Chapter Text
Ellana Lavellan was used to dealing with high expectations, that was part and parcel of working at Inquisition Studios: bring your A-game, and trust everyone else to brings theirs. Normally that was fine, it worked, the young woman thrived under pressure and the more daunting the task the more Ellana seemed to work miracles.
But this was a different kettle of fish, some nightmare from the fade made real. It was like one of those ridiculous dreams where none of the events make sense afterwards: you don’t know how you ended up running from a shark - on dry land - that wanted it’s pineapple returned, but the terror at the time was real and you vow never to eat strange Orlesian cheeses before bed again. Now Ellana felt like the pineapple - she had no control over the direction of travel and sharks were circling to take a bite.
“Mythall’s tits, how do I get myself into these messes?” Turning to face her reflection in the glass door to the kitchen, Ellana tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear, squared her shoulders and breathed in deeply. “Once more unto the abyss I go.”
4 Weeks Earlier
Heads turned all around the room as a voice loudly choked out around laughter, “So let me get this straight, you want ME to cook. In front of cameras too?” Ellana fully burst out laughing at the idea, “Oh Varric you are funny!”
Following their usual practise of heading to the pub for a meal whenever work ran late, the two friends had claimed a table in front of the fireplace and were waiting on their orders. Stepping into The Iron Dragon always felt like stepping into the past, a large open space filled with wood beams, rustic furniture and a pervading warmth to go with the aroma of cooking food.
Ellana had found it when she first moved to this city two years before. Still wandering uncertainly around, she had been tired and hungrily looking for a place to eat. Getting desperate as her stomach began to swear at her for missing meals, the young elf stopped to ask a group of chattering women if they could point her in an appropriate direction. After far too many ‘umms’, ‘ahhs’ and stares at her vallaslin Ellana left the conversation with tentative plans for a café down the street. At this point a huge qunari who had overheard grabbed her by the shoulders and, with a boisterous “They don’t know what they’re talking about!” physically steered her down two streets and into The Iron Dragon. She had since found out that the qunari in question - The Iron Bull, once introductions were made- was actually the proprietor, and that the food and drink on offer was as good as promised. She had wasted no time in giving out recommendations to friends and colleagues, though Varric was already a regular.
The dwarf’s smirk widened. “Now hear me out: I know you’re more of a behind the camera kind of girl but I need this favour, and it doesn’t matter that you can’t cook. It’s not cooking, it’s baking! Completely different thing.”
Letting out one last huff of laughter Ellana leaned back into her chair. “You are full of it. Baking or cooking, or whatever you want to call it, I’m a disaster; how desperate are you?”
Varric shrugged languidly, not agreeing or disagreeing. “Hey, check the write up I gave you, neither Meredith nor Orsino think I can make this work. I’m sure the only reason I’m being given a food budget is their attempt to spite each other.”
“My bet is they were so horrified to have agreed with one another that you quick talked your way into it.” From the table between them Ellana picked up the papers she’d dropped onto it after reading the first few paragraphs. It was an outline for a new TV show provisionally called ‘Dessert Wars’.
In opposition to every word of advice he’d been given, Varric’s latest pitch was as far removed from his previous work as likening the table manners of a Ferelden farmer to those of an Orlesian noble. Personally Ellana blamed Hawke. Or maybe she should blame Varric’s propensity to go along with whatever the rugged man said.
It had started innocently enough: at one of their weekly get togethers (random meet ups at the Dragon) talk had turned to favourite film franchises until Star Wars had been brought up. Everyone bickered good naturedly until Hawke weighed in - rather pissedly if Ellana was honest- “Why do people war over stars anyway? They’re so far away! If I was going to war over anything (again) it’d have to be over something good, something principled…” his eyes alit upon the sweets menu lying on the table “…something like dessert!” From there the ball rolled in further ridiculousness, picking up steam as it went until it landed two weeks later as the sheets she was holding.
“Yeah you might be right, still it’s not like I’m asking the world. It really doesn’t matter if you can cook, it’s just a mini trial run to see if my competition model works and iron out the kinks. Leliana’s letting me use her kitchen to film it, all I need now is to confirm my last judge and get one final pair to compete. I was thinking you and Sparkler.” The Tevinter in question chose that moment to breeze in through the door. “Speak of the devil.”
Following a preternatural sense to know when he was being talked about, Dorian nodded to Bull behind the bar then swanned over to where the two sat.
“My ears were burning, all scandalous I hope?” The tall man brushed a kiss to the top of Ellana’s head before folding himself into a chair beside her.
“Yes and no, Varric was inviting the pair of us to compete in a-“ Dorian cut her off with a wide grin, puffing his chest out pretentiously.
“Say no more! Of course we agree, together we are an unbeatable machine. Just look at the Jenga tournament, the pub quiz, that treasure hunt where we were the least lost of everyone - and I refuse to count the wicked grace because Isabella cheats… What’s wrong? You’re looking rather pale all of a sudden.” She was going to throttle him. Throttle him with his perfectly draped scarf, witnesses be damned! Though it was with a vindictive glee that she ignored Varric’s chucking and carried on with what she’d been saying before the ill-timed interruption.
“-compete in a cooking show. A cooking show Dorian, in which we will have to cook in front of people and cameras.”
As long time friends and at one point housemates in university, Ellana knew that if there was ever someone worse in a kitchen than her it was Dorian. The Tevene had in the past explained it away as an upside to growing up rich, why learn to cook when there are servants to do it for you and a butler to bring it from the kitchen? Upon moving away to Nevarra City for university Dorian had found that didn’t get him far, subsisting on take away and ready meals until he met Ellana. At which point they subsisted on take away and ready meals together. When Ellana had to move across the continent to take up a permanent job at Inquisition Studios, Dorian had happily followed, although he complained incessantly about the colder temperature this far south.
“Oh. Oh dear.” Dorian’s moustache wavered slightly as he smiled hopefully at Varric, “I don’t suppose you accept take backsies do you?”
“Not a chance Sparkler, it looks like I’ll be seeing you two at Nightingale’s this Saturday. Bright and early!”
“Fasta vass, it’ll be early too?! I need my beauty sleep, this level of perfection doesn’t just happen. Ow! Stop pinching me!”
Still chuckling Varric stood up and headed for the bar, leaving Dorian to what was shaping up to be a rollicking from the Beyond and hurriedly muttered plans to practise cooking something after they left the pub. “I live for days like these.”
“I’m telling you never again!” It was now the day after Dorian had verbally sold them into culinary ridicule and Ellana was twirling round on her office chair, phone pressed to one ear as she examined the bandage round her left hand. “How’s your moustache?... Oh good, I know you’d point blank refuse to show your face in public if it hadn’t be salvageable.”
Last night’s impromptu attempt at cooking had not gone well. At all.
“I had to make an emergency hair dressers appointment this morning, it’s shaved back on the left now, I could have just got the ends trimmed off but I really liked this suggestion. Although I don’t know how I’ll redo the braid with my hand bandaged…” Ellana’s formerly long, dark blonde hair was now shaved back over her left ear with a braid running alongside. She quite liked the way the sharp blue lines of her vallaslin were now fully visible, and it highlighted the silver piercing just below the point of her left ear. (That had been the result of a dare several years ago from a group of her classmates on a night out, they didn’t realise how sensitive elvish ears were until afterwards when they were desperately trying to wake Ellana from where she’d fainted; Josephine still winced in remembrance when she passed tattoo parlours.)
“What? No I will not be grateful you set my hair on fire! I don’t care if it was time for me to have a style change Dorian… How was I supposed to know you shouldn’t have covered that pan with a tea towel?”
Halting the spin of her chair Ellana glanced at the open door. Noticing the figure poised to knock, she smiled and held up a finger, mouthing ‘one sec’ to her visitor. “Work beckons Dorian, I’ll talk to you later. Yes I still love you, no I haven’t forgiven you… I’m hanging up now.”
Ellana shut the cover on her phone and set it aside, standing up to greet the elf that had just walked through the doorway. “Savhalla Solas, I didn’t think you were going to be in today.”
“Originally no. I was in the area and decided to drop off some of the concept art you’d requested for the Emerald Graves project, I was pleased to see you’d taken an interest.” He held out a large, slightly frayed folder before frowning at the bandage on Ellana’s hand and moving closer to place it on her desk instead. “Are you well? I couldn’t help but overhear some of your conversation before I entered.”
Fidgeting in response to the scrutiny, Ellana leant her hip against the desk and ran the non-bandaged hand through her hair. “It’s fine, looks a lot worse than it is, a mishap when trying and failing to cook something resembling pasta.”
The corner of Solas’s mouth twitched up. “A mishap? Then I am certain I would hate to see anything you consider a disaster, especially if a simple mishap caused bodily harm and a change in hairstyle.”
“You heard that part?” Ellana groaned, pulling her attention from the unexpected curve of his mouth and up to his eyes. “Honestly I shouldn’t be allowed near a kitchen, my old Keeper actually banned me from anything but heating water after an incident I would call a disaster. I’ll just have to survive off take away for the rest of my life.”
Solas had first met Ellana two years before when he was working as principle art director on the third and final series of The Champion. Bright eyed and bushy tailed Ellana Lavellan had taken them by storm. Straight from graduate film school in Nevarra City the young elf had won a gruelling competition to direct the final three episodes of the entire series. Having expected either an anxious handwringer or an uncompromising blowhard, Solas had found Lavellan a pleasant surprise to work with: she brought out the best in the whole team, was always asking questions and fed off the experience of those around her. The harsh political storm of Kirkwall, so easy to caricature or villainise, had been presented in an understated way that made you feel for each faction and the citizens caught in the crossfire, whilst retaining the warm camaraderie and humour that was the backbone of the series. She had since gone on to win the Best Newcomer Award at the Orlesian Film Festival, presented as the herald of things to come. They had met again when she was tapped to direct the now acclaimed film adaptation of Hard in Hightown, to which Solas had supplied the concept art.
“You were banned from cooking? That is surely a tale worth telling.”
“Oh it definitely is, involving children and animals. However, I am a firm believer in equivalent exchange and that is my best story; give me something also blackmail worthy about you and I’ll consider it.” Ellana smiled and crossed her arms, smug in the knowledge she wouldn’t have to divulge that tale. For as long as she’d known Solas the man had held himself apart from his colleagues, and despite having heard some fascinating tales of his travels she knew little to nothing about him besides his skill at art. That he’d give away personal secrets was an unthinkable if tantalizing idea, and though it was a long shot Solas seemed to have slowly warmed up to her enough that it was a possibility.
Relaxing into the conversation he smiled despite himself. “I’m not sure I have the equal to a story greater than setting yourself on fire, but I may have one along a similar vein: As a young man I also managed to set a pan of pasta alight, I would regularly get distracted with my sketches and before I knew it the pan had boiled dry, the kitchen was filled with smoke and my pasta was fast on the way to becoming charcoal. Fortunately for everyone I have much improved since my days of kindling pasta, should I assume you made the same error?”
“Ah, no actually, the video we were following suggested putting a tea towel over the top of the pan to keep the pasta moist once it was cooked, only my friend didn’t remember to turn the heat off and the edges caught alight, it spiralled from there.” The speed with which the towel caught fire was impressive and she winced remembering how Dorian flailed about trying to get the pan to the sink. His flailing had resulted in the edge of his moustache getting singed and Ellana’s hair catching light, the burn on her hand was a small price for quickly smothering the flame before any true damage could be done.
“Well I hope there’s no lasting damage.” Solas’s pocket beeped and he pulled an old phone out before glancing at the clock on her office wall. “Ah, please look over my work and get back to me tomorrow about the designs. I’d much rather work with you over this than a director looking to make another Chantry special on the Exalted March, the history is so much richer than that one aspect of the Dales.”
“Of course Solas, thank you for dropping it round.” Her day and mood was now significantly improved with the other elf’s visit and offering of art. “We’ll have to see how magnanimous I’m feeling next time with my story telling. As good as yours was, it still lacked any animals or children.”
“No, indeed not, I’ll have to see about that in the future.” Focusing again on the bandage around her hand Solas thought on an alternative. “What about a different exchange? If you’re free tomorrow evening we can go through your thoughts about my concepts, and then I’ll teach you how to cook a proper pasta dish - without any uncontrolled fires this time.”
No one had ever tried to teach Ellana how to cook something before, internet videos aside she’d been raised amongst the Dalish where it was easy enough to find other jobs to do. As a child she hadn’t the patience for cooking, there was always a new place to explore as they moved around the countryside. But now as an adult the idea of a cooking lesson was strangely appealing, especially with Varric’s stupid baking show this weekend.
“I’d like that.”
His phone beeped again, prompting a step towards the door. “My apologies, it seems dwarves wait for no man, on dhea Ellana.”
“Dar’eth Shiral, email me with a time later.”
He was out the door before he stopped to look back over his shoulder, “The new hair suits you Ellana, no matter what brought it about.”
As her cheeks heated at the unexpected compliment Ellana wondered if her ready acceptance of his offer wasn’t more to do with the tutor than the subject.
Nightingale’s Pâtisserie was larger than Solas had assumed based on Varric’s description, doubling as a café with several tables both inside and onto the wide pavement. It was at one of these outdoor tables that the dwarf was waiting with two plates of deeply red iced religieuse pastries, so named for their colourful resemblance to the towering hats worn by Chantry sisters.
“There you are Chuckles! I was beginning to think I’d have to eat both of these myself and ruin my delicate figure.”
Recognising the winged nug design on the café windows to be the same as on the box of pastries Varric sometimes brought by his studio in thanks (as bribery) for his work, Solas eagerly sat down, pulling the plate closer. For all that the Orlesians could be criticised over, their cakes were always a delight.
“Dwarves are many things Varric, delicate not being one of them. But thank you for the cake.”
“Hah, that coming from an elf, a stiff breeze could knock you over! I appreciate you meeting me here, though I know you were sold at the mention of cake.” He gestured with a fork at the already half demolished cake on Solas’s plate. “Which ties nicely into what I wanted to ask you: I need you as a judge for the pilot run of Dessert Wars. You said you’d think about it when I mentioned it last week and I really need an answer, filming starts tomorrow.”
Varric was one of the very few people who knew of Solas’s history in the culinary arts. He’d been practically raised in the kitchen of his parent’s restaurant, running the business for a decade before selling the whole thing to travel the world. Not that it was a secret but few people asked, preferring to hear more about his journeys around Thedas or his artwork than what came before. But Varric was undeniably a people person and had, over the years they’d worked together, wheedled most of Solas’s life story from him with all the skill of an experienced dowager.
“If you keep using cake as an incentive it will stop working. But yes, I did say that and yes, I did think about it.” Pausing to take a sip of water from the glasses on the table Solas couldn’t help his lips curling into a smile at the exasperated look he was receiving. “I think the name is dreadful. But if you truly need me as a judge then I’d be happy to.”
Varric sighed in relief. “Andraste’s ass am I glad you said that, I didn’t have a back up judge and it wouldn’t work with just two in the case of a hang vote.”
They spent the next twenty minutes hammering out details of how the judging was going to work, and when Solas would be needed, before going inside to meet one of the other judges and look around.
The human woman behind the counter was introduced as Leliana, a tall redhead with a musical Orlesian accent. As the owner of Nightingale’s she had offered her premises as the filming location on the proviso that she would be a judge. Having looked around at the wide variety of pastries on display Solas was certain the woman would likely be the best qualified to judge the competition.
“I will see you both tomorrow for the start of filming, I cannot wait to see what the competitors will make! It should be most exciting, yes?”
At the excited look on Leliana’s face Varric couldn’t help chuckling. “Given what I know of some of them I really wouldn’t get your hopes up.”