The Elven Art

“That's... Not exactly how I imagined,” Frederica said stiffly, looking at her small portrait. Josephine didn’t hesitate to show delight. “You are so impressive in it, Lady Inquisitor.” There was a breath in the word “so”. “The court painter of Her Imperial Majesty skillfully conveyed your features. Now, we only have to make copies and send them to all influential Houses and organizations.” “Josephine,” Freda narrowed her eyes, “we wanted the members of these Houses and organizations to be able to recognize me, but this is…” “That is exactly what we need. Please, trust my experience, Lady Inquisitor.” So, Josephine ticked off her notes before Frederica could protest again. Usually such a tick meant that the decision had been made and there was no going back. Of course, Frederica trusted her experienced adviser. Frederica was taught magic, not subtle diplomacy. But still... Will she really stand like this before the powers that be? In the portrait, she had an authoritative break in her lips, there was no colour in her face, her hands squeezed the hilt of the ceremonial sword tightly. Her stature was full of dignity with the chest out, and the whole Orlais could feel safe behind her wide back. And most importantly, Freda didn’t recognize her own eyes in the portrait. Her gaze was not meant to provide safety and cause a tremble in the crowd at the same moment. And, for the love of the Maker, what’s up with her hair?..   “Kaffas, what is wrong with your haircut?!” Dorian burst out laughing. His bursting laughter instantly filled the entire rotunda, from the round roof to the base. Frederica sighed, patiently waited out his amusement to calm down, while watching Dorian fan himself with a copy of the portrait. “Darling, don’t think badly,” he finally stopped and turned serious. “You look impressive to match your reputation. But… it isn’t you.” “Happy to know that,” Frederica muttered. “Although I feel a little sorry for the hours spent posing. But Josephine assures it wasn’t a waste of time.” “Congratulations, Lady Inquisitor." Leliana's voice came from above, from the raven house. “This is how you will remain in the history books.” Dorian grunted. Freda didn’t show that she turned sour.   An elven apostate intercepted her at the foot of the stairs in the round hall. “Inquisitor?” “Yes, Solas?” she replied, forgetting to hide the portrait behind her back. For some reason, it was his reaction that she almost feared, in a world where someone like Sera could discover the portrait and unleash an entire quiver of caustic jokes. Solas furrowed his brows and gently took the portrait from Freda’s hands. Whatever words he was planning to say a second ago, were instantly forgotten. He skimmed through the painted image and then took a closer look at the real Frederica to see how she bites her lip. “You are annoyed,” he delivered the verdict. “And I will not claim I do not understand why.” She shook her head in agreement, against all logic, but limited herself to a phrase: “That sort of art isn’t my cup of tea, obviously.” And she involuntarily glanced over his shoulder at the walls of the rotunda, painted by Solas so skillfully that she didn’t have enough words to praise it. It was clear she liked his art. Maybe, Solas was in an unusually good mood, or maybe he was flattered by the attention shown to his fresco, but he suddenly suggested: “You know that I do not mind drawing your portrait.” She didn’t know. Freda looked at him, dying inside with happiness and disbelief. “You… Really?” She frowned in doubt. “Why?” “You are keenly interested in my views on the world, on being, on everything.” He said and went to his work table for a palette and brushes. He casually left Freda’s portrait on the table, covering it with a pile of scrolls. “And I can hardly be mistaken in assuming that you are also interested in yourself. In your place in my worldview, to be more precise.” The mere thought that she might have some kind of role in such a complex and extraordinary contraption as Solas' worldview made Frederica hold her breath. She might have looked stupid, frozen in the doorway with a dumb face. It would be hilarious if Solas drew her like that… “But, although I can express a lot in words,” he added, choosing his brush meticulously, “it is curious how you feel the art and what you will see in yourself through my eyes. As I said, I respect you deeply, Inquisitor. And I am ready to prove it. Freda miraculously regained control of herself. “Are we going to do it here?” she uttered, and in her excitement she didn’t even notice how Solas' shoulders twitched, apparently from laughter. At the very least, he upheld the random joke: “For such matters, I would choose a secluded place. There are always casual observers in this rotunda, it can’t be helped.” “So your place or mine?” Then Frederica finally realized what she was talking about. Solas bit his lip, chewing his laughter hard. Without saying a word, they went to her chambers, where a magnificent mountain panorama cried out, begging to immortalize it.   The most peaceful and happy hours in Frederica’s life followed. Solas drew her quickly, imaginatively, with attention to such a detail, as a strand of her brown hair poking out of a high forehead. For the sake of the Inquisitor’s portrait he clearly departed from his usual manner of drawing. Frederica proved herself as the most obedient and enduring model, she didn’t even move, although she was eager to see the result. She didn’t have to smile forcedly, because the smile appeared on her lips by itself. She and her artist spent several days this way, always waiting for the right position of the sun and sitting later on the balcony, in front of the mountains. Sometimes their privacy was violated by servants who brought warming tea for Frederica. Solas always agreed to eat at the same time of the day, and then he worked diligently, entertaining Freda with long conversations about everything in the world. They both liked it. On the day and hour when Frederica finally received her portrait (in a single copy, of course) her first response was: “Oh.” Solas' eyebrows flew up, yet he stoically waited for her real emotion to come out. He had to give her enough time for what his art should have encouraged. Enough time to think. “It’s really... Very...” She finally found some words. “Thank you, Solas… Do you think it would be a little smugly to place it in my room?” “This is your portrait, Inquisitor. You can do anything you want with it.” He walked away from her, successfully concealing his complete satisfaction with her reaction. Freda glanced at the portrait again. There was no doubt that it was her face on the canvas, with her sad look in her lilac eyes and her hair neatly and modestly tucked over her ears, and those relaxed, slightly rounded shoulders. Her shoulders. But how to explain the fact that she came out better than in real life? Did Solas mean to flatter her? Or does he really see her so... so beautiful? If this impossible conversation had arisen between them, Solas would have said: “This is it. This conception of yours makes it clear what role you want to play in my worldview.” Frederica glanced uneasily at the stairs he had gone down. And it seemed that her painted version was looking in the same direction.