#And Abelas' who must be damn desperate

[dalishbanalras]

Solas: Points ring. “This one.” Seller: ”Of course, Ser. What size?” Solas: “Oh, one second.” Casually tosses arm on the counter. “Just make it fit.” The Leather & Lace Romance Week prompt (Fake Relationship/Engagements/Marriage) may have put a silly vision in my head for Solas picking a ring...I’m not sorry. 

[branwen-lavellan]

Day 8 of @14daysofdalovers​‘s prompts.  Solas/Lavellan with my Inquisitor Branwen.  This is mild NSFW.

It’s been a rough week, and I’m super behind.  Hoping to get caught up in the next couple of days.

“Ow!” She cried.

“It Abelas, Vhenan,” said Solas, “but you must sit still.”

The four of them sat around the campfire: Branwen, Solas, Dorian, and Bull.  Branwen sat with her right leg extended forward and as relaxed as she could make it, given the circumstances. She had a massive gash in her thigh that oozed thick blood. Solas stitched it closed with black thread. 

They had fought a high dragon in the Hinterlands and won, a massive victory, but it had left them depleted of all resources.  No more health potions to mend their wounds, and no more mana potions for Solas to replenish his stores. Nothing left save one cracked jar of bees.  They’d chucked that into the woods, fearful of what might happen if the crack expanded. 

So, with no magic left to help them, Solas was left to do things the “normal” way.  Branwen had chugged from a flask that Bull had handed her, then braced herself. The small, hooked needle sunk into her flesh, sliced through the tissue, and popped out again, drawing fresh blood as it did. She winced.  “Fuck!”

On the other side of the campfire, Dorian winced along with Branwen as he watched Solas pull the thread taut.  He and Bull, who stroked Dorian’s head as it lay in his lap, had already been patched up.  Branwen had insisted they go first.  Bull had enough basic medical training to be a help.  He and Solas had made quick work of Dorian, who had taken the worst of it.  He’d been thrown across the field by a swipe of the dragon’s tail and been left with a nasty head wound that Solas had healed with the last of his mana.  He’d cracked a rib, too, but, Solas felt that it was less pressing.  Bull had wrapped his chest in bandages to add support.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever felt pain like this,” said Dorian, wincing.

“You’re good, Kadan,” said Bull, “I’ve got you.”

“We should have been more precautious,” said Solas, low near Branwen’s ear, “but we managed to accomplish a great feat today.  You should be proud of yourself, Ma Lath.”

“I’ll be proud once you’re finished,” she said.  “It hurts like a mother.”

Bull snorted, and the laugh, however small, caused his knee to jerk.  “That’s a colorful image.”

Dorian cried out, clutching his ribs. “Damn it all!” he said, sitting up.  Bull moved to help him, but he waved him off.

“Sorry, Kadan,” said Bull.

“It’s alright,” said Dorian, before adding, with a mixture of affection and disdain, “you oaf!”  He took a deep breath, wincing as his lungs expanded.  “Vishante kaffas.  How am I meant to get back to Skyhold like this?”

“When our mana is replenished, Dorian, I will heal you further,” said Solas, still stitching Branwen’s wound. 

“You May have to teach me to do that myself. I’ve never been the best with healing magic, though. Still, worth a try.”  He stood, despite the pain. “I think I need to lie down for a bit. I don’t think I can watch much more of this,” he said, nodding towards Bran's leg. 

“I don’t blame you. Ow!” Cried Branwen, “fuck!”

Dorian turned his nose up at the whole scene. He walked by Branwen, reaching a hand out to clasp hers as he passed. “Sorry I’m not more supportive, but I was never all that good at bedside manner.”

She waved him off. “See ya in the morning, Dorian.”

He hobbled into one of the tents, cursing in Tevine as he lay down. Bull stood and followed after him.  “You need anything, Boss?”

“More of whatever you were drinking.”

Bull laughed and threw her the flask. “I’m gonna go check on our favorite Vint.”

Branwen watched him go. She was, frankly, a little surprised at how far things had progressed between the two of them, given Dorian’s frequent denial and protestations. Whatever the case, they seemed happy. 

“They seem like a good fit for each other,” she remarked. 

Solas did not look up from his work. “A surprising pair, to be sure.”  He pulled the thread taut again, rubbing a thumb along the side of the wound to massage the pain away as best he could. “But good for each other, I think.”

Branwen smiled. “To think, if all this madness had never happened, they never would have met.”  

He looked up at her, then, and smiled. “To think,” he agreed.  He continued his work. “I’m almost finished, Vhenan. It won’t be long now.”

She looked off into the distance, out over the vast hills of the Hinterlands, imagining simpler times. “This is nothing,” she said, “you should have seen me when I received my Vallaslin.”  Compared to the feeling of the tattoo machine pricking ink into her face over and over again, the pain in her thigh was nothing.

She felt a sharp tug, then heard the snap of the thread. When she looked back, he was tying the ends and cutting off the excess with one of her daggers.  “There,” he said. He reached out a hand for Bull’s flask. “May I?”

Branwen sighed. “What a waste of whiskey.”  

Solas unscrewed the top and poured the contents over her wound, and she hissed at the burn. Then he handed her the flask again. “I suspect there is enough for one more sip.”

She took the flask and made a toasting motion towards him. She sucked the drink down, savoring the burn and the way it clouded her head and numbed the pain.

Solas said little. He was a quiet man at times, but there was something in his manner that worried her. He was so much more quiet than usual, more reserved. “Are you alright, Solas?” she asked. 

He continued to massage the area around her wound tracing little circles in her skin. “I am fine, Vhenan.”

“Just fine?”

He did not meet her gaze, but rather stood and gathered more wood for the fire. “I am very tired,” he said as he threw another log on and poked the pile with a stick until it caught. 

She frowned. “I know you well enough at this point to know you’re not, Solas.  What’s wrong?”

He watched the flames for a moment before finally meeting her gaze. He smiled, a bittersweet look in his eyes. He shifted, settling down right next to her. “There was a moment during the fight,” he said, “where I thought we might not survive.  I thought you might not survive.”

“Well, I did,” she said, bumping against his arm. “We all did.”

He closed his eyes, lost in thought. She waited in silence for him to respond. At length, he turned to her, his head pressed against her head and said, “come to bed with me.”

She reached a hand out to his face, tracing the worry lines that had etched their way along the corners of his eyes.  He closed the gap between them,  pulling her close and pressing her lips to his.  She breathed him in, the taste of whiskey mingling with the taste of him.  The kiss was desperate, just like those first kisses they had shared in the Fade and on her balcony.  The longer they had been together, the more comfortable and relaxed he had become, but every now and then, that edge of desperation would push through again - that need, as if he hadn’t been touched in so long.  As if this was all coming to an end.  She loved that he kissed her with such passion.  It took her breath away every single time.

He broke the kiss with a gasp.  “We shouldn’t.”

“Why shouldn’t we?” she asked.

“Because you are hurt,” he said.  “Because you need rest.”

She huffed, worrying her lips to hide a pout.  Then, she got an idea.  She flashed a wicked grin at him.  “You know,” she said, “this whole ordeal has left me feeling awfully stressed.”

He furrowed his brows.  “I can certainly imagine.”

“I’m not sure that I’m going to be able to get the rest I need,” she said.  “Not when I’m so worked up.”

He narrowed his eyes.  He was starting to catch on.  

“If only there was something I could do to help me relax,” she said with a smirk.

He chuckled.  “You are as cunning as ever, Vhenan.”  He looked away, thinking.  “Fenedhis,” he said.  “This is unwise.”

“But oh so fun,” she said, rubbing his thigh, her hand shifting ever higher.  

He leaned in close, his breath ghosting over her lips.  Her heart leapt in her chest.  “I have some conditions.”

“Oh?” she asked, “and what are those.”

His nose bumped against hers, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire.  He whispered to her in Elvhish, “you have to be on top.”

She blushed, though maintained her composure in every other way.  She responded in Elvhish as well.  “I think that can be arranged.”

“Then come to my bed,” he said again.  Before she could respond, his lips were on hers again, stealing a kiss and her breath all at once. 

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Abelas’alas’en

Chapter 41 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3! A bit of a longer one, so only the first half is here; read the whole thing on AO3. 

A very conversation-heavy chapter here, with a hint of smut because Rynne can’t keep it in her damned pants.

*******************

Much later that night, Fenris lay gazing up at the canopy of the bed while Hawke’s slow and sleepy breaths ghosted across his chest. He’d spent the past couple of hours drifting in and out of a restless sort of slumber. Hazy, unfocused anxieties kept drifting across his mind like half-dead leaves on a sluggish autumn river, and he couldn’t quite tell if they were fragments of dreams, or pieces of his waking worries that refused to depart his half-conscious mind. 

One concern in particular kept rising to the front of his thoughts. And unlike his worries about Corypheus and the future and the anchor on his hand, this concern was one that he could address right now. 

He carefully disentangled himself from Hawke’s arm. She murmured a sleepy protest, and he kissed her temple to soothe her. “I’m going to the kitchen,” he whispered. “Should I bring you anything?”

She smiled, but didn’t open her eyes. “Next time,” she mumbled. A moment later, she was fast asleep again. 

He tucked the blankets around her naked body, then tiptoed over to the writing desk and scrawled a quick note to tell her where he’d gone in case she awoke more thoroughly. Then he slipped down the stairs and into the Great Hall.

As expected, the hall was empty but for a pair of guards and lit only by the torches on the walls – and by the spill of light emanating from the rotunda. 

Fenris padded silently to the rotunda, then paused in the doorway. Solas was exactly where Fenris had known he would be: standing tall on his scaffolding with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a jar of paint in one hand. 

He was painting a new mural on the freshly-plastered wall, and Fenris quietly studied the charcoal outline of the scene. Then, slowly, he entered the rotunda and made his way toward the elven mage. 

Solas glanced at him briefly. “Fenris,” he said softly. “I’m surprised to find you awake.”

Fenris nodded a brief acknowledgement, then leaned against the nearest doorjamb and folded his arms. He watched Solas very carefully as he asked the question that had been nagging at his mind all afternoon and night.

“Are you a Sentinel?” Fenris said. 

Solas paused in his painting, then shot Fenris a thoughtful glance. “I am not a Sentinel, no. But I am curious to know what led you to ask such a question.” He dipped his brush in the jar once more, then continued to paint. “I would hope that your reasons for asking are based on deeper observations than my lack of hair.”

Fenris scowled briefly at this. “Your accent, for one,” he said. “I have never met another elf with an accent like yours, or such a fluent grasp of Elvhen. Aside from Abelas.”

Solas tilted his head quizzically. “You presume a shared history based on accent alone?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “A very unusual accent,” he pointed out. “But that is not all. Abelas considered the Dalish to be shadows. Pretenders in false vallaslin. But you he singled out. ‘Elvhen such as you’, he said, and you knew what he meant.”

“It is no secret that I am learned in the ways of ancient Elvhenan,” Solas said. He turned back to his mural. “Perhaps the Sentinel recognized our shared knowledge.”

“How would he know you have shared knowledge?” Fenris demanded. “He doesn’t know you.”

Solas was silent for a moment. When he looked at Fenris again, his eyebrows were tilted with sadness. “His name,” he said softly. “Abelas. It means ‘sorrow’.” He paused and dipped his brush in his jar, then continued to paint. “There is a word in Elvhen: abelas’alas’en. It means ‘world sadness’. A deep and melancholy wish to see a world that’s different from the one in which you find yourself.” He looked at Fenris once more. “It is a sorrow that hung heavy on his shoulders. It hangs heavy over many of us here. Perhaps that is the kindred wish that he saw in me.”

Fenris frowned. “Why do you wish the world was different?”

Solas shot him an odd look. “Is it truly so strange a wish? When you first escaped Tevinter, you told me that you wanted change not in yourself, but in the world around you. I mean only to say that I know such desire.” He turned back to his mural. “Corypheus and the orb, the chaos of the Breach, Grey Wardens and Templars… There is much in this world that inspires sorrow and a wish for change.”

Fenris pursed his lips. Solas wasn’t wrong about that. If it was possible to change things – the political structure of Tevinter, the way Fenris and every other elf were dominated by humans, everything that had conspired to throw him and Hawke into this incessant ocean of danger… 

There was much in the world that needed changing, to be certain. Yet Solas’s answer left him unsatisfied.

He frowned and watched Solas painting for a time. Then he launched into his next argument. “Hawke says your magic is different in quality than any magic she has ever seen before.”

“I expect that is so,” Solas said. “Magic learned directly in the Fade must be very different from magic taught in a leashed and lessened form through the Chantry.”

Fenris frowned. Magic should be leashed and lessened for the sake of safety. But that wasn’t the argument at hand right now. 

He forced himself to stay on point. “Merrill and Dorian didn’t learn to magic through the Chantry,” he said shrewdly. “Hawke says your magic is different even from theirs.”

“They have not trod the pathways of the Fade,” Solas calmly said. “They have not walked its winding trails and seen the wisdom it provides. They are not somniari, as you and Dorian would say.” He glanced briefly at Fenris once more. “You will recall that I discouraged Hawke from learning the art of dreamwalking.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Fenris said quietly. As though he could ever forget Hawke’s desperate hope to contact Carver in the Fade.

Solas nodded once. “If not for Hawke’s… dangerous but understandable motives, I would have taught her what I know,” he said softly. “Your wife is an excellent student of magic.”

I know she is, Fenris thought. Then he shot Solas a suspicious look. Solas’s manner was calm and forthcoming, but Fenris still somehow felt as though he was being manipulated. 

“That is your answer, then?” he said skeptically. “Your magic is different from the others because you learned it directly in the Fade?”

“Remember that the Fade is governed by completely different rules – or rather, by no hard rules at all,” Solas said. “Nothing there is quite the same as it is in this world. The nature of my magic reflects that difference.”

Fenris folded his arms. “And you claim that Hawke could learn to be like you if she – if you – she could perform magic like yours, if she were taught?”

“She could, yes,” Solas said.

“So she too could learn to phase across the Fade?” Fenris said swiftly.

Solas glanced sharply at him, and Fenris straightened. A reaction at last, he thought with a combination of anger and relief. 

He took an aggressive step toward Solas’s scaffolding. “I know about your phasing,” he accused. “Dorian told us you are able to skate along the edge of the Fade in a manner similar to Cole and me, and those Sentinels. Why did you hide that?”

Solas frowned. “It was not my intent to hide it from you. It was my intent to hide it from every other mage.”

Fenris scowled. He didn’t like the way Solas had phrased that, making it sound like Fenris was one of the mages.

Solas, meanwhile, was still blithely talking. “Consider the implications,” he said. “If all mages could skim the threshold of the Fade, it would require barely an effort to take it further. To push through the delicate border of the Veil and into the Fade directly. You know firsthand how dangerous that would be – both for the people of this world, and for the denizens of the Fade.”

“But not for you,” Fenris said in an accusatory manner.

“Not for me, no,” Solas said mildly. “Nor for Cole, for whom the Fade is his home.”

“And for me?” Fenris said archly.

Solas tilted his head and gave Fenris an appraising look. “I believe we are in little danger of you abusing that power. Your ability to handle the power bestowed upon you is among your greatest strengths… which leads me to my next question.” Solas lowered his jar and brush and turned to face Fenris directly. “What will you do with the power of the Well once Corypheus is dead?”

Fenris recoiled slightly. “What?” he said. He was starting to feel unbalanced by the twists of this conversation, and he wasn’t quite sure why the topic had shifted from Solas to himself. 

“The Vir’Abelasan,” Solas said. “Its power and wisdom are now yours, by means of Morrigan. What will you do with that power?”

Fenris gazed at him dumbly. Truthfully, he hadn’t considered the Well’s knowledge as belonging to him at all. Morrigan was the one who held its insidious secrets in her mind; Fenris was worried about the Well’s cursed contents as a power that belonged to her, not to him. 

“I had not thought about it,” he finally said. 

Solas’s eyebrows creased slightly. “Yet the humans are already asking you to answer. Will you restore the Chantry? Destroy the Chantry?”

Fenris licked his dry lips. “I…” Almost immediately, he trailed off as a terrible truth struck him.

This decision was what he had to look forward to once Corypheus was dead: a decision about the fate of the Chantry. But the Inquisition was not directly associated with the Chantry. Kaffas, they were not even directly associated with one particular nation. Well, they were linked with Orlais, but that was an alliance for the greater good. How could the Inquisition – how could Fenris – be expected to make a choice about the fate of the entire Chantry?

“That should not be my decision alone,” he said finally. “Nothing so momentous should be the decision of one person alone. I will… Hawke will help me decide. And Cassandra. And our advisors.”

Solas shook his head ruefully. “You think to share your power, to avoid the temptation to misuse it. A noble sentiment, but ultimately a mistake. While one selfless man may walk away from the lure of power’s corruption, no group has ever done so.”

Fenris scowled. “You, Hawke and Fiona have not been doing badly with the mages here. Or are you seeking a demotion?”

Solas studied him quietly for a moment, and the look on his face continued to melt into sadness. “You have great faith the counsel of your companions,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Fenris said belligerently. “Some more than others, but yes.”

Solas sighed and looked at his unfinished mural. “I know that mistake well enough to carve the angles of her face from memory,” he said softly.

Fenris narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “‘Her’? ‘Her’ who?”

Solas looked at him once more. “A figure of speech.”

Fenris gave him a hard stare, but Solas steadily returned his gaze for a long moment before picking up his paint and brush and turning back to his mural.

Fenris watched the elven mage carry out a few more brushstrokes, then folded his arms again. “So you deny that you are a Sentinel.”

Solas nodded. “I am not a Sentinel.”

“And you are not… an ancient elven spy,” Fenris hazarded.

“I am not, no,” Solas said. He shot Fenris a brief, sad smile. “If only every life could be so easily summated.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow, and as Solas turned his attention back to the mural, Fenris continued to watch him mistrustfully. Something about this entire exchange was throwing Fenris off, but he couldn’t put his finger on the problem. It irked him that he was the one who seemed to be coming out worse for wear from this… What was this intended to be, in fact? A conversation? A confrontation? An interrogation, even?

Then Solas’s calm voice broke his buzzing thoughts. “You are welcome to remain and watch, though I would advise you to sit,” he said. “I will be working here for the rest of the night.”

Fenris didn’t reply, and he didn’t sit. He watched Solas silently for some time as the mural emerged from his practiced brushstrokes. 

Finally he spoke again. “There was something else that Abelas said. He called my… the lyrium marks ‘a form of the true vallaslin’. What did he mean by that?”

Solas was silent for a moment as he finished a section of the mural. “What do you know about the ritual that placed those markings on your body?”

Fenris leaned slowly against the wall. “Danarius found the method in an ancient treatise. He liked to boast that he was the only one clever and skilled enough to master it.”

Solas carefully dipped his brush in his jar of paint. “I have long suspected that your markings were a form of vallaslin. A form that has been modified to control its wearer, unfortunately,” he added with a respectful nod. “What you say is consistent with what I have learned in the Fade. That is likely all that Abelas meant: that the… practice of vallaslin dates back to the times of Arlathan.”

“Then it seems that the vallaslin are something the Dalish remembered correctly,” Fenris said somewhat acidly. Then he paused in confusion. Why was he defending the Dalish to Solas? Fenris didn’t particularly like the Dalish, either.

Solas frowned. “As a matter of fact–” He cut himself off abruptly, then turned back to the wall.

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“Nothing,” Solas said. “It is… of little consequence now.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. Solas’s brushstrokes were slightly more brisk than they’d been just a moment ago. 

“Speak, Solas,” he commanded. He wasn’t about to let Solas off the hook, not now that he was being cagey.

Solas clenched his jaw and finished a few more strokes, then turned to face Fenris. “There is… something I have been reluctant to reveal to you,” he said. “Something I learned during my journeys in the Fade. I learned what the vallaslin truly mean.”

Fenris frowned. He didn’t like the apology in Solas’s face. “What?” he demanded. “What do they mean?”

“They are slave markings,” Solas said quietly. “Or at least they were in the time of ancient Arlathan.”

Fenris stared at him. A creeping sense of the surreal was encroaching on his mind, the same sort of dizzying strangeness that nagged his mind when he thought too hard about the sheer existence of the Sentinels, and it took a long minute before he was able to speak again. 

He took a deep breath. “You mean to say… the ancient elves kept slaves. They… they enslaved other elves?”

“That is the case, yes,” Solas said. His expression was growing sadder by the moment. “A noble would mark his slaves to honour the god he worshipped. After Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot.”

Fenris gazed at him in silence, struck dumb by the awful revelation. For centuries the Dalish had tattooed their faces to mark their elven identity. They had worn those tattoos proudly to show themselves as the ‘true’ elves, elevated above their city-born counterparts. And all this time, those tattoos were just another mark of the exact institution the Dalish sought to divorce themselves from?

A terrible, mirthless laugh burst from Fenris’s lips, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Kaffas. Venhedis fasta vass.” He began to pace restlessly. 

Solas lowered his jar and brush. “Fenris–”

Fenris cut him off. “So I am forever marked as a slave. Both in modern and ancient times. That is…” He laughed again, but the sound was more snarl than mirth. “I should find a glass of wine to wash this down before the irony chokes me.”

Solas rested his fingers on the bannister of the scaffolding. “I am sorry. Truly,” he said. “I would not have told you this if not for your enquiring mind.”

Fenris spun toward him. “You are blaming me for this?”

“Not at all,” Solas said. “In fact, I commend you for your questions. You and I have not always seen things through the same eyes, but… you have surprised me.” He tilted his head. “Neither you nor Hawke have been what I expected.”

“How thrilling to know we’ve subverted your expectations,” Fenris snarled.

Solas lifted his chin and gave Fenris an appraising look. “You are not a slave, Fenris.”

“I know that,” he snapped.

“I know you do. Never forget it,” Solas said. “Those markings on your skin have shaped you, but they do not define what you are.”

Fenris glared at him. Did Solas think he didn’t know this already? That he hadn’t spent years fighting his own metaphorical shackles to get where he was today?

He turned away and stared unseeingly at one of Solas’s finished murals. Then Solas spoke again in a quiet, calm tone. “If you have further questions, I would be happy to talk some more.”

Fenris swallowed hard, then glanced at him. “No. I… this has been… It is enough. I will take my leave.”

Solas nodded politely. “Goodnight, Fenris.”

Fenris nodded tersely in return, then left the rotunda and returned to his and Hawke’s quarters. 

Hawke was still asleep. Fenris prowled quietly around the bedroom for a few minutes to calm himself, then slid gingerly into the bed.

Hawke rolled over and curled up against him, and Fenris quietly inhaled the sleepy sandalwood scent of her hair. A moment later, she lifted her head. “What’s wrong?” she whispered. 

He wilted slightly. He hadn’t wanted to worry her in the middle of the night. “What makes you think anything is wrong?” he murmured.

“You’re so stiff,” she said. “And not in a fun way.” She ran a hand along his arm. “What happened? Did you find weevils in your toast?”

Her tone was jocular, but her eyebrows were tilted with concern. Fenris sighed and sat up against the head of the bed. “I need you to speak to Solas in the morning,” he said.

“To Solas?” she said in surprise. “About what?”

“About his behaviour in the Arbour Wilds,” Fenris said. “I attempted to confront him–”

“Confront him?” she said.

“Yes,” Fenris said. He frowned at her. “You can’t deny he was behaving suspiciously today. Contradicting himself at every turn, acting as though he couldn’t decide whether to lecture us or silence us? It was strange, Hawke. You know it was.”

She dropped her gaze and nibbled the inside of her cheek, and Fenris watched with a pang as the dreaded worry bled across her face. 

She settled against his side. “Well, what did he say when you confronted him?”

“Nothing that… assuaged my concerns,” he said. The ugly truth of the vallaslin rose to his mind again, but he pushed it aside for now. That was definitely a conversation for the morning, not for now 

“Do you think he lied to you?” Hawke whispered.

“That is what frustrates me the most. I don’t believe he did,” Fenris said. “But he is also… There is something more going on.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Nobody is that calm when faced with such probing questions.”

“Varric is,” Hawke said.

Fenris scoffed. “Varric is a practiced storyteller. He spins tales for a living. He thrives in the face of probing questions. Solas, on the other hand…” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe he is lying per se. But he is not telling us everything, either.” He looked at her. “That is why I need you to talk to him.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why me?”

“Because I trust you,” Fenris said. “And he is fond of you. Perhaps he’ll be more forthcoming with you.”

Hawke suddenly propped herself up and looked him in the eye. “Fenris, you aren’t really jealous of him, are you?”

Fenris stared at her in surprise. Her face was very serious. “Why would you ask that?”

“The comments you made in the Arbour Wilds. About me flirting with him,” she said. She gently stroked his chin. “You… you don’t really think–?”

“No,” Fenris said hastily. “No, of course not.” The very thought of Hawke straying was laughable. 

“Good,” she said. “Because that would be gross. He’s like my father.” She settled against Fenris’s side once more and wrapped her arm around his waist.

That’s what I’m afraid of, Fenris thought. Hawke’s closeness with Solas was a threat, but not for petty reasons of jealousy. No matter what Solas said, there was something deeper going on, something ineffable that danced at the edge of Fenris’s comprehension. And if Fenris was being truthful, he was scared. 

Scared of how it would affect Hawke, if yet another of her close friends` turned out to have some dark and devastating secret. 

Anders’s tragic face crossed his mind, and he frowned into the darkness. Then Hawke spoke again, and her words were so closely aligned with Fenris’s thoughts that it was uncanny. “You don’t think he’s got top-secret plans to blow up Skyhold or something, do you?” 

He had better not, Fenris thought threateningly. But he didn’t say this. Instead, he stroked Hawke’s arm. “No,” he murmured. “Blow up an ancient elven fortress? He would see that as a colossal waste of history and memories.”

“I suppose,” Hawke said. “Preserve the elven glory and all that.”

“Mm,” Fenris murmured. He continued to stroke her arm slowly, and as the warmth of her naked skin seeped through his tunic and into his side, he finally felt himself starting to relax. 

Her soft voice broke the silence once more. “Speaking of elven glory…” She shifted closer and slid her leg over his, then tilted her chin up and kissed his neck. 

He smiled chidingly and squeezed her arm. “Hawke…”

“Yes?” she said coyly. She pressed her groin against his thigh. 

He squeezed her arm once more, then kissed her forehead. “Not now,” he murmured. Sex might be her preferred way of de-stressing in the face of a new problem, but now that he was back in bed with her, his exhaustion was creeping in on him. 

She chuckled, then kissed his throat once more before shifting slightly away from him. “All right, hands off the handsome elf,” she whispered. “But you don’t mind if I, you know, look after my own business, do you?” 

He shook his head and shuffled down into the covers. “Not at all.” He yawned, then tucked his arm beneath his head and closed his eyes. 

She settled under the blankets beside him. A minute later, he felt the mattress shift slightly, and Hawke released a long, soft breath. 

Fenris opened his eyes, then turned his head to look at her. The light of the moon was casting a feeble ivory glow across her features, and Fenris studied her closed eyes and her parted lips as her left hand moved between her legs.

He watched her quietly for a moment longer, his half-asleep eyes taking in the rise and fall of her collarbones and the taut tendon in her neck as she drew out her own pleasure. Then he rolled lazily onto his side to face her. 

He smoothed his palm over her breast. She gasped and arched her spine, then let out a little moan as he slipped his hand beneath the blankets. “Y-you don’t have to…” she breathed. 

“I want to,” he mumbled. His semi-stiffened cock was pulsing between his legs, but his fatigue was too strong and his limbs too heavy. Hawke’s pleasure was imminent, however, and at least Fenris could share in that.

He slid one finger smoothly through her folds, and she pressed her hips toward his hand. She was wet already and the bud of her pleasure was swollen and ripe, and within the space of a minute, Fenris’s gently stroking finger coaxed a cry of ecstasy from her throat. 

She grasped his wrist. “Fenris,” she gasped.

He didn’t reply. His body was a pleasant buzz of vicarious pleasure, but his heavy eyelids had fallen shut, and he had to force his waning wakefulness to remain. 

He angled his wrist and pressed two fingers inside of her, and she cried out once more and bucked her hips to take his fingers deeper. A few minutes later, minutes during which Hawke’s gasping breaths and rocking hips fought valiantly for attention against the gentle darkness of Fenris’s dreams, she pulled his hand away from the apex of her thighs. 

She brought his hand up to her mouth and sucked his fingers clean, and Fenris’s eyes popped open for a surprised moment. She was gazing at him, and her expression was a breathtaking mixture of satisfaction and desire and tenderness – all the things he most liked seeing in her beautiful treasured face. 

“I love you,” she panted. “I love you so much, Fenris. More than anything.”

He smiled faintly. “As I love you,” he murmured. 

She rolled close to him and kissed him, and Fenris sleepily noted the musky flavour of her pleasure on her lips before she chastely tucked her head beneath his chin. He lazily draped his arm over her, and in a matter of seconds, he finally fell asleep.

Read the rest on AO3.

[allisondraste]

98. “I’ve had enough.” (For Niamh and Solas?)

I asked for angst prompts, and boy did you deliver. I finally had time to answer this, and let me tell you… I am in pain.

The chase was never ending, never resting.  It stalked him in the night like the wolf he was supposed to be. Fen’Harel. It was an ironic name for someone so afraid, though, he was not without proper reason. His opponent was fearsome and relentless, indomitable. A bitter laugh escaped him at the thought of his own heart being his demise.

Niamh would not let him do what he intended. She swore, and to that moment, she had been successful in her efforts to deter him. It was truly impressive how she had managed to counter his every move. She was a force to be reckoned with, and if he were honest with himself, he was tired of reckoning.

“Solas,” a commanding voice called him from several feet away. He had remained in one place too long, it seemed. He should have been more careful.

She did not allow him so much as a breath before she ran at him.  She was a mage. She could have used magic to incapacitate him, she could have caught him unaware, but that was not Niamh’s way. She preferred that he hear her, see her. She fought fearlessly, and without etiquette.

Before he could think to move, she tackled him, knocking him off balance and sending them both tumbling to the ground with her atop him.  She scowled, her face contorted by fury, as she held her fist back, trembling.

Solas did not fight her. He could not bring himself to even make an attempt to escape from beneath her. He simply smiled, wondering if it appeared as tired and weary as he felt it should.

“Fight me, Solas,” she yelled, her tone raw. He looked more closely, now able to see the desperation and hurt behind her eyes that he had mistaken as fury at first. For all her anger, she looked so sad.

“I can’t,” he answered her, remembering a time when he had uttered those same words to her, words that hardened her heart. All of her edges, once soft for him, now sharp against him. It was terrifying and it was beautiful. She was still so beautiful.

A sudden, intense pain shot through his nose, followed by a dull throb and trickle of warm blood. He should have expected it. What a foolish mistake to underestimate her ferocity. Of course she hit him! Niamh had never been one for restraint, after all.

Shaking off the pain and bewilderment, he refocused his vision just in time to see her pulling back her arm to strike again. He grabbed her wrist and stopped the blow. The look in her eyes became desperate as she had no other hand with which to swing.  He made no move to continue the fight.

“Fight me, damn you!” Tears were flowing freely as she yelled. “This is what you wanted isn’t it? For me to be angry? It’s easier to kill someone who hates you, right?” Her tired body trembled against him, fueled only by her rage.

“This is far from anything I wanted, vhenan,” he sighed, wiping the blood from his lip with his unoccupied hand.

“Don’t,” Niamh spat as she moved to hit him again, but he held her wrist firmly in place, “Don’t call me that.” A surge of flame rushed from her hand, searing his palm and forcing him to release his grip. She readied herself to hit him again, and he rolled from beneath her as her fist made contact with the ground.

She groaned in pain as she sat up and pulled her hand close to her, knuckles swollen and bleeding.  There was no doubt it was fractured, and Solas fought with the nagging desire to tend to her, to heal her wounds as he always had.  Healing her might settle her or enrage her further, revitalizing her to attack him again. Still, as she sat slumped on the ground shaking, unable to even cradle her broken hand, he could not rid himself of his ill-advised impulse.

He moved closer to her, and she jerked away as if she expected him to retaliate.  He opened his now blistered palm for her to offer her hand. A flash of a happier time crossed his mind, when the gesture precluded a stolen dance on the balcony of a palace. It seemed so far away, another lifetime. Niamh tentatively and reluctantly placed her hand in his and he covered it with his other hand allowing magic to flow from him to her.

A wordless conversation passed between them as their eyes met.  For the first time in too long, he saw the blend of affection and uncertainty she always held in her eyes.

“Why?” The hurt in her voice was palpable as she searched his face for an answer. She clearly failed to understand that he still cared.  Perhaps he had failed to properly express such to her. “You refuse to fight me, then you heal me when you know damn well I could hit you again and not even feel sorry. You’re not stupid.”

“Perhaps it is the same reason that you fight with your hands when you know magic would be much more efficient.” He kept his gaze locked with hers allowing the spell to continue its course. “Perhaps it is because I take no pleasure in seeing you hurt, because I know I deserve every drop of your anger and resentment. Did you ever consider the possibility that regardless of what I must do, I still love you?”

She frowned as tears welled in her eyes. She leaned forward forcefully and pressed her lips against his.  The kiss was urgent and breathless, as if it were their last. Maybe it was.

She pulled away and rested her forehead against his. “Ar lath ma.”  Her words were heavy and solemn.

“Ir abelas, vhenan. If I could take everything back, I would,” Solas said, his voice almost a whisper. “I have had enough.”

“Me too,”  Niamh answered flatly, detached from her words. She opened her eyes again to look at him, and a burning pain seared through his abdomen, bringing a gasp from his throat.

Tearing his gaze from her and down toward the pain, a bright golden beam of energy in the shape of a great sword protruded from Niamh’s arm where the Anchor has been.  It pierced him entirely, and he looked to her in horror, his consciousness slipping from him as it became increasingly more difficult to breathe.

His vision faded to black as her apology, muttered through sobs, echoed in his ears.

Then, he awoke.

As his heart raced, and as he gasped desperately for air, he had never been more terrified. Whether it had been a spirit of the Fade or Niamh herself, dreaming from across the mountains, his dinan’shiral now had an ending. It was her.

[reluctantwrites]

Mistakes

So I was thinking about what caused Athran and Hanin to part ways (and Athran to journey away from the clan for a bit), and I guess here it is.

In short, Hanin is a poor communicator, Varsarel is a terrible person, and Athran has just... had enough. (Approx 2000 words).

“Damn --- I’d hate to see the other guy.”

Hanin winced as Athran dabbed a damp cloth against his brow, the blond cringing in sympathy with the motion. “It’s fine,” Hanin said through gritted teeth. “Just a few scratches.”

Athran rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and I’m Fen’harel.” The gaze Athran levelled at Hanin was flat and outright unimpressed. “But seriously, what happened? Obviously nothing you want anyone to know about, seeing you came here instead of to the healers.”

There was an unmistakable note of hurt in that statement. Athran seemed to want more and more from Hanin, lately, and for good reason. He deserved more. Deserved better.

It had been over two years, and Hanin still just… wasn’t ready.

“I… argued with someone.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It was Varsarel, wasn’t it?”

Hanin stiffened and Athran released a tense sigh, drawing back, that red-stained cloth gripped tightly in his hand. “Are you serious? Again? Why?”

Working his jaw, Hanin considered answering truthfully. But with the already disappointed and frustrated look on Athran’s face, he looked away and took the coward’s path. “It’s not important.”

Athran snorted but said nothing, lurching to his feet and moving towards a bowl of water. He rinsed the cloth so violently the pink-tinged liquid splashed up over the sides, wetting the ground by his feet. “Fine.” The cloth creaked as Athran wrung it between his hands. “So you stagger up my stairs in the middle of the night, a complete bloody mess, then don’t want to talk about it. That’s just…” For a moment, Hanin swore anger would overcome Athran - that the hunter would throw him out into the cold to tend to himself. But just as it all threatened to boil over, Athran breathed out a long, slow sigh, his shoulders slumping, his grip on the cloth going slack. “That’s just great, Hanin.”

Somehow, Hanin would have preferred his anger.

“Athran…” Gritting his teeth, Hanin shifted, intending to get up and go to him, but Athran heard the squeaking of the bedframe and turned sharply, brows snapping back into a frown.

“Don’t move. You’re hurt. Just… sit still.” Slowly, he crossed the room, his bare feet padding softly against the ground until he was once again standing before Hanin. The cloth dripped slightly, the sound of the droplets hitting the floor seeming impossibly loud amid the silence. It felt like an eternity before Athran broke it. “Look up at me. I can’t see the rest of your face.”

Obediently, Hanin looked up, and that cloth swept over his right temple, the action far gentler than he deserved. Athran refused to look him in the eye, his focus entirely on the wounds, the damp cloth, and catching the trickles of blood before they ran too far down Hanin’s neck. He could feel the hunter’s irritation; his disappointment. Or perhaps it was more a kind of hurt than anything else. Hurt that Hanin wouldn’t open up to him. A misguided belief that Hanin didn’t trust him.

That was so far from the truth.

“He was talking about you. Again.”

Athran’s hand paused for the briefest moment, then continued as he snorted softly. “What’s new? He’s always doing his best to ruin my reputation.” He lowered his voice to barely above a whisper, sweeping the cloth under Hanin’s chin. “You’d think he’d give up, now that he’s succeeded.”

Hanin closed his eyes at that, wishing it wasn’t true. Varsarel held sway among the clan, particularly the soldiers and hunters. He was brutal and efficient; a man who did what needed to be done. But more than even that, he was simply not known for being a liar. That meant when he spoke, people often just believed him.

Instead, Varsarel was just proof that it was never too late to start.

“I lost my temper,” Hanin continued, eyes still closed as Athran moved down, peeling back the collar of his shirt, tsking at the gash that ran along Hanin’s clavicle. “He needs to learn he can’t just say what he pleases.”

There was a distinct pause after that. It was as uncertain as the eventual press of the cloth to Hanin’s cut.

“What was he saying?”

Hanin winced. It was the one thing he had been hoping Athran wouldn’t ask. “It… doesn’t matter.”

“You’re not exactly the kind of man who loses his temper over nothing, lethallin.” The cloth moved away and Hanin opened his eyes to find Athran looking directly at him, his expression stern. Resolved. “Tell me. Please. I want to know what I’m in for tomorrow.”

There were many things Hanin could do. He could face down threats twice his size. He could fight for hours after those around him had collapsed. He could stare into the eyes of men set to end his life and feel nothing but the demands of duty.

But for whatever reason, in that moment, he couldn’t hold Athran’s gaze.

“The envoys. The ones that came through last week from clan Tillahnnen.”

Athran laughed. It was utterly empty. “Oh really? How many this time?”

“… Three.”

“Wow. All at once?”

“Presumably.” Hanin shifted uncomfortably. “Athran, what he’s doing… he can’t just—”

—“He can, Hanin. And more importantly, he fucking does.” To his credit, up until that moment, Athran had maintained his composure well, showing his distress only in the tightness of his jaw and the tilt of his brow. But, like a river overflowing its bank, something gave way inside him. He turned sharply, returning to the washbowl, throwing down the cloth and gripping the sides of the basin until his knuckles bled to white. This time, Hanin ignored the stab of pain in his side and struggled to his feet. He stood silently for a moment as Athran’s shoulders started to shake, uncertain of what to do. Of what to say.

He needs so much more than you can give.

“Athran…” Carefully, Hanin limped across the space and reached out, not entirely sure what he was afraid of as he rested his hand on Athran’s arm. Did he think the man would push him away?

Or was he more afraid that he would need him?

“I’m fine.” Athran’s voice was rough and soft all at once, as though somewhere in that brief silence it had lost its shape. “I just… the shit he says…”

Hanin stepped closer, something desperate and urgent rising to his throat at the way Athran bowed over that bowl. Did he think the tears didn’t count if they fell into water? “Not everyone believes his lies, lethallin. You know that.”

A feeble laugh shivered through the hunter’s form. “I know. But enough do.” He sniffed and coughed wetly, reaching up to press the back of his hand to his mouth. “Enough to make my life j-just so…”

Out of words and with nothing left to offer, Hanin took Athran gently by the shoulders and turned the man towards him, drawing him in close, pressing him to his chest and folding his arms around him. He couldn’t care less about the gashes and bruises; the broken ribs were little more than a dull, pointless throb. As Athran buried his face in his shirt, Hanin fought back tears of his own, the hunter’s painful sobs hurting him far more than Varsarel ever could. He wanted to rip the bastard to pieces. In truth, he almost had. Athran had been right. Hanin had not come out worse for their encounter.

But standing here, holding Athran as his sobs began to weaken and slow, it felt nothing like a victory.

“Ir abelas...” Hanin murmured the words mindlessly, rubbing Athran’s back, pressing his lips to his blond hair as though the act could somehow place a seal on his pain. “I will make him stop. However I must, I will. You have my word.”

Immediately, Athran shook his head and pushed against Hanin’s chest, prying himself from his arms and stepping away. “No. You can’t, Hanin. Don’t you get it? He’s doing this for a reason. That’s exactly what he wants!” Athran’s voice rose as he spoke until he was almost shouting, his eyes wild and bright with tears. “He wants you to make a mistake. Shit, maybe you already did today -- I don’t know! T-That bastard can see it’s only a matter of time. He…” As if realising in a spark of clarity that he was yelling, Athran flinched and drew in on himself, turning away to face the wall, fingers tangling in the ends of his hair. An anxious habit he had acquired in the last month or so. “He knows you’ll make a mistake. And you’ll do it because of me.”

Hanin frowned, wanting to step forward but unsure if that was wise. “If I make a mistake, it will be because of me, not you. Athran, if what you are saying is true, Varsarel wants you to blame yourself. Acting like this, you are playing into his hands.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Hanin knew it the second it left his lips, but words were not punches. Once they were in motion, they could not be pulled back or turned aside. They struck Athran as hard as a slap, and for a moment, everything seemed perfectly, horribly still. So still that Hanin’s heart almost forgot to beat.

“Yes,” Athran said eventually, voice hoarse and empty, his eyes downcast. “You’re right. I am.”

Hanin released a tense breath and reached up, scrubbing his face with his hands, ignoring the sting of the cuts and gashes. Ignoring the red that came away on his palms. “No, I’m not. I… that’s not what I meant.”

This time, Athran did something truly unexpected. He smiled, bitter and wistful, the corner of his lips tugging upwards for the barest moment. “No. I think it was.” Slowly, he drew in a breath and turned, facing Hanin. The tears had stopped. They always did. Only this time, Hanin hadn’t been the one to dry them. This time, he had done more harm than good. “I think I should go.”

Hanin’s heart twisted in his chest. “What?” He took a half-step forward the stopped himself, swallowing tightly, not even trying to hide his alarm. “Go? Go where?”

“I don’t know, Hanin.” A desperate laugh shivered through Athran as he spread his hands in a wide, helpless gesture. “Somewhere. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter. I just can’t be here.” He continued to laugh, motioning towards the window, where the other aravels cast inky shadows against the night. “You don’t know how they look at me, now. And no, not all of them. But Creators, Hanin, it doesn’t need to be all of them.”

“Athran…”

Those eyes; ones Hanin now knew he had fallen in love with; turned and stared straight through him. “Even you’re ashamed of me. Just admit it so we can stop pretending it’s anything else.”

“What?” Hanin was so stunned by the accusation that for a moment, the words slipped through his fingers. “Athran, that’s not true.”

“It’s been over two years, Hanin.” Something about Athran’s tone made it clear he had already made up his mind on the matter. Perhaps he had for a while now, and Hanin simply hadn’t seen it. “I’m tired of meeting after dark.”

Some part of Hanin was vaguely aware that his hands were shaking. He was right. Hanin had taken Athran’s patience – his understanding - and stretched it so thin it had been forced to twist in a last-ditch effort to keep itself from breaking. It was too late, now. No amount of words could ever convince Athran that the problem lay with Hanin, not him.

In the midst of the silence, Athran had turned back to the basin, placing his hand on its edge once more. He stared blankly into the red-tinged water. “You should go.” He moved his finger and the water rippled ever so slightly. “I… need to think.”

Looking back, Hanin could pinpoint the exact moment he had made his worst mistake. The exact moment he let Athran down so utterly that there was no going back.

That moment was when he did as he was asked and walked out the door.

[roguelioness]

For the writing prompts: 7. And it bears the fruit of Deceit/ ruddy and sweet to eat / And the Raven his nest has made / In its thickest shade [The Human Abstract, William Blake]

Thanks for the prompt, @thejabberwokk! I’m… not sure where I’m going with this, but I’m going to try.

For @dadrunkwriting

Neria Lavellan x Solas, post Trespasser-ish. Very non-canon!

Tangled In Lies

“I would have you trust me!” she spits out, her eyes aflame with hurt and pain and betrayal, her mind so filled with the enormity of what he has pressed onto her.

Solas cannot look at her; he turns his head away in shame. “Ir abelas,” he says, a weak offering to the injustice he has done to her, but it is all he can offer her now, even though he so desperately wants to pull her into his arms and soothe away all that he’s brought down on her.

“Tel’abelas.”  Though she is on her knees, right hand clutching the Anchor to try and stem the agony, her face is pulled into a mask he recognizes as the Inquisitor.

Once, he’d been one of the few who was allowed to see beneath it.

Once, he’d been the only one who was allowed to see what was in her heart.

You destroy all you touch, his mind reminded him.

“If you care about me, at all, tell me the truth.”

So he does. He watches as she crumbles before him, as he mercilessly rips apart her beliefs, sees the way she bows her head when he confesses to the origin of the Anchor she bears on her hand. Her face is flint-hard when he tells her that the mark - his mark - is killing her, as though she had already known.

“And if you would have succeeded in your plan? If Corypheus had indeed been destroyed?”

“I would have reclaimed the orb, and using the Anchor you bear, torn down the Veil, and restored the world of my time - the world of the elves.”

Her lips curl into a bitter smile. “So we aren’t even people to you.” It wasn’t a question, and he did not answer.

“How can you possibly claim to have loved me?” the question is quiet, so quiet he can only just hear it; it sounds as though it has been forcefully pulled from her.

“Do not doubt that I do,” he replies, desperate for her to know that; that he has to let her go is hard enough, but he cannot let her leave believing that his love for her was another falsehood.

Her laugh is mocking and self-deprecating. “But the man who loved me was an apostate by the name of Solas. You are Fen’harel, the Dread Wolf, The Lord of Tricksters; how could he possibly love?”

He flinches, the words striking deep in his heart.

“I was Solas first,” he tries to explain, “Fen’harel came later. An insult I wore as a badge of honor. It brought fear to my enemies, and hope to my friends; not unlike Inquisitor, I suppose.”

“You lied to me,” she starts to speak, but her words soon turn into a shriek of pure anguish as the anchor starts to discharge again; she falls to the ground, curling up into herself as though to try and contain the pain. 

Swallowing hard, he clenches his fist, directing his mana to the Anchor to silence it.

It takes her several moments to regain her breath, but he waits patiently. He has made her wait two years; he can afford to spare a few minutes.

“You lied to me,” she says again, holding out a hand to silence him when he tries to interject. “every kiss, every touch, every word of love you spoke into my ear was a lie. How can you call it love, when I did not know the truth of who you are? I gave you all of me,” her voice broke, “and you gave me nothing but deceit. You gave me a pretty shell, and then you broke me.”

“I wanted to tell you the truth,” his tone is urgent, “but how was I to tell you that I was the enemy of your people’s lore?”

Her eyes flash. “They are your people too, Fen’harel, for we are descended from your kind!” Understanding washes over her face. “That was what Cole meant. You’re real, and it means they’re real too. It changes everything, but it can’t.” she quotes back at him. “You know we are real, and you still insist on destroying this world? Why?”

He shakes his head. “You have always shown a thoughtfulness I admire, ma lath. It would be easy to tell you too much.”

“Creators damn you, Solas!” The viciousness of her tone catches him off-guard. “If you’re going to kill me, I deserve an explanation! What have I done - what have we done - to invite your wrath?”

“I am not Corypheus,” he denies, “I take no pleasure in this. But it must be done.”

She walks up to him in quick, hard strides, and strikes his chest with her good hand. “You utter bastard-” her voice catches in her throat, and he is alarmed to see defeat on her shoulders and tears in her eyes, “I shouldn’t love you, but Creators, I do. Damn you,” she curses again without heat, then slumps against him, her marked hand dangling uselessly by her side.

He yearns to hold her, but he resists, knowing that he cannot restrain himself from taking more were he to do so. Instead he lets her use him as support, letting her tears dampen the wolf pelt wrapped around him. They stand like that, ancient god and modern hero, for several long minutes, no sound other than the faint buzz of the eluvian behind him.

‘Fine,” she says at last, pulling away from him. She brings a hand to rub at her face, smearing dirt and blood across it. “You win. Do what you want, Solas.”

He’s shocked; he cannot believe she would give up, not her, not the woman who’d faced every hurdle imaginable and crossed them through the sheer force of her will.

“I’m tired,” she says in response to the question in his eyes. “I save Ferelden, and they’re angry. I save Orlais, and they’re angry. If I’m supposed to stop you,” she exhaled, “I can take the shems disapproval. Let them do what they want with the Inquisition, I don’t care. I can’t-” she cleared her throat, “I can’t be your enemy, Solas. Do not ask it of me.”

Her words render him speechless; he’d expected her fury, her sorrow, had prepared himself for them, but he had not foreseen this. “Neria-” he says, but she hushes him. “I’m dying anyway,” she points out, her gentle, accepting tone so different from the rage-filled one she’d started with. “The Anchor is getting worse.”

“I can help you with that,” he bursts out. “It will mean the loss of your arm, but you will live.”

“Why?” she shrugs. “Why do I want to live knowing that you’re just going to kill me in the end anyway?”

“Vhenan,” he pleads, but for what he does not know. He cannot deny the truth in her words; she is right - if she were to die, the Inquisition would be greatly weakened, and it would help his plans.

And yet, he knows he cannot.

She presses her lips against his, slow, soft, and it’s over all too quickly. “I will not stop you, Solas,” she says quietly, “but the others will try. I hope you have it in you to be gentle; they were your friends once.” And with that, her eyes droop and close, and her breathing hisses away into nothingness, and she slumps against him, blackened tendrils along the length of her arm and chest the only sign of the Anchor’s damage. 

He sinks to the ground with her cradled in his arms, still in disbelief. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he’s aware that he could have - should have - acted sooner.

But deception brings nothing but sorrow.

[redinkofshame]

FOR U HAVE TO FIX WAT U DID: “Stop asking me to put out the inferno that you lit inside of me.”

Alright, so, some context on this for everyone: last night, as I’m in bed, @tel-abelas-mofo here messages me to ask if I’m going to bed soon. I ignore the fact that I’m already in bed, because I’m having a hard time sleeping anyway, though I do tell her she should be in bed. She says she wants someone to be irresponsible with, though.Well, I’m glad to oblige! I share the story I was just telling myself in my head as I tried to sleep, because I have so many AUs I know I can’t possibly write them all, so who cares about spoilers, right?

Edit: This is a 1950s AU.But, normally, I’m a happy ending girl. This fic? It’s an exception. A painful, painful exception. And it takes me until 3am to freaking tell it, bc mobile, so we’re both just crying in the middle of the gd night when we could have been sleeping and happy instead.. So this prompt is a fix-it fic for the fic that hurt us. The one that doesn’t exist outside my head and only two people know about. A fix-it fic for my own damn unwritten fic.Enjoy. @dadrunkwriting

He clung to her in thedoorway, desperate, pleading. His hands framed her face, an inch in front ofhis own. Her eyes were bright, shining with tears that feel freely in a facelined with exhaustion and grief; he knew he looked just the same. Her handsgripped his wrists, holding on but holding back. He swears he can feel herwedding band digging into him. The matching band is worn by another.

“Please,” he wasbegging her. “There must be something I can say, some promise I can make, tohave you choose me over him. I will do anything for you, ma vhenan, I swear it.”

But she shakes herhead, again and again. Her voice is thick, raspy, broken. “I chose him before Iever met you, my love. You were thechoice I should never have made.”

It is unfair. He neverhad a chance; if he had known her back then…

“Please, don’t do this, if only—” he begins, but she denies himagain.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.In another world—”

“Why not this one?” heinsists.

Her only answer was tokiss him. It is their final kiss, and it is an awful thing, sloppy and shakyand breathless and wet with tears.

“I’ll never forgetyou,” she promises.

He can’t let her go,he won’t, but she pulls his hands slowlyoff of her and darts out the door. He watches, numb, as she pulls her collar upagainst the chill for the walk home, as she sobs into a handkerchief, and soonshe is around the bend, out of sight, out of his life. He imagines he can stillhear the click of her heels over the sound of the rain, the sound of his worldbeing lost, of his heart being ripped away from him.

“Allergies, again, Mr. Solas?”

Wynne’s kind voice broke him out of his memories, and henodded to the librarian working under him.

“It hardly seems to matter what time of year it is,” he liedeasily. He sniffed as he pulled out his handkerchief, and it is only half forshow. He dabbed at his running eyes by rote, and old familiar habit by now.

Everything he does is by rote, it seems. The last severalyears he has lived only out of habit. He goes through the paces, vaguelypursuing ambitions he could recall having when he was a younger man. When hehad heart. Now, he couldn’t seem to bring himself to care where his life ledhim.

“Oh, is that the latest ‘In Another World’?” Wynne asked.

A proud smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, despitehimself. “Yes,” he answered, running a thumb over her name on the cover: JANEA. LAVELLAN

She’d done it, had finally pursued publication on her own.Soon after they’d parted, it seemed. She’d been prolific ever since, publishingtwo or more novels a year, and gaining a very large readership.

He couldn’t help but notice that she published under hermaiden name.

“Did you read the acknowledgments at the end?” Wynne asked.

His brows knit together. “No, I’ve only just finished thefinal chapter.” It was what set off his remembrance. “Why?”

Not that he needed reason to read the notes that Jane leftat the end of her novels—her About the Author section was sacrosanct, holdingshared glimpses of her life, stories of her twins entering high school or her family’sstruggles with their new dog. Teasing hints of what it would be like to stillknow her.

“I haven’t read it yet, I’m still several book behind in theseries” Wynne was explaining, “but I hear it’s quite scandalous in this one.”

Distracted, Solas made some automatic response, a nod, maybea smile. He disappeared into the back room of the library, his office, to readin private.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As many of you know, Ilike to express my gratitude for those who help me turn my silly ideas intopaper and ink. From my editor at Tethras Publishers, to the research librarianswho spend hours explaining why I’m wrong, to my readers who make it allworthwhile: Thank you. Your dedication makes this happen.

But there is onereader in particular whom I’ve neglected. At least, I dearly hope he is one ofmy readers.

Because, you see,every book I finished has been for him. He is my Muse; every love story I’ve writtenhas been with the hope that someday he might read the words, and he would knowhow I wished our story had ended.

The memory of himfuels me, as though adding logs to an endless bonfire. I write, hoping eachsentence will help to douse the flames, that I might get some rest andreprieve. I am tired, yet I write, breathing the emotions his memory still fansinto me into my characters in turn.

I think that,somewhere out there, he must wish for my happiness. His memory haunts me, tellsme to accept the bed that I have made, to move on.

To his ghost, I say:Stop asking me to put out the inferno that you lit inside me. This is no bed inwhich I lay, but a pyre, and it will surely consume me.

That ours was not ahappy end was my doing. I alone made the choice to break both our hearts.

But oh, my Muse, I waswrong. I allowed my head to make a choice that belonged to my heart.

I know not whetherthis plea will ever reach you, or only ashes. Are you out there? Have youforgiven me?

Most likely I willhear nothing in response to this call. Perhaps you will reply with a kindletter, and a photograph of your happy family. Would I be strong enough to behappy for you, I wonder?

I’ve looked for youand found only cinders, and I cannot bear it a moment more, because if there iseven the smallest flicker of a chance that I would not have to wait for anotherworld to see you again…  I would tell younow what I should have told you so many years before:

Youare my choice.

~~~~~

Solas was beside himself, frantic, terrified of the painfulhope the burned in his chest until he choked. It couldn’t be real, not afterall this time. Is it possible she meant another, one who came after him?

His fears tormented him as he called the switchboard operator,the publisher, and every second on hold was a torture.

Finally his call connected, and he explained inelegantly thathe was calling about the note in Lavellan’s latest novel, that he needed tocontact her. The man, Varric, asked for his name to make sure it was actuallyhim and not a hoax. Solas gave it feely, but he was scared of the man’sresponse. What if that somehow wasn’t the name they were looking for?

“You’re Solas? No shit?” Solas winced as the man laughedloudly into the receiver. “You’ve made me a wealthy man, Solas! I have a lot ofbets to call in; I knew it was a long shot, but I just couldn’t bet against ourgirl Jane.

“Now, some day you’ll have to tell me how you got anadvanced copy of that book—it’s not set to hit the shelves for a few days yet—butfirst answer me this: What are you intentions with Jane?”

“I… Excuse me?”

Varric’s voice became serious, almost threatening. “Look,the woman has been through a lot. I told her that I’d help you contact her nomatter what, but—well, that was a lie. You see, I consider the woman to be afriend of mine, and she doesn’t need any more hardship. So if you’re alreadymarried, or planning to hurt her, or looking for a woman to mooch off of—”

“No! I assure you, I…”

“You what?”

What could he say? This was unexpected, sudden, he had noway of knowing what Jane truly wanted from him.

“I chose her long ago. I would give her only what she wouldhave of me.”

Varric chuckled.  “Ican work with that. Are you ready? Grab a pen. I can’t give you her address–security reasons you understand–but I can tell you what her phone number is.”He told Solas the information to reach Jane’s phone, but then added, “Though,you won’t be able to reach her this time of day.”

“Oh, alright. Do you know what time—”

“Yep, this time of day she’s busy working. She has a dayjob, after all.”

“Right, I—”

“She’s a librarian. In fact, I think you know the place, don’tyou? I believe you used to work there. Together. At the library. And, since youcan’t call…”

A breath escaped Solas, a small, broken laugh. “Yes, I thinkI understand you, Mr. Tethras. It’s a long drive… Will you tell her?”

“Now, where’s the fun in that? It’s a much better story thisway. Good luck, Chuckles.”

“I thank you, Mr. Tethras.”

~~~~~

Solas had been right—it was a long drive. Plenty long enoughto think and re-think, to worry, to wonder. This was foolish, he should havecalled. This all seemed so surreal; he’d gone mad, surely, this couldn’t betrue. Oh, but to see her again was worth the risk…

It had been early morning when he left his own library in arush, but he managed to get to hers before closing, every mile closer to hertown, to familiar sights, weighing heavy and anxious in his gut. The parkinglot was empty. He got out of his car, and only then thought to worry about howhe must look.

Hopefully not haggard, after spending the day speeding downthe highway. Older than when she’d seen him last, of course. His suit was in some disrepair; he’d let many things go unheeded in his time alone.

None of that mattered. He entered Skyhold Library. Herlibrary, once his, once where they worked together.

His eyes were drawn to her shape immediately. She wastowards the back, picking up a stack of books.

She looked up, saw him standing, but he couldn’t tell if sheknew him. He slowly removed his hat, out of habit.

She set the books back down.

“Solas?” Her voice was timid, but the library was empty,silent, and he heard her perfectly. His feet suddenly remembered their purpose,rushing forward with large steps as she said, “Oh damn that Varric, he couldhave warned me. I…”

Her voice choked up as tears formed in her eyes, herbeautiful eyes, and she took a few tentative steps towards him, but he wasalready to her. He was uncertain where to stop, but she reached for him, restingher hand along his face as if to check that he was really there.

He tried to say her name, but no noise came from him. Hecovered her hand with his, gripping her tight, and she felt real, so real.Their faces only a tense breath apart, he ran his thumb over her knuckles, andcouldn’t help but notice that she wore no ring. They stared at each other, eachquestioning silently, as his other hand skimmed her wet cheek. He wondered, onlyvaguely, when he had dropped his hat.

To the Void with words.

His hand wrapped behind her neck as he kissed her, hisheart, his lost love. She melted into him instantly, wrapping her arm aroundhim as he tried not to devour her, but he couldn’t help but be intense, ragged,as she easily bent backwards over his arm.

When, breathless, he allowed them space to breath, tried toremember that he was a gentlemen, her hands still pulled him to her. “Oh, mymuse… You saw it, then. My letter. Do you forgive me? You would allow me tochange my mind?”

“Ma vhenan… My heart made its choice long ago. It has beenyou, always you, every day that we were together, every day that we’ve beenapart.” He smiled, shakily. “I have had no choice in the matter. It is not asubject for debate.”

She laughed, and he wipes away the tears that spilled fromher eyes. “I’m yours, Solas. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it much, much sooner.”

“That would have been preferable, I admit.”

She laughed, pushing against him playfully. He made up forthe jest by kissing her again, softly this time, treasuring the feel of her.

When her eyes flickered open again, she said, “We have a lotof catching up to do.”

[tapuchoco]

The First Time She Tries to Forget

haha guess who’s in solavellan hell now

The first time she tries to forget him is the very night after he departed.

It had somehow slipped her mind that he was, in fact, gone when she entered his lovely rotunda, holding in her hand a book he had gifted her on their first day here in Skyhold. Now that all was said and done, Corypheus defeated and the sky relatively back to normal, she’d had a chance to relax, to sit down and finally dive into the words on the paper, worn from years of use. And she had to say, it was quite the fascinating book, its topic spiritual magic, ways to shift and mold one’s very will into a weapon. She’d convinced herself to rip away from the contents of the book to come here, talk eagerly to him of what new information he, essentially, had taught her.

However, it was as soon as his name tumbled from her lips that she remembered.

And everything fell silent. Even the two floors above her did not dare breathe a noise. What was once full of the ambient sound of pages flipping and soft beating of wings was empty, a deafening silence too loud for her sensitive ears. Her eyes slowly took in the room around her, as empty as her chest, no sweet-talking apostate in sight. Only the desk he left behind, full of documents he’d shared with her thousands of times, and the mural on the wall. Beautiful colors, telling tales of Inquisitor Lavellan’s wondrous adventures, a painted record of every decision she made. There is only one spot of the wall that is bare; the final battle. All that is there is an outline of what could have been. In the moment she takes to pull herself together, she does not feel like the powerful woman on the wall.

She feels like the foolish young elf she used to be, still was. She feels like the mage that cannot control her magic any more than she can her temper. In that moment, she is simply Myriani Lavellan, Dalish elf far from home and in over her head. Had she not learned to repress memories, she would have relapsed into being the mother who lost her child to Templars, who sought revenge and left a mystery in her wake. How easily, after experiencing life with a child whose father was nowhere in sight, her heart had fallen so suddenly and roughly that now she was left repairing the damage from the hurricane (as she always did, as she always would).

Her hands grip the book harshly. Damn it all, damn it all. Watch your heart, do not get attached. What had happened to that? Why had she ignored her own warning, even knowing the consequences of caring for someone other than her family? Percival would never leave her, this he swore, and neither would Erizen, or Lorelei. None of them would do this to her. Why were they not enough? Why did she have to keep making the same mistakes? When would she finally learn?

She doesn’t know how, but when she returns to her senses, she is sitting in his seat, pulling papers out of the drawers, hands shaking, book forgotten. Documents with more importance to the Inquisition are still here, but anything he might need is gone, vanished into thin air along with the man who obtained them. Some pages are covered in nothing but sketches, or simple notes jotted down in a hurry. It is the papers that contain drawings of her that catch her attention. Myriani studies them, taking note of every detail of her own face. He put painstaking detail into each of them, even ones he could only have drawn from imagination. He had remembered everything about her face – and she finds she has done the same with his own.

A small slip of paper falls out from between the pile of images, floating gently down into her lap. Ice wraps around her wrists, her legs, steeling her in place. The paper is folded neatly, but it is obvious that it has been repeatedly folded and unfolded in how it seems to lean to her touch. With shaking fingers, she carefully opens the note, afraid of what words it may hold, or what it may not hold. In handwriting so beautiful, so neat, only four words come into her view.

Ir abelas, ma vhenan.

I am sorry, my heart.

Without a warning, she flares. Her sorrow has become anger, strong in its delicacy, in its desperation to be released. She does not think, only feels the fire in her heart come bursting from her hands. She doesn’t feel the burning, the only pain is inside of her, and she finally unravels. She had contained all of these emotions for the journey home, for the celebrations that ran well into the night. She had hidden her hurt for all of the day, perhaps subconsciously. In truth, she’d known it was there, but some part of her would not allow herself to be weak, to break down as she so desperately needed to. And now, reading this small goodbye, the pot has tipped, and everything spills.

She knows she must have an audience. It may be late, but neither the library nor the raven’s roost is entirely empty. But she cannot find it in herself to care. All she knows is rage, hot white and overwhelming. Her own tears feel like they evaporate as they streak down her cheeks, and everything in front of her is licked by flames, growing, growing. It’s unbearably hot, but she does not give up, does not leave. She continues to ruin everything in the room, lets the fire engulf her as easily as it does his desk, the scattered papers. The only thing resistant to the burning is the note. He must have enchanted it, he knew I would do this. Always one step ahead. One step ahead, hahren. Burn, burn everything away, take my memories, take everything, for you have already taken my heart.

She doesn’t remember when she began to scream, but now she is, cursing his name in every language she knows. She just wants this paper to burn, burn with everything else that was once his. Erase any trace of him other than the bleeding tear on her heart. How is he still so smug even when he is gone? Burn it, burn it until there is nothing left. Burn until this entire cruel world is gone. Burn until there is nothing left of you, until you are as weak outside as you are within. She does not stop until she is satisfied, until what was once lacking in light is now a bonfire. But still, she aches, and without thought, she wrenches the ring he once gave her away off of her finger, holds it high in the air with a furious glare. Your promises have only ever been empty. You leave ash in your wake without lighting a single fire. Fen’Harel ma halam.

She does not hesitate to drop the ring among the burning paper.

And suddenly, there are arms wrapped tight around her, and she is gone before she can even react. She is on the battlements now, staring out to the mountains. As she turns to see her companion, he takes advantage to pull her into a deep embrace. He holds her, unmoving, certain but unsure. This is not the first hug he has given her, but he holds her like it may be the last. And the thought of him leaving too shatters the anger in seconds, her own arms wrap around him, crying hot tears into his chest. She can’t stop shaking, just holds onto him without a thought of letting go, of composing herself. She needs this, damn it, she deserves a chance to drop all walls, to sob for as long as her heart needs it.

Cole never leaves her, holds her tight in an embrace with no end in sight. He knows her pain because he hears it, hears what the flames pushed away, what her anger hides. He hears all of it, and he knows that for as many people out there in need of help, in this moment, she needs him more. So he doesn’t stray, doesn’t loosen his grip. Even as he pulls her to her room in the blink of an eye, he doesn’t stray. Even when she is well into crying herself to sleep hours later, mumbling curses he knows she doesn’t mean, he doesn’t stray.

Even the next day, when she returns to the scene of her crime and finds nothing but soot and ash, he is at her side. He says nothing as she begins the tedious task of scrubbing at the stains (which never reached the walls, he hears her silently thanking). He says nothing when she gasps inwardly, pale blue eyes widening when she spots her ring, burned and blackened, but intact. He says nothing as more tears spill, as she solemnly wipes away at the excess grime, as she slips it silently back onto her finger. He only moves when she nearly collapses. And he holds her again, whispering happy memories into her ears, urging her to find happiness among the chaos. But she is not listening, not entirely.

Cole hears her thoughts before they come out of her mouth.

“May the Dread Wolf take you.”

[humanspectre]

For DWC 10) “Darling don’t try that, you know it’ll never work.” Whatever pairing you want!

Arlise’el Lavellan x Cullen RutherfordWarning: panic attacksWritten for @dadrunkwriting

I’m not sure this makes sense at all. I had vodka with orange juice, okay. And beer.

She ran through the forest, bare feet on the ground. The trees were tall, taller than any tree Arlise’el had never seen, and they cast long, dark shadows around her. The silence was deafening, broken only by the loud breaking escaping her parted lips, and frantic beating of her own heart. She couldn’t see ahead of her, she couldn’t heart what was behind her, she couldn’t run faster.

But it was right there. Right behind her.

Lise kept running, desperate. She knew that if she stopped, she would be eaten by the darkness, by the thing snapping at her heels. But she was tired. She was so tired.

You should give up.

Lise ignored the voice. It reverberated through the tree trunks, the leaves, her skin. She whimpered in fear.

You know you can’t escape this. Not this time.

“Dirty flat-ear!” *She heard someone screaming, and there were other steps behind her, beside the monster. They would catch her. They would catch her, and she didn’t want to *think of the things they would do to her. Panic bubbled on her throat, and she sped up, even if her chest burned, and her legs hurt.

They had promised death. Pain. Humiliation. She had to flee, she had to run, she had to hide because there was no one to rescue her.

“Daughter of a whore! You should’ve never been accepted here! You don’t belong!”

Was there?

Lise tried to cut through the terror blinding her. She knew there was people now that could protect her. People she vowed to protect back, people who card for her. But she couldn’t remember… Where were they? Was all a dream?

“Daughter like daughter, shaming us. First a flat-ear, now a shem.”

Cullen? There was no Cullen back then, was there? Did she dream the safety?

Lise called out for help, yelling the names of the people she remembered being safe. Cassandra. Varric. Solas. Dorian. Iron Bull. Blackwall. Cole. Sera. Josephine. Leliana.

Cullen.

“Darling don’t try that, you know it’ll never work.”

Lise stumbled, feet catching on a root, and sprawled on the floor. It was always like this. She could never outrun them, she could never escape. Where were they? Where was safety?

“Arlise’el. Lise. Lise! Wake up!”

Lise bolted upright, hand flying to attack the horrors around her. She connected against something solid and warm, and she went at it again in blind terror, but then she was pinned down. She screamed,

“Maker’s breath, Lise! It’s me! Stop–Stop Struggling, you’ll hurt yourself!”

“Let me go! Let me-Let me go! LET ME GO!”

Arlise’el struggled in vain, and the panic threatened to make her burst apart and fall into pieces. A small part of her brain was whispering that she was safe, that it wasn’t them holding her down, that they never got to her in the first place. The the bigger, terrified part of her mind told her to bolt and run, to flee.

“Maker have mercy, Lise, breath. You’re going to hurt yourself like this.”

Arlise’el gasped, air becoming suddenly scarce. She needed to breath, but there was no air. No matter how much she breathed, she couldn’t fill her lungs, she was drowning, she was suffocating, she was going to die, she was going to die, she was going to die…

“Lise, Andraste help me, breath with me, okay?”

The hands holding her let go and Arlise’el tried to run, but her legs were made of water. She only rolled, chest tight. Gentle hands touched her back, her forehead, and Lise gasped. Cullen. That was Cullen. She was confused, and her head hurt, but only one person ever touched her like she was precious. She felt her hand against something solid–Cullen’s chest, and how it was filling with air and then deflating, and she tried to mimic it.

“That’s good, you’re safe. Come, love, count with me. Breath in. Excellent. In… One, two, three…”

Arlise’el lost track on how long she stayed there, listening to Cullen counting and murmuring soft encouragements at her, breathing in sync with him, but eventually her mind felt more clear. Her entire body ached, and she had no strength left, but she was breathing again.

Clarity also brought with it shame at her outburst. Half of Skyhold must have heard her. Creators…

“Are you feeling better, love?”

Arlise’el sat up on the bed, hugging her own knees. She wanted to cry, but she was damned if she was doing that in front of Cullen. It was horrible enough he had to witness that.

“Lise?”

“‘M fine,” She said, voice breaking. Cullen touched the top of her head very lightly, and Arlise’el wanted to bawl at the tentativeness of his touch, “You should go.”

Cullen’s hand slipped from her head to the back of her exposed neck. She shivered; she was drenched in sweat, and the cold air coming through the windows was chilling her to the bones.

“Look at me, love. I won’t leave you this state, and you know it.”

“Fenedhis, Cullen…”

Arlise’el looked up, but not at Cullen, He moved closer, always slow, and, with gentle fingers, cleaned away the tears from her cheeks. She let him, too tired to fight him, even when he calmly started pulling her sleeping shirt off. There was nothing sexual in the move, not even a hint of anything but thoughtful care. She shivered helplessly as Cullen draped her in a clean shirt–his own, and then maneuvered her from the bed to the couch. She sat there, as he put the driest blankets around her, tucking her.

“Are you comfortable?”

“Is the bed…?”

“Just damp. I’m going to change the sheets, and then you can lie down again.”

Arlise’el eyed the bed and shook her head. She didn’t want to sleep again. She didn’t want to close her eyes ever again, if she could.

“C-Can I stay here?”

“Of course,” Cullen said easily, caressing her cheek with tenderness, “Can I sit with you?”

“Please,” Lise whispered, making space for Cullen on the narrow couch. It was barely a fit, but they make it do, with Lise lying on top of Cullen. He was warm and solid, and Lise felt a bit safer.

They stayed in silence, Cullen rubbing her back slowly, and Lise listening to his heartbeat. The night was silent, but there were sounds here and there. The clank of metal, a solitary laughter, an owl making noises somewhere on the roofs, Leliana’s raven flying around. It was comforting.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Cullen asked after a while, and Lise burrowed her face on his naked chest, skin against skin.

She nodded, and he waited for her to talk.

“… I had a nightmare.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“There is… It’s not–There’s nothing– It’s stupid.”

“It isn’t stupid, Lise, if it upsets you like this.”

Arlise’el snorted, making it clear that she didn’t believe so, and Cullen gently flicked the tip of her ear in retaliation. She relented.

“It was… Once, the kids in the Clan. They chased me through the woods. At night.”

Cullen hummed, indicating he was listening.

“They disliked me because of… Of many things. I was the outsider, and. Well. There’s this… Game. FenHarel’s Teeth. It wasn’t the same, but if they caught me… They promised me pain . And m-more. I-I run. And then I got lost. They didn’t find me until mid-afternoon the next day. I hid away. I didn’t even try to go back to the clan.”

“It must have been more than just a playful chasing if you hid for almost a day.”

“They didn’t like me. Most children didn’t. A lot of the adults as well. Many still don’t.”

“Why?”

“My mother. It’s… A long story. I’ll tell you at some other moment. I’m… I’m tired. Ir abelas, ma vhenan. I’m just so tired.”

“Don’t apologize for being tired,” Cullen admonished, and Lise took a moment to appreciate that Cullen understood what she said. He was paying attention to her Elven.

“This dream, though,” Lise continued after a pause, “It was different. It wasn’t just the kids. There was something else. It–It sounded like the nightmare demon sounded. The one from the Fade.”

“Do you think…?”

She shuddered, and Cullen held her closer. She didn’t even want to entertain the idea that the voice in her dream was* the Nightmare Demon. Lise didn’t even know what to do with that idea, the knowledge that it was, somehow, reaching to her… No. She wouldn’t think of it. She could feel her heartbeat speeding up at the thought, and Arlise’el couldn’t cope with notion of such horrible thing, not tonight.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it.”

“Okay. You should rest.”

“I can’t sleep again after this. But you should. You must. Rest, please.”

“You know I need very little sleep to go by.”

“I know that you sleep too little and pretends that is okay with it. Please. Don’t make me feel worse by ruining your rest as well.”

Cullen just wriggled into the couch, getting more comfortable.

“Hush, Lise. You always care for me, love, so let me take care of you, just this once. Hush, and rest.”

So Arlise’el did.