Chapter 4: Texts, Letters, and Even More Sheva'bradh

[ You mean Ellana. ]

Solas hesitated, his finger hovering over Send, then moved to completely delete what he'd composed instead.

He tried: [ I've met a Miss Ellana, yes. We did not get along all that well. ]

And that's putting it mildly, Solas mused, frowning at the screen. After a moment he erased the last sentence and typed, [ Barely a week ago she borrowed my stepladder and gave me sheva'bradh. ]

Mouth pursed, he mulled over what he'd written for the next few seconds, feeling intensely dissatisfied but not quite able to put his finger on the cause of it. He cancelled the text. He sighed.

In the end, what he ultimately sent out to Varric was, [ I may have, yes. ]

Seconds later he began to type, [ More friends of yours? ] then stopped, for of course they were, or trusted acquaintances at the very least; for Varric to ask after them, for them to even be allowed to set up shop in a building owned by the dwarf (or a convenient 'cousin'), they would have to be. In any event, that cleared up the minor mystery of Miss Ellana—she of the vibrant green eyes and surprisingly savory sheva'bradh—knowing his name.

He wondered what else Varric has told her—told them—about him. Not that he cared what they thought of him, precisely, because he didn't; he was just—

"Curious," the voice of a young man finished for him. "Contradictions all around. You want to know, but then you don't. You're careful not to care, except you do."

Did he?

Pocketing his phone, Solas stood up to greet his latest visitor. "It's good to see you, too, Cole."

"Is it?" the blond-haired youth asked, those faded blue eyes looking past him, through him, unblinkingly. Suddenly Cole frowned. "I may have said too much, again. I'm sorry."

Solas held up his hand. "Don't be." He nodded towards the stack of periodicals the boy had set down on the desk. "These are all from that Kirkwall publishing house, I take it?"

"Yes," Cole replied. "There are some letters for you, too."

There were, in fact, three: one from a senior editor of the aforementioned publishing company, another from Archivist Banon of the University of Orlais. The third was in a plain white envelope and had no return address.

Another one of those, then.

"I see," Solas said. Calmly he put the letters away for his perusal later. "As always, thank you for bringing these to me."

"It's my job," Cole returned with a smile, tapping his Haven PO ID. "And besides, I do like helping you."

And with one last nod, the boy bid him farewell, both the bell and the door barely making a sound as he stepped out into the busy street. Just as quietly as when he'd first come in, really. No surprise there; in all the three years Solas has known the lad, he has yet to hear Cole make the store bell ring beyond a begrudging clink. He suspected he never will, to be honest.

His phone vibrated in his trouser pocket.

[ 'I may have,' he says; ] Varric had texted back. [ Now, why do I get the feeling that you've been your usual charming self, Chuckles? ]

Why, indeed? No emoticons accompanied those words, yet Solas could all but see the dwarf's sardonic, needling grin.

[ I would hardly know, Master Tethras. ] Or care, he silently insisted. [ Perhaps you should ask Miss Ellana herself just how charming I was. I expect she will have plenty to say on the matter. ]

Far more than what he himself would, at any rate. The message duly sent, Solas sat back down, and set about attending to the bundle of periodicals Cole had brought in.

He had picked up a glossy magazine—the anniversary issue of Marcher, with young Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven on the cover—when a flicker of movement caught his eye: another envelope, yellow and thick, falling off the far edge of his desk and onto the floor. With a puzzled frown, Solas retrieved it, turning it over in his hands.

The envelope's intended recipient was a Miss Merrill Sabrae, whose mailing address was apparently quite near his own place of business.

What arrested his gaze, however, was the sender's name. He stared at it, blinking, re-reading it two more times; but no, he was not mistaken.

His cell phone buzzed again.

Speaking of, Solas thought, and opened Varric's latest message.

~o~

"Oh, Dorian, these are all amazing," Merrill gushed. "How do you do it?"

"How can I not?" the bemustached man replied, openly preening like a proverbial peacock at the elven woman's praise. "My brilliance shows no matter what I do. Frankly, I'd have to exert more effort to make something terrible. It's like a curse."

Seated in front of them and behind his precious laptop, from where they were viewing his boyfriend's unedited sheva'bradh photos, Mahanon gave a snort. "In case you're wondering," he said, presumably to Merrill and Ellana, "he normally is this insufferable."

"Not so different from yourself, then," Ellana quipped, mouth quirking. She stood by the countertop, away from the three. She had donned an apron and was busy transferring some of the sheva'bradh she'd made for the shoot onto individual paper plates.

As her cousin scowled, Dorian grinned. "I do believe I like your relations, amatus."

"I can't imagine why," deadpanned Mahanon, tapping a few keys, "considering how you all love to needle me."

"It's how we show we care," Ellana said sweetly.

"Is it?" Merrill asked. "And here I thought it's because he looks so adorable when he's angry."

"That, too," appended Dorian amiably.

"Oh, Dread Wolf take you all," Mahanon sulked, only to flush when his boyfriend draped his tanned arms across his shoulders.

"I misspoke; forgive me," Dorian said, nuzzling the top of Mahanon's head from behind to punctuate his apology. "You look adorable whether or not you're angry."

Mahanon blushed even harder. Turning around to glare at Dorian, he said, "That's not—" then stopped, squinting at something past the shaded storefront of their shop. "Company, guys," he announced. "It could be that college kid you invited to come around."

"His name is Cole," Ellana informed him.

Hastily she wiped her hands on her apron and hurried out the side entrance to greet the approaching figure. "You're just in time," she called out, holding the door open and smiling warmly, blindly. "Come on in—"

'—And I do hope you're hungry,' was what Ellana would have said next, but the words, along with her smile, froze on her lips.

Solas stood on the curb not ten feet away from her, as tall, bald, and coolly superior as ever. "Miss Ellana," he uttered, face unreadable, doing that curt little nod that apparently passed as his 'friendly' greeting. "I'm afraid I'm—"

"Not the person we were expecting, evidently," Ellana filled in for him. She noted that his shoulders looked especially broad today, what with the ash-colored vest he wore over powder blue long-sleeves, and that his slacks—dark grey—while not exactly snug, suggested more than a hint of long, lithe legs and leanly muscled thighs. His choice of footwear was as elegant as it was offbeat: walnut brown wingtips.

And no, she was totally not staring.

Of course not.

Objectively assessing the enemy's external features, yes—and maybe wetting her lips, once—but not staring. Ellana straightened her posture, lifted her chin, and glared at him to try and think otherwise. "Well?" she inquired, eyebrow arched, "Whatever brings you here, Solas?"

"You know Varric."

It wasn't a question, but Ellana nodded just the same. "As do you, evidently."

Remarkable how his jawline could tighten just so. He took a few steps forward, facing her head on, stopping close enough for her to discover the light dusting of freckles that dotted the bridge of his nose. "This is—" Solas held up a yellow envelope, reading out the address that was undoubtedly the one for their shop, "—Correct?" he finished, his gaze once again lifting to meet hers.

Damn those distracting blue-grey eyes. "It is," Ellana nodded again, glaring even harder, "yes."

"Ah." Solas blinked, but didn't seem perturbed in the slightest. "Then I believe I've got a letter here—" He flipped the envelope so she could plainly see what was printed at the back, "—addressed to Miss Sabrae."

Ellana blinked as well. "Merrill?"

"Yes, Ellie?" Miss Sabrae herself called back, coming up right behind her. "Is Cole— Oh!"

This, when the aforementioned elven woman saw Solas at last.

Speaking of, Ellana thought, and proceeded to make the necessary introductions.

~o~

From beyond the dividing wall two muffled voices could be heard:

"He doesn't look like a hahren any more than you do."

"I never said he did."

"But you did say it, Ellie."

"I did not."

"Did too."

"Did not—" An exasperated sigh. "Look, can't we please just stop talking about this? I'm pretty sure he can hear you."

"Hear us, you mean."

"Yes. Now hand me the damned tea, Mahanon."

"Ma nuvenin—" A beat, "—hahren."

"Oh, I am so showing Dorian your embarrassing baby pictures."

And with that as a parting shot (closely followed by her younger cousin's "You wouldn't dare!"), Ellana re-emerged from the kitchen, carrying an ice-laden pitcher of what was, presumably, tea.

Of the lemon-flavored and honey-sweetened variety, or so Solas hoped, observing the petite elven woman make her way over to their folding table with a casual—but no less captivating—grace. Just as casual, but no less flattering, as her clothes for that day: a simple mauve t-shirt, denim cut-offs, and moccasins, along with a frilly pink apron he suspected she'd forgotten she was wearing.

Not that he was captivated, nor enthralled in the least, because he wasn't; he was merely acknowledging an incontrovertible—and therefore irksome—truth: that he did find Miss Ellana Lavellan both beautiful and graceful, for all that she seemed Void-bent on glaring him to death on that particular afternoon.

When not altogether ignoring his existence, that is.

The latter of which she was decidedly engaged in at present, beaming at Miss Sabrae and the man called Dorian while pointedly not looking his way. "Here we go, then," said Ellana, pleasant as you please, pouring iced tea into the ceramic mugs arrayed on top of the table. "Drink up."

"Ma serannas," Dorian affably replied, and raised his mug in a toast. "And here's to hoping I pronounced that correctly."

"You did," Miss Sabrae—Merrill—assured him. "Why, we should start calling you lethallin already."

"I'm flattered, honored, and just the slightest bit intrigued," declared the Tevinter. "What does 'lethallin' mean, exactly?"

This time it was Mahanon, Ellana's cousin, who replied. "Literally? 'Of shared blood'," the elf stated, walking up to them and dragging a chair to sit beside Dorian. "A member of the clan, so to speak."

"Nowadays, however, it's just a fancy term we use for 'friend'," Ellana added with a shrug. She sat down at the only spot left available, next to Merrill and across from where Solas was seated himself. "Or anyone we wouldn't mind sharing a meal with, basically."

She was addressing Dorian, of course; nonetheless Solas had the distinct impression that that last sentence had been aimed at him all the same.

Then Ellana turned to face him, finally, and Solas knew it was. Her smile tightened, and her bright green eyes warily regarded his own. I'm being civil because you were kind enough to return Merrill's misdelivered mail, that look proclaimed. But I do not consider you lethallin, and I do mind having to share a meal with you. She gestured at the sheva'bradh on their plates and said, "'Though I'm afraid they still are leftovers, Solas. I hope that's fine with you?"

Her eyes, he decided, were undoubtedly her best feature. Solas shrugged. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't, Miss Ellana."

"True," she conceded, shrugging back. "And if that envelope Varric sent hadn't somehow ended up with you, you wouldn't be here at all."

"Then I suppose we have the postal service to blame for my presence," he dryly replied. "Barring common decency, of course."

"Common decency," echoed Ellana. "Of course."

A tense moment of silence passed between them.

"Well!" Merrill suddenly exclaimed, clapping her hands together, "I'm sure Varric will be pleased to know we've finally met. I know I am. Ellie's told us such things about you!"

"Did she now," Solas said.

"Oh, yes, she did," Mahanon replied. "Why, for a time, she wouldn't even shut up about—Ow! Ellie!" The violet-eyed elf scowled accusingly at his cousin.

"Ara seranna-ma," Ellana uttered, unrepentant. "My foot slipped."

While Mahanon scoffed, Dorian gave Solas a conspirational wink. "Well, I don't know about you, but I am famished," the man said, picking up the sheva'bradh on his plate. "I've been taking photos of these lovelies all day."

"They do look appetizing," Solas had to admit, looking down at the meat-filled roll of flatbread on his own plate. It smelled—and was, indeed—a bit different from the one he'd had before; the shredded strips of beef not dried but roasted, peppery and rich amidst the vegetables and honey-yogurt dressing.

"They are," Merrill told him. "Ellie made them herself, you know."

"With love," Mahanon helpfully added, pushing back his chair to avoid any further kicks to the shin his cousin may inflict on his person.

As it turned out, the younger elf needn't have bothered. Ellana simply smiled, turned to Dorian, and said, "Mahanon still watches Ser Nuggins reruns on TV."

"Really, amatus?"

"No!"

"Oh, he does," Merrill put in. "I think he likes singing along to the music."

"It's a critically-acclaimed children's classic," Mahanon said, folding his arms defensively. "At least I don't own a battered copy of Swords and Shields, or several back issues of the Randy Dowager Quarterly."

Ellana almost choked on her tea, the warm tan of her skin apparently not deep enough to conceal the blush that rose to her cheeks. "W-well, I—"

"Yes, you do collect them, don't you, Ellie?" Merrill chimed merrily. "Perhaps you should ask Solas if he's got any of those in stock."

"If he wouldn't mind," added Mahanon, gazing at Solas with glee. "You wouldn't, would you, ser?"

"I would not be opposed to it," he answered. A customer was a customer.

The sheva'bradh, so Solas found, was delicious. The meat was juicy and bursting with flavor, the moderate spiciness blending well with the sweetly sour taste of the pickled vegetables and the creaminess of the yogurt. (The sethbradh, however, was a bit overtoasted for his taste, and the spindleweed not as crisp; minor nitpicks that didn't deter Solas from accepting another serving.)

And if part of his enjoyment may have involved having Ellana glare at him from across the table, well, what of it?

It was well worth tolerating the tea.

Notes:

- Apologies for the delay! RL stuff happened, and then my muse made me take a break from the food porn to write actual porn - check out my AO3 account under the same handle, fufu, and then more RL stuff happened... and so here we are.
- 'Ser Nuggins' as used in the story is a popular children's cartoon starring the heroic nug from DA:I's Ballad of Nuggins. Think Duck Tales or Pokemon or My Little Pony. XD

lethallin – clansman/kinsman

Ara seranna-ma – Excuse me..