Chapter Text
Valowen leaned over Solas’s desk, her eyes tracing the scattered texts on Orlesian history and the Fade without actually absorbing a single word. Her mind was entirely stuck on the courtyard. Specifically, on the bizarre, twitchy encounter she’d just had with the Seeker.
When Val finally sat up, the sudden movement drew Solas’s attention. He looked up from his parchment, tilting his head with that slow, deliberate patience that usually meant he was waiting for her to announce some grand epiphany.
Val hesitated. She remembered how defensively Cassandra had scrambled to hide that book behind her shield. “Solas,” Val said, her brow furrowing. “What is ‘smutty’ literature?”
Solas paused. His quill hovered a fraction of an inch above the page. For a second, his mind seemed to stall entirely as it processed the sheer mundanity of the question. Then, a dry, quiet amusement flickered in his eyes.
Before he could answer, a sharp snort echoed from the balcony above, instantly rolling into a loud, delighted laugh.
“Oh, don’t move,” Dorian called down.
He didn't rush, taking his time sauntering down the rotunda stairs with the look of a man who had just hit the jackpot. He slid right into Val’s space, crowding her shoulder and waving a leather-bound book in front of her face—the exact title Cassandra had been clumsily fumbling with earlier.
“My dear, precious Inquisitor,” Dorian purred, a wicked grin spreading beneath his mustache. “How delightfully, tragically sheltered you are.”
Solas sighed, his brief amusement flattening into long-suffering tolerance as Dorian effectively hijacked the desk.
Dorian flipped the book open to a heavily creased page and thrust it under her nose. “Behold. Your education begins.”
Val squinted at the text. Within three lines, a sudden, uncomfortable heat shot straight to her hairline. The physical logistics described on the page were… creative, to say the least.
“How is that even mechanically possible?” she spluttered, her voice cracking as she looked up. “This is what Cassandra was hiding? Swords and Shields? Is the hero trying to woo her or dismember her?”
“Our stern Lady Seeker has a vice,” Dorian said, leaning in. “Who knew she preferred her reading so rigorous? But now, Valowen darling, don't tell me the great Herald of Andraste is scandalized by a little Orlesian poetry? I thought you were more worldly than that.”
Flustered, and acutely aware of Solas’s silent, unreadable stare, Val snapped. The teasing pushed her right over the edge, and she spat a rapid, venomous string of Tevene curses at Dorian—the rough, jagged dialect of the Tevinter labor camps.
Dorian’s smirk faltered. His eyes widened slightly, recognizing the harsh cadence coming from an elven clan girl.
"It is the language of those who refuse to be bound," Solas said softly, breaking the sudden quiet. He wasn't looking at Dorian; his focus was entirely on Val, his grey-blue eyes dark and heavy. "There is a grim beauty in a tongue preserved by survivors, Inquisitor."
The words turned the heat in Val’s veins to ice. Gods, he was romanticizing it. He had absolutely no idea. Suddenly she feared that if he looked just a little bit closer, he might see her history. The weight of his gaze felt entirely too heavy, like he was looking right through the skin of her face.
"Right! Brilliant!" Sera’s voice burst into the rotunda from the lower stairwell, instantly shattering the tension. She was tossing an apple from hand to hand. "No idea what any of you just said, but Inky looks like she’s about to puke or punch someone. Is it the smut? Varric said you were asking about the naughty bits."
Dorian immediately seized the lifeline, eager to steer away from the heavy sudden shift in tone. "Varric knew? And he didn't invite me to the lecture?"
Val’s breath hitched. She couldn't do this. She couldn't stand here and be picked apart by a magister and an anarchist while Solas quietly dismantled her soul.
She snapped the novel shut with a sharp crack, turned, and practically bolted for the battlements door.
"Oh, look at her run!" Sera’s cackle followed her out into the corridor. "Don't trip on your skirts, Inky! Go ask the Seeker for a live demonstration!"
Val slammed the heavy oak door behind her. The freezing Skyhold wind hit her like a slap to the face, drowning out the muffled sounds of Dorian's laughter. She leaned against the cold stone, trembling, terrified by how easily her past could still trip her up.