#Pharaan does not like Solas one bit

[mindtrove]

No Compromises

So I’m sure there’s some typos here and there but I haven’t written in ages so I’m just gonna post it anyway.

I need to get back into the swing of writing so here we have Solas finally have a one-to-one with Moro’s brother Pharaan which doesn’t go exactly how he hoped.

There were no words to express the amount of gratitude Pharaan felt towards Enchanter Vivienne. In how she orchestrated what would such a momentous mark in the mage’s life. If Pharaan had been asked years ago whether he ever expected to be reunited with his sister he would have thought the fool daft. A foolish hope that had withered and died, a long with many other things as the circles were so known for.

But then again, he would have thought it daft that the circles would be disbanded, that he would end up in the ranks of the loyalists and a giant hole into the fade would be dancing in the sky.

Life had taken an odd turn.

When he had first laid eyes on Moro after so many years he almost doubted if it was really her. But then he his grandmothers silks she adorned, and most importantly, he saw that large deep scar that marked her left jaw. He could never forget the day she had gotten it, it was the day everything had changed. For him. For his family. Looking at that mark he had cast on her when he was a boy filled him with a deep pit of melancholy and guilt.

He stared at it even now, while he and Moro walked the gardens. She talked absent mindedly about her new life as inquisitor. In all honesty neither of them cared much for it but they didn't know how to start on what they truly wished to speak about. It had been what? twenty ? Thirty years? How did you start to mend a relationship with someone who feels both as kin and stranger?

Moro saw where her brother’s eyes fixated on her face. She smiled, her fingers touching the long and angry looking scar.

“When me and father made it to the Dalish the Keeper offered to heal the scar but I refused,” The smile slowly fell from her face. “I felt it was all that there was left of you behind.”

They had slowly come to halt, taking their seats at a more secluded part of the gardens, flowers littered everywhere and the faded background noise of chatter encased them but they could barely notice it under the weighted feelings and words logged in their minds.

Pharaan stared at his hands.

“I would say your names every night when they took me to the circle,” a small red vial appeared in his lap, his thumb brushing over the glass surface. “It was the only thing I could think of to make sure I didn’t forget I have a family.”

While Pharaan was distracted by the vial in his hands, Moro was able to take in all of her brothers features. He looked so much like their father, they had both taken after him in many ways. It hurt that he looked so much like him in the way his face conveyed his weariness, in the way he recalled awful memories.

He looked a lot like their father the last few years of their time in the Alienage. When Pharaan had been taken away by the templars and their mother dead from the grief. But as they continued to speak, to understand each other and learn more of what they had both missed of each other’s lives she had made him laugh, made him smile and groan from the more embarrassing tales. In those moments it was nice to see a glimpse of what her father would have looked like in similar moments.

A man hard as stone had beared children that emulated the same facade. But they were not as good at it as he had been, whether Moro or Pharaan would admit it or show it, they carried their mother’s soft heart.

“So…” Pharaan starts, and at once his voice goes lower in timbre, serious, and a disciplined glint in his eye that gave Moro the instinctual impression she was about to be told off. “The Apostate.”

Ah, this would be fun. She had forgotten where Pharaan placed his allegiance in political affairs.

“There are a lot of apostates in Skyhold Pharaan.”

Pharaan did not even entertain a response to her sarcasm. Simply staring deadpanned, waiting for her explanation.

“Your dwarven friend was quick to introduce himself and make conversation. Informing me that my sister had…’a sweetheart’, as he put it.”

She would have to give Varric an earful later.

Moro simply rolled her eyes, sighing as she crossed one of her legs over the other, turning to face away from Pharaan. Ignoring the chiding tut that escapes her brothers lips as she pushes her hair over her shoulder.

“I know I am in no position to be making demands or questioning your choices Moro but...relationships with his sort are...most unwise…”

“He is a bit of a smartass but that’s hardly worthy of any caution.”

“Moro-”

“And I honestly don’t see why you-”

“Kafia! Heed what I have to say girl.”

The Nevarren rolled off his tongue eloquent and harsh, it took away whatever smart retorts Moro had left. It was becoming apparent that Pharaan was more than displeased that a hedge mage had taken an interest in his sister, and succeeded in their desire to court her.

Moro glared at her brother, meeting him dead in the eye. Offering her silence but never truly relinquishing control as she always had done. She would let him say his peace, but he would also remember his place. Her choices were hers alone.

“What do you know of him?” Pharaan asks.

“He is a mage, has been living alone and travelling all over Thedas…”

“What of his upbringing?”

“He grew up farther north, in a village.”

“What village.”

“I don’t know!”

“Nice and vague...you see that is what they do Moro. Withholding information and lying both dance on similar strings,” Pharaan’s posture and nonchalance as he adjusts his robes does well to hide his displeasure for the conversation. But there is a confidence there, or arrogance as Moro felt inclined to see it in how he made all these assumptions of Solas. Like he had told this lecture so many times before. “It is typical behaviour.”

“For an apostate?” Moro questioned with a sneer.

“For anyone who is trouble,” Pharaan elaborated, his features softenning. He takes hold of her hand, gives a pleading squeeze. “I know I have no right, our seperation has been for far too long but...I would not see you hurt.”

Moro scoffed, “I am no stranger to that Pharaan, if our love should fail it is likely it will be of my own doing. Ramia’s father would still be here if otherwise…”

“Men like him only lead to misery,” Pharaan lifts the sleeve of his robe, his sister’s eyes widening at the large and jagged scar that danced across his forearm. It was faint, unseen unless one looked close. “They will take, and take...until you have nothing left.”

“Pharaan…”

Pharaan rises, righting himself and making his way out the gardens and towards the main keep.

“I will be amicable, but I can make no promises.”

_________________________________________________

Solas had always been intrigued by the brother stolen away to the circles that Moro had confided in him about when first she had begun to trust him and open up to her. A small twinge of pride in knowing magic ran through her family tree, that perhaps the inevitable meeting could be softened in finding commonality in a shred skill for the arcane.

Such optimism thrown out the window the moment he learnt of the man’s allegiances.

It was hard in and of itself dealing with Enchanter Vivienne’s worldview of magic and the circles, but that Moro’s brother believed in such opinions as well?

It was going to be a long morning.

But he promised Moro he would behave, be civil, and make an effort. Even though he didn’t want to. He had learnt all too well from Varric Pharaan’s reaction to learning his sister was “messing about” with an apostate.

He was taken from his thoughts as he reached the top of the stairs that led to a balcony with a particularly exceptional view of Skyhold courtyard. Pharaan was already seated, making polite conversation with a servant who set about the many assortments for the morning meal. Moro was nowhere in sight, which aided in Solas’ unease.

“She will be late,” Pharaan exclaims without so much as a glance in Solas’ direction. Seeming to pick up on the elf’s eyes casting on a third unfilled seat. “Matters to attend to and such…”

“Of course…” Solas mutters in a dry tone. Pharaan either didn’t notice or chose not to notice the hint of sarcasm as he poured himself some tea. Both knowing full well they weren’t left to their own devices purely out of coincidence.  

Pharaan pours the strong herbal tea into another cup for Solas. Solas smiles to himself as he watches the man before him, pot held high as he effortlessly performs the task without splashing or causing harm. He has seen Moro do it on many occasions.

“Why pour it in such a way?” Solas asks. “Your sister does it all the time.”

“It is simply force of habit,” Pharaan chuckles, “Our mother always did so, it goes back quite a ways.” He picks up his own cup taking a long sip and humming in approval at the taste.

“Although I do notice I do not have to wait so long for it to cool enough to drink when I do so.”

Pastries and fruit decorated the table, the former elaborate and delectable to the eye. Pharaan’s hands land on a tray of dates. Solas takes note of how deliberate and slow the enchanter’s movements are, nothing he does is rushed or haphazard.

“No desire for something more indulgent?” Solas asks him as he takes something for himself. While Pharaan’s friendly facade, as Solas knew all too well that was all it was, a facade; had cracked for all but a moment. His eyes hardened with disapproval.

“I am a man of discipline. Indulgence I’m afraid is not something I am prone to succumbing to.” Pharaan claimed. Solas scoffed, the remark’s true meaning not lost on him.

“And here I thought we were on a good start.”

“We were on a good start because I allowed it.”

“You do not approve of me.”

It was not a posed as a question but as a statement. If politeness and courtesy was lost on this man than Solas felt no more need to pretend. Getting straight to the point.

“So, are you suspicious of my intentions? Worried I intend to bide my time before performing some abhorrent blood ritual on your family?”

Pharaan all the while continued to drink from his cup, giving a harge sigh as he laid back down his cup. Hands rested on crossed legs as he looked out over the courtyard.

“I do not bother with questions that will give me no satisfactory answer.” Pharaan boredly replied. “You are trouble, as all your kind are.”

Solas bit his tongue, tempted to speak up but the enchanter was far from finished.

“It is wonderful though,” Pharaan began, sparing a glance in Solas’ direction. “There is a thrill to the chase and claim of men like you, a high if you will and you and my sister at at its peak”.

He rose finishing the last of his tea and holding the cup in hand and giving Solas his full attention. His eyes looked knowing, the same piercing stare that was always seen in Moro. But these did not soften or shine with any warmth for Solas as hers had.

“But all highs come with a low, and there will be nothing but pain and misery when you both reach it. You will leave her scarred and lost.”

“I love her Pharaan.” Solas defends as he stands to meet the man’s gaze.

“Oh I’m sure you believe that my friend.” Pharaan laughs. “But it changes nothing. Not my opinion of you, and unfortunately… neither will it change the outcome of this dance you have with Moro.”

Both men hear Moro’s voice in the distance, instead of returning to their seats, Pharaan lays down his cup and prepares for his departure.

“She will have to learn first hand what comes with loving an apostate...just as I had…”

Pharaan’s voice falters at the last statement, and Solas’ eyes catch at the angry and deep scar that trails down the inside of Pharaan’s forearm. He had seen many like it in dreams. Victims of blood magic, who masters wished to prolong the use of the blood without killing.

Pharaan notices where the mage’s eyes linger and all at once he rushes to hide the scar, bidding Solas goodbye just as his sister arrives. Apologising for his hasty retreat and disappearing from the balcony. Leaving a bewildered and disappointed Moro behind.

But he knew this would not be the last confrontation to be had with the apostate.