Chapter Text
“Are you absolutely sure?” Ellana had asked the healer.
With a neutral expression on her face, the woman had nodded. “I have no doubt, Your Worship.”
Solas and her, she supposes, had never talked about children. The only time they had broached the subject had been when they decided to have witherstalk tea brewed for her. When they ran out on unexpectedly long trips, they would turn to other methods, such as withdrawal, and much to both their disdain, they sometimes would not have sex at all until their return to Skyhold. Solas had been very adamant, and it seemed only sensible to her. After all, bringing another living being into the world in the middle of a war hadn’t seemed very sensible to her, either.
But somehow, this had happened despite their precautionary measures. She is supposed to be the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor, and now she is pregnant . All things considered, she muses, this could not get any worse. Well, save for the fact that Solas had left her, seemingly out of the blue, over a fortnight ago. Which, quite frankly, she doesn’t see herself getting over any time soon.
And really, does she actually want a baby?
Creators forgive her, she knows she has the worst timing, but they would fight Corypheus soon, and if she lived through that… A little babe with Solas’ eyes and lips, perhaps her nose and her slightly unruly hair—would it be so wrong of her to want that?
Ellana lets her hand wander down to her stomach. There is no visible swell there yet, but she indulges herself and lets her hand linger for a while anyway. Not too long ago, she might even have dared to imagine the three of them as a family, in the distant future, once everything settles down, but now…
She lets the thought trail off before it turns into something more unpleasant. It doesn’t matter, she thinks. I will take care of my babe.
What she wants , though, is an entirely different matter. Pictures of Solas and her and their newborn child keep her awake that night, and the next morning she wakes up feeling absolutely knackered.
After breakfast—which she is barely able to keep down, despite her hunger—she watches Morrigan and her son, Kieran, in the garden. They are studying a book together, and even from a distance, Morrigan seems much more softer around him than usually.
Ellana wonders about the boy’s father. As these things go, there are several possibilities, she supposes. Morrigan might not want him around, or perhaps he was the one who had no wish to see his son. For all she knows, he might even be dead. She knows, of course, that plenty of children grow up with only one parent, and that they turn out just fine, but her throat closes up at the thought of her child not knowing its father.
Because Solas is thoughtful and knowledgeable, patient and calm, and she is still utterly in love with him, and if she has ever been sure about something, then it is that he would be a great father.
Besides, it is as much his child as it is yours. He deserves to know , she tells herself.
She finds him in the rotunda, bent over a book on his desk, and for a brief moment, she starts to panic. Bandits, rifts and demons, even dragons she can handle, but she has to steady herself against the doorframe for a moment and take a deep breath before she trusts herself to speak.
Solas, though, has heard her already (sometimes his sharpened senses are almost unsettling), and looks to her with a worried look on his face—or maybe it’s just her imagination. These days she isn’t sure of anything when it comes to him.
“Inquisitor,” Solas says in a level voice, and the concern must have been wishful thinking, after all. “How may I help you prepare for our final battle?”
“We need to talk”, she tells him and hopes that she sounds as calm as him.
"I'm afraid that wouldn't be appropriate at this time. We must focus on what truly matters."
“I’m sorry, but it can’t wait, Solas.” The insistence in her voice has him looking up, visibly taken aback by her immediacy.
He snaps his book shut and sets it aside, an unreadable expression on his face. Before he starts speaking, he gets up and clasps his hands behind his back, and that posture is so him that her heart aches. “Very well. What is the matter?”
Pregnant!, an unhelpful voice in her head yells. I’m pregnant! And it’s yours! Congratulations!
Ellana fixes her eyes on the strange pendant of his necklace. Some animal’s jawbone, she assumes. She’s pretty sure that if she didn’t, she’d start to cry every moment, and that’d be the last thing she needs right now.
Her heart is beating unbearably fast now, and before she has time to overthink, she blurts it out.
“I’m with child.”
She waits for his reaction, but there is none. He’s completely still, his face as unreadable as ever. Anxiety is starting to creep up her spine when he still doesn’t say anything. She can, to some extent, live with him rejecting her, but she doesn’t know what she’d do if he acted indifferently towards their unborn child.
Solas must have been still for mere moments, but to her it feels like hours.
“Ir abelas,” he says eventually. “This is my fault.”
His fault . Like their child isn’t proof of their love. Like it’s a mistake .
“Well, I’m not,” Ellana tells him, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I will take care of it on my own, if need be. I just wanted to let you know.”
“You...,” he begins, and she thinks that it’s the first time since she has met him that he’s at a loss for words, or at least close to. He sounds almost bewildered. “You would want to keep it?”
“Yes.”
She looks at him, and for one terrifying second his expression cracks and it seems like he might cry, but the moment is gone as quickly as it came, and it leaves her as confused as ever.
The silence is somehow even heavier now, and her fingers are itching to reach out for him, but she knows that she really shouldn’t, so she settles for fidgeting instead. “Solas, I’m not trying to—to pressure you. I just thought it unfair to keep this from you.”
“You might regret this, one day,” he tells her after another stretch of silence.
“No.” The vehemence in her voice has him looking at her, and she offers him a weak smile, more out of embarrassment than anything else.“Besides, you’re grim and fatalistic enough for the both of us.”
That earns her a chuckle, and it makes her traitorous heart flutter in a way that’s absolutely unacceptable. From the corners of her eyes she can see him opening his mouth to speak, but the words drown out as a wave of nausea crashes over her.
She does manage to keep down the bile rising in her throat, which, she feels the need to point out, is no small feat. The next time she is forced to attend some ridiculous Orlesian party, they should add it to her introduction. It would be just as impressive , she thinks, when all of a sudden she feels too dizzy to form any more coherent thoughts.
Then her vision fades to black.