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Varric stepped out onto the balcony, gently shutting the door behind him. “Are they always at each other's throats?”
Cassandra sighed. A weary, all-suffering sigh, like the creek of an old wooden floor worn down from decades of treading. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, eyes screwed shut. “It would appear so.”
Varric peered down over Skyhold. Soldiers were sparring in the training grounds, horses were being brought in and out of the stables. Busy days would often herald good things. After all, if they didn’t have anything to do, they were in no better shape than sitting ducks. Cassandra stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the snow-capped peaks of the mountains, wind ruffling her hair.
Westley. Their Herald, their Inquisitor. In truth, he was a bit intimidating. Not on his own, of course, with his soft jaw and round eyes, but he seemed to carry his deeds with him wherever he went — nobody saw him walking down the alley and said, oh, it’s that Trevelyan boy. I heard he eats worms. They didn’t see that little boy with the dark, tousled hair, and easy smile. They saw the man who defeated Corypheus at Haven. They saw the man who walked into the Fade and emerged again without a scratch. They saw the Inquisitor.
All in all, though, it didn’t matter what he did or who he was to the people. He was still Westley. Oh, he was very much Westley. And Westley was, to put it simply, passionate.
Varric tuned in to the still ongoing debate within the library. He heard hands — most likely Westley’s — slamming against a table.
“Enough, Solas!” He shouted, his voice shaking with anger, an emotion much too large for him. “You have done nothing but undermine my decisions since the moment we arrived at Skyhold. Why can’t you see the value in what I am doing?”
If Westley was a raging inferno, then Solas was indifferent ice, his voice cold and measured. Varric could hardly hear him with how softly he spoke. “The Templars are a relic, Westley, of an oppressive regime. Have you seen the state of the Hinterlands? They’re obsolete, if not completely redundant. And I do not need to speak to the state of the Wardens. Their deeds speak for themselves.”
It seemed that, no matter what Westley chose to do, and no matter how Solas chose to take it, they were always at odds. At first, it was banter, but it quickly crossed over into petty rivalry, and then into outright hatred. Once upon a time, it was entertaining, but their constant bickering got uncomfortable to witness a long time ago.
“They are people, Solas!” Westley exclaimed desperately. Always on about people, always so ready to sacrifice everything to save a few lives. “They have given everything to protect us, to protect you! They deserve our protection, and we require their assistance!”
Deserving. Varric never understood the concept of deserving. Deserving on what grounds? Birthright? Delusion? People were deserving only when they acted with the intention of being rewarded, and people like that were exactly who the Inquisition was fighting.
“You are naive, Westley—”
“Inquisitor.”
“Inquisitor. What do the Wardens and the Templars have in common? Blind obedience. Or have you already forgotten what happened at Therinfal? Adamant?”
Ouch. Low blow. The events that took place at Therinfal and Adamant were a sensitive subject for Westley. It was usually better to not broach it at all, for fear of crossing a boundary. Solas had crossed every line in just one step. Varric could almost hear Westley’s blood boiling. Solas was talented if nothing else; it took a lot to make Westley this angry.
“What would you have me do, Solas? Abandon them? Cast them aside when they have given up everything to aid us? Not the Inquisition— us. You and I. Thedas.”
A brief pause. Varric considered peeking in to make sure Westley wasn’t lying in a bloody heap.
“I would have us think critically, Inquisitor,” Solas sneered, voice dripping with venom. “I would have us set ourselves on a new path, one free of such corrupted institutions as the Chantry or the Wardens.”
“What are we if not bound by oath? Bound by loyalty? What becomes of this world if we cast aside our ties to one another?” Westley retorted. “Would you and I be here if not for the Wardens, for the Templars?”
Templars. Wardens. Varric was beginning to loathe those words. They reminded him too much of home, and until he could go back, he didn’t want to pay a single thought to Kirkwall.
“Blind loyalty led to the rise of the magisters. Blind loyalty led to the fall of Arlathan. It is a virtue as much as it is a fault, Inquisitor, and for you, it is neither. It is your hamartia.”
“We need all the help we can get, Solas.”
“You are a fool. You are forging the manacles that will shackle you to your doom.”
Another brief pause. And then a breath, deep, and brimming with ire. “Better to be a fool who stands by the people, than a wise man who stands alone.”
The sound of Westley trotting down the stairs faded into the backdrop until the screaming crows inevitably drowned it out. Cassandra shifted uncomfortably.
“Something troubling you, Seeker?”
“I am not a fool,” Cassandra began. “I know better than to expect all of our associates to get along. But this,” she gestured towards the door. “This is unacceptable. If Corypheus does not kill the Inquisitor, then Solas will.”
“Westley will be fine, Seeker. I’ll install better locks on his door.”
Cassandra narrowed her hazel eyes at him before her expression softened and she looked back out at the mountains. Varric, again, was grateful to have not been born in Orzammar. The sight of the Frostbacks from this high up would have shriveled him like a raisin. Or wilted him like a flower.
“Perhaps I will try speaking with him,” Cassandra said, more to herself than to Varric. “Help him and Solas find some common ground.”
“I thought it was Westley’s thing to solve every interpersonal dilemma in Thedas. You wouldn’t put him out of a job, would you?” Varric said, giving her a pat on the shoulder. “Besides, asking Westley to find common ground with Solas would be asking him to do away with everything he stands for. You can’t ask that of him, Cassandra.”
Cassandra shook her head. “I know I can’t. I just thought…”
She traced the railing with her finger. The two had never seen eye to eye, but Varric wasn’t completely heartless and felt sympathy for her. Being in her position couldn’t be easy, and Varric understood what Westley meant to her, even if she didn’t understand it herself. Westley was young, Westley was inexperienced, Westley was selfless and thoughtful. Westley shouldn’t be here. Varric knew it as well as she did.
“I don’t know what I thought.”
She straightened herself up and turned to head back into the library. As she stood in the doorway, she looked over her shoulder and gave Varric a somber expression.
“I will see you around, Varric.”
The door slammed shut.
Bloodstain. Bloodstain. Wine splatter. Bloodstain again. Andraste’s tits, was everything he owned filthy?
Back in Ostwick, this was never an issue. Back in Ostwick, he was a different man, and the pungent smell of dirty laundry made him ill. He was obsessive about cleaning and adamant about doing it himself so that he could be absolutely certain it was done correctly. The Inquisition had kept him so busy, though, that he scarcely had time to even bathe, much less tend his linens, and he’d sooner die than let somebody else do it.
Sometimes, when he lay in bed, he could close his eyes and imagine he was somewhere different. He could imagine that when he woke, he would be dragged out of bed by his sister for afternoon sparring. He could imagine that there was no hole in the sky, no Archdemon, no Darkspawn. But with every passing night those fantasies grew more distant, because every time he opened his eyes, he was in Skyhold, in his quarters, the cold mountain air drifting in through the open windows.
He leaned back in his seat, inspecting the letter on his desk. How important was this, anyway? There seemed to always be some sort of trouble in the Imperium, during times of peace or during times of war. What did it matter if he got around to addressing it now or in a week?
His thoughts were interrupted by the distant creaking of a door, and then the click of a lock as it latched. Dorian, then. No doubt come to regale him with tales of the Imperium until Westley’s eardrums exploded.
The Inquisitor could think of no better way to spend his afternoon.
The footsteps drew closer as they ascended the stairwell, and in no hurry, too; how strange. Dorian was usually quicker. And Westley could usually recognize the sound of his footfalls. He bristled.
He looked back down at the letter. Josephine, maybe, or Cullen, or Cole— no, Cole wouldn’t bother with stairs. Sera? No, she wasn’t allowed in his chambers. Not after the incident. Whoever it was, he decided to look busy. It would be bad form for the Inquisitor to be slacking at a time like this.
When he looked back up, he didn’t expect to see Solas standing at the top of the staircase.
Like a startled animal, Westley stood, his palms splayed on the desk. He stared at Solas, who stared back at him, unblinking; his face looked hollow like his body was there but he had sent his mind somewhere further away. It was a little bit more than unsettling.
Solas strolled across Westley’s quarters, arms folded behind his back, every step careful and calculated. Westley pushed his chair away so that, if he needed to, he could back away against his bookshelf. Not that he needed to. Solas would not harm him, because logically, it would do infinitely more harm than good, and Solas was a logical man.
“Inquisitor,” he said, less a greeting and more an acknowledgment, placing his hands on the desk, rolling his knuckle over the wood.
“I—”
“Do you know what you’ve been doing lately, Inquisitor?”
“Saving the world,” Westley replied tentatively. “Or trying to.”
“Trying.” He rounded the desk, and Westley felt the tug at his legs, his arms, panicked and screaming for him to move but his feet were planted in place. Solas was shorter than him. Solas was thinner than him. Solas was a mage and Westley would have no issues defending himself. If all that were true, why did he feel so powerless?
“Was trying ever good enough?” He asked, reaching forward to grab Westley’s hand. His fingers were ice cold, too cold for an elf, too cold for somebody who appeared to be a living breathing being. The sunlight beaming in through the open doors made a pocket of shadow in the area around Westley’s desk, as though the Maker himself could not see them here.
“What are you doing?” Westley murmured, his voice a harsh rasp. He felt nauseous. He felt like somebody had dropped a leaden weight into his stomach, and it was that weight that kept him planted on the floor, unable to move, hardly able to speak.
Solas rubbed circles into Westley’s palm with his thumb. From anybody else, it would be tender. From Solas, he didn’t know what it was. Only that he feared it.
He moved his hand to Westley’s hip and the other to the back of his neck. Then, in one swift, precise movement, he shoved Westley down onto the desk with strength unusual of an elven mage. Westley shouted out in alarm and tried to struggle, but Solas had him in a vice grip and pressed his torso flush against Westley’s back. He lowered his head to just beside his ear.
“You can try to write a poem. You can try to win a race. You can try to save the world. You can try to escape,” he whispered in Westley’s ear, his breath hot, a stark dichotomy to his icy hands. “But trying doesn’t cut it, does it?”
“I’m not arguing with you over this,” Westley retorted. This was ridiculous. He was the Inquisitor, he was Solas’ leader, he—
“Oh?” Solas said, a note of laughter in his tone. The hand that was latched firmly on Westley’s neck slowly began to warm, until the heat was just bordering on unbearable. Westley grit his teeth. “The Inquisitor doesn’t want to argue now, of all times? Ah, but this is the one time he should be arguing.”
He heard rustling. Cloth? He couldn’t move. Like a dog to a leash, he was tethered to Solas’s hand, a steady, uncomfortable grip. When he felt a round, firm object press into his rear, his heart stilled.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t do this to you.”
“Wait—” Westley said, and tried to rise but Solas slammed him back down against the desk with a loud thud. He writhed in place as Solas used the hand on his hip to lift him, reaching around and hastily undoing the clasps to his trousers. “No, no, Solas, you wouldn’t, please, don’t—”
“Why shouldn’t I?” He murmured. “For months you have been pestering me, prodding me, irritating me, and I have had to take it. And you are going to take this.”
As Solas tore down Westley’s small clothes, baring his ass to the world. Westley whimpered, letting his forehead fall against the desk. Solas laughed loudly, rubbing the back of the Inquisitor’s neck in a mocking gesture. He pressed what could only be his cock, separated by a thin layer of cloth, into Westley’s ass, rutting against him.
“I like you better like this.” He pulled back for a moment. Westley stirred more, tears prickling the corners of his eyes when he heard the unmistakable sound of cloth falling to the ground. “You can’t argue. You can’t make any snide remarks. You serve better as this than as a leader. A curious thought. Is that why Dorian likes you so much?”
Westley let out a devastated sob when he felt Solas’s length sliding into the cleft of his ass, teasingly rubbing over the hole, taunting him. Dorian. What would he think if he walked in and saw this? Would he recoil in disgust? Would he never be able to touch Westley again? Would Westley ever allow himself to be touched?
“You know it too, don’t you?” He asked, leaning back down to Westley’s ear. “Why would he want you for any other reason? What do you have that he cannot find elsewhere, and in larger quantities? It’s because you let him. It’s because he can have you wherever he wants, whenever he wants, with no protest—”
“That’s not true,” Westley sniffled, even though he didn’t believe himself. He hadn’t noticed he had been crying until he opened his eyes and the world around him was bleary, like in a dream. “He loves me. He—”
“He loves bedding you,” Solas corrected helpfully. He prodded Westley’s hole with the tip of his cock. No. No, Andraste, please, no, anything but this. “That’s all you’re good for, Inquisitor. When this is over you’ll go back to being little more than a prostitute.”
It was like wading through clinging tar, the way he pushed in, dry and intruding. Westley would have screamed if not for the hand firmly clamped around his throat, applying enough pressure that he could still breathe, but just barely. What would have been shouts of pain and terror were little more than rasps, unheard. Solas slowly pulled in and out of him, the only pace his body would allow, until it— like Westley— gave in and stopped fighting this violation.
He lay limp across the desk, being pushed across it and then pulled back down with every thrust, his cheek pressed into the wood as he stared out at the mountains. Grand and majestic and topped with snow like flour on dough. Sunlight warmed his face in broad strokes, gentle and inviting. His cock chafed against the wood with every thrust and burned.
He didn’t notice when Solas had come inside him, forever claiming him, forever silencing him. He pulled out and left Westley draped like a blanket across the desk, legs limp and still except for the occasional twitch.
Solas shoved himself back into his pants. “I do hope this teaches you a lesson, Inquisitor,” he said as he made to leave. “You can try many things. More often than not, though, trying is futile.”
He rounded the desk and crouched down in front of him, taking Westley’s chin in his hand. The Inquisitor looked at him with a hollow, debauched expression. He wasn’t there, not really. Not truly.
“Are you going to be more agreeable?”
A brief pause. Then, a slow nod. “Yes,” Westley mumbled. “I’ll be good.”
Solas smiled, and like he had never done what he had just done, it felt reassuring. Warm and approving. He didn’t say another word, just turned and left, and as the door shut behind him, Westley remembered that Solas had locked it. Nobody would have come to save him.
He turned his head again, now hanging off the side of the desk, warm with the blood rushing to it. Beautiful mountains. Warm sunlight. He wished he could die here. If he focused he could hear the sound of soldiers training, the sound of birds singing, or perhaps crying. He shut his eyes. He wished he could die here. He was vaguely aware of another presence, standing where Solas had stood, at the mouth of the stairwell.
“Inquisitor?” It said. “What— what happened?”