearment of sorts,” he admits, and Orana cannot be certain, but she thinks perhaps there’s just a moment where the tip of Solas’ ears seem to flush a little with something other than cold. “It’s closest translation would be something like ‘youngling’.”

Orana smiles, but arches a skeptical eyebrow. “You can’t be that much older than I am,” she disputes.

“Mmm,” Solas hums amusedly. “You think so, do you? So just how many annuals are you, then?”

“I-“ Oh, she hadn’t really thought that particular branch of thought out before opening her mouth, had she? “I don’t remember,” Orana admits.

“Convenient,” Solas teases, smirking, eyes seeming to sparkle a little with amusement and a kind of playfulness she’s not had the opportunity to see before. “Seems I’ve quite forgotten my age now as well. In any case, the other word you did not know- Lethallan,” he continues patiently, “would be like the word ‘cousin,’ ‘clansmen,’ or something similar. It is commonly used to recognize a fellow of the Elven people. Like you,” he adds sincerely, nodding to her.

“Thank you, Solas,” Orana smiles softly.

“My pleasure, Lethallan,” Solas nods, offering a polite bow and goodbye as she takes her leave to go find and catch up with Varric.

#tales:orana #orana #dragon age #dragon age: inquisition #solas

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