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Eve ran the whetstone down the length of her blade, listening to the shoosh sound for any catches or irregularities. A well honed weapon was worth more than gold, in her opinion. Certainly it was worth the lives of her companions and herself. She sank into a kind of meditative trance while she worked, shutting out the sounds of the camp and the bickering of the Seeker and Varric. She had good light with the sun still high. And she was reasonably comfortable on the log she'd rolled near the fire for warmth. Her Free Marcher blood was still too thin for this Fereldan wilderness. She anticipated a long, enjoyable rest period.
“May I join you?” A smooth voice interrupted her reveries. She looked up to see Solas, his staff in one hand, a stone in the other. She scooted closer to the end of the log to make room for him. His lips curved in a faint smile.
He sat, laying his staff across his lap so that the blade at the end was in easy reach. It was as wicked and deadly as any warrior's weapon, and it occurred to her that even a mage would need to care for his staff's sharp edges as much as she did with her own sword. For a time there was only the sound of stone on steel, identical hissing sweeps as they fell into a rhythm together. Rather than minding the silence, she treasured it. There was kinship to be found in caring for the tools of their trade, just as there was companionship to be found in the spaces between words. After a while she unconsciously synchronized with his motions.
She flipped her blade over to work on the other side. Her first pass jarred her out of the pleasant repetition with a spark and a discordant ring from the steel. A nick on the edge of the sword. Solas had stopped too, looking at the same spot. He still said nothing, but his eyes held commiseration. The nick was deep and would take a fair amount of honing to render smooth and keen again. Eve sighed, just a little, and set to work.
She found her rhythm again and once more fell into the motions of sliding the whetstone against the blade. The sound of it was soothing, bleeding the tension out of her shoulders and back. There was a reason she'd always done this part herself, and not just because no one else would do it for her. Care of your weapon is care of yourself, her hahren told her once. She'd never forgotten, even if it had taken her a long time to understand what he meant.
She let the memories of long afternoons in the shaded gardens of her family home wash over her. Afternoons where they'd debated, sparred or just sat to appreciate the quiet drone of bees in the flowerbeds. She missed him. She wondered what he would think if he could see her now, Herald of a religion she viewed with utmost distaste. Forced to fix all the world's problems while few knew her other than her name. She wondered if he would be proud of her.
Another pass down the blade, another soft hiss of stone on steel. Another slight catch on the edge of the nick. And then...
...the whetstone broke in half in her hand.
“Oh,” she breathed, feeling the sting of tears. She knew it was silly compared to larger concerns; it was just a rock. But she couldn't help it. She'd had this whetstone for nearly ten years. It had been a gift from her hahren. It was so much more than just quartz and silica to her. It was approval and pride and the measure of time in the grooves worn into the surface from use. Over the years the chert had subtly molded itself to her palm and she could tell if she was holding it the right way simply by how it felt.
Solas reached out in time to catch half of the stone as it fell from her nerveless fingers. He didn't need her to say it aloud to know that the whetstone was important to her. Still, his expression was open and inviting. If she wanted to speak, he would listen.
“I had a...a teacher, when I was young. He gave this to me. It came from the Vimmark mountains. He said the layers of stone there are older than nations, older than any of our races, even. The combination of crystal and sediment make chert that's perfect for whetting. I know it's just a stone, and I can replace it easily enough, but...”
“Such a gift is more than mere stone.”
His hand was still extended and she laid the other piece in his palm, feeling like her heart was breaking, still fighting back tears. She felt slightly ridiculous, mourning such a thing. She was too old for such nonsense, wasn't she? But Solas was right, it was much more than a simple gift to her. He handled the halves with care so no spurs were broken off the split edges. He looked at each piece, his eyes lighting up. Then he showed her what he'd found.
“There is flint here, and the shape of a shell once adorning a creature of the sea,” he said, his cadence slow and gentle. “It put a flaw in the stone. But it is still a gift, a hidden thing inside a tool of purpose. It is still a treasure.”
Eve took back the half showing the tiny fossil and examined it. The late afternoon sunlight glinted through a minuscule speck of quartz embedded along with the shell and her thumb slipped across the occlusion of flint next to it. It felt like soap under her calluses. Her tears dried, unshed. Her whetstone might be broken, but it was not a waste. More things hid beneath the surface than could be seen with the naked eye.
“Finish with mine,” he went on, holding out the stone he'd been using on his staff blade as he stood. “It is not the same, but it will suffice.”
“Thank you, Solas.”
“It is no trouble,” he replied, just as soft as before.
Their fingers brushed together as she took his whetstone. He smiled a little wider than he had before and kept hold of the other half of her broken one. He walked away, tucking the piece into a pouch. She turned his stone in her hand and felt it comfortably slip into place. It felt different, of course, but not nearly as much as she thought it might. It was worn smooth and the groove in it was significantly larger than her own had been. How long had he used this? And on what? A groove like this was not from honing a short blade on a staff. Most remarkable of all, it felt like the same kind of stone. Like Vimmark chert.
She held the stone and watched him cross the little camp, where he was drawn into Varric and Cassandra's ongoing squabble. He glanced back at her with a lifted brow, his expression half satyric and half amused. She felt a moment of gratitude that he was enduring it so they didn't call upon her to mediate when she was so out of sorts. She bit back a smile and, by the twinkle growing in his eye, she knew that had been his intent. It was the second comfort in as many minutes. She mentally shook herself and went back to honing out the nick in her blade.
She ignored the rush of heat flooding her face.
*
Months later, when they were settled in Skyhold, when the chaos and catastrophe had begun to feel more like paperwork and bureaucracy, a gift was laid on her desk along with a bundle of correspondence. It was small and square and heavier than she expected for its size. She pulled the string and paper off the box and opened it.
It was a whetstone. Beneath it lay a note.
-
Ma falon,
I could not find an exact replacement, but I hope this will suit.
We are each of us more than the sum of our parts. Even sand and flint may aspire to contribute to greatness. May this stone serve you well.
~ S
-
Eve hefted the chert in her hand, turning it this way and that until it felt right. Her palm hugged the smooth curve of it and the weight was perfect. She could barely believe he remembered, much less that he'd traveled as far as the Vimmarks to find one that matched so well. Now she knew why he'd kept the other half. Her gaze flicked to the mantel of her hearth, where the fossil rested in a place where she could see it always. A reminder that hidden things could still be treasured.
She closed her fingers over the new stone and smiled.