#Isera is trouble

[abyssal-ilk]

meeting bellara as a veil jumper with neve is so fun because she's first like "wait :0! i know you!" towards rook and then neve introduces herself and she's just "wait!! i know you, too!!"

[vir-tanadahl]

Timeless

Summary: Isera Lavellan is living in modern Thedas completing her research on plants when her research takes her to a place in the Solasan Mountain range. The discovery of a strange glowing mirror takes her to a world she has never known before where she meets someone she never thought existed. (Find on Ao3) Fen'harel (Solas) x Lavellan

This is the final update before Veilguard releases tomorrow! Our ten year wait is finally over! While this chapter does not have any Veilguard spoilers (all information has come from information, conversations, or codex entries from DAI and Trespasser), future chapters might include lore from Veilguard! If that is the case, I will give you a warning at the start of the chapter! :)

Chapter 27: The Shattered Heritage

Since uncovering her memories, Isera had grown more introspective, lost in the tangled threads of her past. She knows the memories are hers, but they feel distant, almost like stories that happened to someone else. There’s a strange detachment to them, as though she’s observing a stranger’s life rather than her own and certain fragments trouble her deeply, lingering at the edges of her mind.

First, where had her mother been when the Seers performed their ritual to block her memory and magic? The absence feels glaring, as though something important is missing from the scene. And then, there is the memory of the explosion—the one that had shaped so much of her life. It feels... off, like a painting with colors just slightly out of place. It wasn’t merely suppressed; it feels as if the memory itself had been altered, reshaped into something different. But by whom, and for what purpose?

Questions swirl in her mind, haunting her each time she replays the memories. Why would someone manipulate that specific moment with the statue, and why did they manipulate it to be a forest she wandered off in? The temple’s architecture—she can’t recall ever visiting a place like it, not in her childhood or any time after.

Then there’s the question of the Seers themselves. How did they even manage to suppress her memories and magic? From everything she knows, the Seers were not truly magic-wielders—not in the way she understands it now.

Magic in her time feels nearly impossible, a forgotten myth. So how could the Seers have accessed enough power to seal away her connection to the Fade? And if they somehow did, what else might be hidden, buried beneath the surface of her time?

These thoughts spiral, leading to even more questions, each one unsettling. ‘If magic still exists in her world but is suppressed, locked away—why?’ Who would be powerful enough to hide it, and for what purpose? She feels as though she’s glimpsing only fragments of a much larger, concealed truth, and the weight of it presses down on her.

An image of Solas flickers in her mind bringing with it the old Dalish tales. ‘Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf,’ the trickster who deceived both the Evanuris and the Forgotten Ones. His cunning led him to trap them all, the Evanuris sealed away in the Fade, the Forgotten Ones banished to the Void.

The thought lingers, heavy and unsettling, weaving itself into her other questions. For a brief moment, she wonders—'what if there’s truth to these stories?’ 

But she quickly shakes the thought from her mind. Yet, as she tries to push it away, the image of Fen’Harel remains, haunting her with the possibility of truth buried within the stories she once dismissed.

Isera walked slow, thoughtful laps through the garden, her mind adrift as memories surfaced and faded. She paused, grounding herself in the feel of the cool grass beneath her feet, the earthy scent of flowers mingling with the soft rustle of leaves around her. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing it in, savoring the calm before her thoughts pulled her back in.

There had been something almost...freeing about seeing her younger self in those memories—moving so easily among the spirits, her face unguarded, her heart open, unburdened by fear or hesitation. The ease with which her younger self embraced the spirits left a bittersweet feeling blooming within her; she longed for that innocence, that confidence, as if they were treasures lost in the shadows of her past.

The more Isera reflects on her connection to the Fade and the spirits, the stronger her resolve becomes to reclaim and fully understand it and to wield it with the same freedom she glimpsed in her younger self. Finally, she turns back toward the fortress, her path clear in her mind as she makes her way to Solas’s private library.

He had given her unrestricted access to study there whenever she wished, a privilege she treasured. Within those walls, surrounded by ancient tomes and magical texts, she felt an unspoken encouragement to dive deeper into her craft, to experiment, to learn.

Once inside, she immerses herself in the creation of wards, finding an unexpected joy in the process. Crafting wards felt like creating and solving puzzles of her own design—each one could be as simple or intricate as she desired. Some wards succeeded, forming shields or barriers as intended, while others failed.

One ward in particular, meant to repel attackers by forming a protective shield, had an unexpected outcome. Instead of pushing away, it drew inward, creating an almost magnetic pull. Confused, Isera examined the glyphs and runes, trying to understand where she went wrong.

After a moment of studying her notes, she realized her mistake: one of the critical runes was inscribed in reverse, inadvertently creating an attraction effect rather than a repulsion. With each attempt, successful or not, her confidence grew. She could feel her connection to the Fade sharpening, becoming something she could understand.

Isera began to feel a profound connection with the Fade, as though it were a living presence intertwined with her own being and the world around her. The more she practiced, the more her confidence blossomed, each successful spell reinforcing her bond with the realm of spirits. Magic started to feel like a natural extension of herself, an effortless flow that grew stronger with each moment she spent immersed in her studies.

She could feel the presence of spirits now with increasing clarity, their energies faint yet unmistakable, like distant melodies calling from the depths of the Fade. This connection felt so intrinsic, so undeniable, that the Fade became as essential to her as breathing.

The door to the library creaks open softly, breaking the quiet with a faint squeak as Felassan steps inside. “Ah, there you are,” he says, his gaze sweeping over the scattered papers and sketches that litter the table around her—drawings of wards in various stages, some meticulously detailed, others scribbled over in frustration.

He raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “You do certainly enjoy making wards,” he remarks, stepping closer to peer at her work. His tone is teasing, but there’s genuine curiosity in his eyes as he studies the array of designs she’s created.

Isera glances up at him with a smile. “They’re fun,” she says with a shrug, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Felassan chuckles, raising an eyebrow. “Ah, well, I think you’re in a rare minority. Most would beg to differ.” His tone is light, teasing, and Isera rolls her eyes, feigning exasperation.

“Let’s see if you can bring that enthusiasm to practicing your offensive magic.” He gestures toward the door, his expression turning slightly more serious. “The wards may keep things at bay, but offense has its own merits.”

Isera groans, “But I’m not good at it.” She begins gathering the scattered papers, reluctantly tidying up despite her protest.

Felassan shrugs, unfazed. “All the more reason to practice,” he replies, crossing his arms as he waits patiently, a knowing look in his eyes.

Once she’s done, they start down the corridor, heading toward the familiar garden where she’s been honing her skills. But as they walk, Isera feels a shift in the air—an underlying tension she can’t ignore. There are more guards and soldiers than usual, their movements brisk and purposeful. The atmosphere feels heavier, charged with an unspoken urgency.

She glances up at Felassan, her brows knitting together with concern. “What’s going on?” she whispers.

Felassan’s expression darkens slightly, and he lets out a quiet sigh. “Movements of war,” he murmurs, his voice carrying a weight that silences any further questions. The words linger between them, pressing down like a shadow over their path as they continue toward the garden.

Isera lowers her gaze, the weight of Felassan’s words settling heavily in her mind. ‘Movements of war.’ The seriousness of the situation feels like a shadow stretching over her thoughts as they make their way to the garden in silence.

Once there, Felassan begins instructing her, his tone steady but his gaze distant. “Let’s focus on elemental abilities,” he says, gesturing toward a row of practice dummies lined up before her. “Each element has its strengths; see if you can find yours.”

Isera takes a deep breath and steadies herself, casting her first spell. The flame sputters, barely reaching the dummy, but she tries again, frustration and determination mingling as she works through each element. Fire, ice, lightning—she stumbles, but eventually, with each attempt, manages to strike the dummy with enough force to hit her target.

Felassan observes her progress with a slight nod, instructing her to keep practicing. Just as she refocuses, two more soldiers enter the garden, their faces set with grim determination. They approach Felassan, casting quick glances toward Isera as if appraising her or perhaps assessing the scene.

Felassan steps aside to speak with them, his expression hardening as he listens. Isera, glancing over between spells, senses the gravity of their conversation. The soldiers’ voices are low, their words muffled by the rustle of leaves and the sound of her own casting. She attempts to concentrate on her spells, but her gaze flickers to Felassan and the soldiers.

The air thickens with tension, each glance from the soldiers landing on her like a silent question. Their presence is heavy, and Isera feels it prickling at the edges of her focus, disrupting her attempts at casting. She stops, her attention drawn to fragments of their hushed conversation, catching only bits and pieces.

Unable to ignore her curiosity, she turns toward them, stepping closer, her gaze fixed on Felassan. His expression is grim, his voice carrying a note of bitterness she’s rarely heard from him.

“Ghilan’nain fancies herself a Creator,” he says to one of the soldiers, his tone laced with open disdain, “but I doubt she’s ever considered the true cost.”

The words hang in the air, weighted with an unspoken accusation, and Isera senses the darkness behind them. She watches Felassan’s expression closely, a flicker of something unguarded in his eyes before his face becomes impassive once more. The soldiers exchange glances, the tension palpable as Felassan’s words sink in.

Felassan glances over his shoulder, his gaze landing on Isera, unreadable yet sharp. Then, with a slight turn, he addresses the soldiers. “Dismissed.”

The two soldiers snap to attention, their respect evident in their posture. “General,” they reply in unison, giving a crisp nod before turning on their heels and departing, their footsteps fading down the corridor.

Isera watches them go, her mind racing as she turns back to Felassan, confusion etched on her face. ‘Ghilan’nain?’ She recalls the stories she grew up with, the lore that has always been part of her heritage. Ghilan’nain, revered by the Dalish as one of the People before being elevated to the ranks of the Evanuris. She was known as a huntress, a chosen of Andruil, the goddess of the hunt. The Dalish call to her for guidance on their journeys, for safe travels, to help them find their way home.

Felassan’s words linger in Isera’s mind, their tone sharp with a disdain that feels at odds with the reverence she grew up hearing in stories of Ghilan’nain. It’s as if there’s a darkness to Ghilan’nain’s story, something hidden that defies the familiar tales of the huntress, the guide, the protector.

“What did you mean?” she asks, her voice edged with cautious curiosity.

Felassan’s expression hardens, a frown creasing his brow as he meets her gaze. “About Ghilan’nain?” he repeats, his tone guarded.

Isera nods slowly, her gaze fixed on Felassan, her eyes searching his face for answers. “Yes,” she replies softly, her voice urging him to continue.

Felassan’s expression turns somber, a shadow crossing his face as he begins. “Ghilan’nain has always had a taste for creation,” he says, his tone laced with a subtle bitterness. “Experimentation, reshaping life… creatures of all kinds. Giants, monsters, and beasts that once roamed sky, water, and earth alike.”

He pauses, the weight of his words settling in the air between them, and a flicker of something darker crosses his gaze. “But it wasn’t always so,” he continues, almost reluctantly. “The halla… they’re pretty, graceful even,” he adds, his voice softening, as if remembering a kinder legacy from her creations.

Isera’s brows knit together, trying to reconcile this image of Ghilan’nain with the revered figure she’d always known. The halla, sacred symbols to her people, contrasted starkly with the image of monsters and twisted creations that Felassan’s words conjured.

“I don’t understand,” Isera says, her voice trembling as she struggles to piece it together. “I thought the war was against the false gods?”

Her question hangs in the air, laced with a hint of disbelief. Felassan watches her, a flicker of confusion crossing his face as he considers her words. “Yes,” he replies slowly, as if uncertain what part confuses her. “It is.”

He studies her, his eyes narrowing slightly, as though trying to understand the reason behind her distress.

“Like… people pretending to be the actual gods?” Isera presses, her heartbeat quickening as she tries to grasp the full meaning.

Felassan’s confusion deepens, disbelief flickering across his face as he studies her. “They liken themselves to gods,” he replies, his tone edged with frustration, as if the answer should be obvious.

Isera’s brow furrows, a hint of urgency in her voice as she clarifies, “But… do they liken themselves to the actual gods?” She stresses the word, her mind racing.

Felassan’s eyes narrow slightly, his response coming slowly, deliberately. “To godhood, yes,” he answers, as if every word carries a weight of its own.

Isera’s mind reels, the implications crashing over her like waves. Could it be true? Could the elven history she’d known and cherished—the stories passed down through generations of Dalish—be wrong? The thought shakes her, unraveling the very foundation of the tales she grew up with, stories that painted the supposed gods as powerful, ancient beings beyond question.

Though she wasn’t raised within a Dalish clan, the legends had always been part of her, woven into the fabric of her heritage. To question them now felt as though she were questioning herself. ‘What if those so-called gods were never gods at all?’

“But… are they misrepresenting actual gods?” Isera asks again, her voice laced with uncertainty as a heavy pit forms in her stomach. The question feels strange on her tongue, as if she’s challenging truths that have always been unshakable.

Felassan turns to face her fully, his gaze narrowing, a hint of impatience flickering across his face. He tilts his head, studying her with a mix of exasperation and disbelief. “You’re not usually this dense,” he murmurs, a sharp edge to his words. He lets the statement hang for a moment before continuing, his voice flat but intense. “No. They are not misrepresenting ‘actual’ gods. They want to be gods—and they’ve done much, sacrificed much, in pursuit of that power.”

His words settle heavily between them, and Isera feels a chill run through her. This was no mere misunderstanding; it was a twisted ambition, a hunger that had driven them to unimaginable lengths.

Isera’s hand rises to cover her mouth, her mind racing as she tries to process what Felassan is revealing. Memories flicker through her mind—moments when Solas had shown her glimpses of the past, the images of elven lives sacrificed in Andruil’s name. She had watched, horrified yet certain there had been some misunderstanding, that someone had twisted Andruil’s teachings to justify bloodshed.

But now, the truth begins to settle heavily over her, cold and unrelenting. She had been wrong.

‘It wasn’t someone misrepresenting Andruil,’ she realizes, her heart pounding. ‘It was Andruil herself who demanded those sacrifices, who sought power at the cost of her own people’s lives.’

The weight of her misinterpretation presses down on her, and she feels a chill spreading through her chest. The gods the elven people revered in her time, whose tales had inspired generations, were not gods at all—they were dangerous.

A coldness seeps through Isera’s body as the realization settles, her stomach twisting painfully. Without a word, she brushes past Felassan, her movements slow and unsteady, as though moving through a thick fog. The shock grips her so tightly that his voice barely registers as he calls after her.

Her mind races, her hands beginning to tremble as she walks, almost in a daze. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of her newfound understanding pressing down on her. The truths she had taken as pillars of her heritage now feel shattered, leaving her hollow and unsettled.

Still in a daze, Isera wanders through the fortress, her thoughts too jumbled to piece together any coherent question or plan. She’s barely aware of where she’s going, her feet moving of their own accord until she finds herself in an unfamiliar wing of the fortress. She stops in front of a heavy door guarded by two spectral figures, their eyes shifting to her as she approaches. Across the hall, she pauses, hearing faint echoes of Solas’s voice mingled with others behind the door.

Her mind feels blank, fragments of her discovery slipping through her fingers as she tries to make sense of it all. She has no idea how long she’s been waiting when, finally, the door swings open, and two armored figures step out. They exchange a startled glance at the sight of her but say nothing as they pass, their footsteps fading down the corridor.

Inside, Solas stands, his expression momentarily softening with concern as he sees her. He studies her carefully, confusion flashing in his eyes before he gestures for her to enter. She follows him inside, her senses sharpening as she realizes she’s stepped into a war room. Maps and markers cover the table, symbols and plans she doesn’t understand—but she recognizes enough to know their gravity. Without a word, Solas guides her to a small sofa set apart from the war table, allowing her a quiet space to collect herself.

He sits across from her, his gaze steady, but after a moment, he breaks the silence. “What’s going on?” he asks, his voice gentle but probing.

Isera inhales deeply, glancing around the room as if hoping it might somehow anchor her scattered thoughts. Her gaze lands on the war table once more, and she rises, drawn to it, her eyes tracing the various pieces and symbols. She doesn’t know what most of it means, but she can pick out the markers representing the gods—no, the false gods. She hesitates, her hand reaching out to one of the figurines. Solas watches her, tense but silent, his eyes following her every movement as she picks up one of the pieces, her fingers brushing over its surface.

The weight of it feels strange in her hand. She takes another steadying breath, the question forming on her lips almost without her realizing it. “What did they do?” she asks quietly, her eyes fixed on the figurine as if it holds the answer.

Solas’s gaze darkens, his expression shifting as a heavy silence falls over the room. He steps closer, his movements measured, and gently takes the figurine from her hand, placing it carefully back in its position on the war table. His fingers linger for a moment, as if the small figure holds more weight than its size suggests.

Then, without a word, he wraps his arm around her shoulders, his touch both grounding and protective, guiding her back to the small sofa. He sits beside her, the gravity of the moment reflected in his eyes as he studies her, gathering his thoughts.

“Perhaps,” he murmurs, his voice soft yet carrying the weight of unspoken truths, “it’s best if I begin at the very beginning…”

[rambles-on-dragon-age]

These are all so good!

I love the idea of your Warden in a fancy setting and an Orlesian trying to feel her up and getting a dagger for their trouble. 😌

🥺Halan brings tea blends as gifts?? That's so cute.

I'm guessing Isera helps Neve give Assan too many treats while Davrin's not looking? 😆

Okay, time for Character Q&A posts!

You can answer this for your Rooks, Inquisitors, Hawkes, or Wardens!

(Or if you've transformed one of them into a companion, that's cool too!)

What are some completely "useless" headcanons you have?

Favorite drinks, favorite foods, hobbies, favorite place to visit, do they stay up late or wake up early, favorite genre of book, favorite animal, least favorite animal, etc. Whatever you have for them that's not normally brought up!

[officialleehadan]

Making a Queen

Hello darlings! Today's story was brought to you by Kat! Darling, thank you so much for all your support!

Prompt: Spider-Eating Elves

+++

“What was I thinking?” Shimra asked Halva, a little frantic around the edges and not entirely sure how her life had gotten to this point. “I’m an innkeeper’s daughter. I can’t be queen.”

“You will do very nicely as queen,” Isera said, very matter-of-fact and clear. She had forgone her usual white today, and was striking instead in soft green with gold about the hems. She adjusted the pins in Shimra’s hair, and checked to make sure her veil was neatly in place. “Sweet girl, every bride is nervous on her wedding day, and your wedding day is rather larger than you expected.”

“The steward told me there are nearly a thousand nobles, eight kings with their consorts, four queens with theirs, and representatives form every race that peoples the continent,” Shimra said weakly. Her gown was gossamer-white spidersilk, sewn with crystals that were almost to tiny to see, overlaid over thicker white silk embroidered with glimmering thread. The embroidery was exactly the color of the cloth itself, but made incredible, whirling patterns that seemed to move when Shimra looked at them too long. There were diamonds in her hair, throat, ears, and wrists. “This is more than even the most fanciful of daydreams.”

“You are the queen this land needs,” Halva said. Like Isera, she had forgone her usual garb and wore deep green to show off Isera’s pale. She looked very fine, and had agreed to stand for Shimra, along with Isera herself. Noble company for a girl born in the slums, but maybe appropriate, given that that slums-girl was marrying a king. “Take it from one who knows most of those nobles a little too well. We need new blood, and new ideas. We need that good, stout common sense and the courage to speak up. More than that, Grathneeds someone he can trust, and that’s you.”

“And you need him as well,” Isera agreed. She made another invisible adjustment, this time to Shimra’s hem, which flowered out like petals built of layer upon layer of that nearly-invisible gossamer. “You might have been happy with a lad down in the slums, but the job of ruling is so well suited to your talents. You would have run a fine inn, but you will run a better kingdom.”

It was… not exactly comforting, to realize that Isera was probably right. Shimra had always had a little more ambition than was sensible for a girl from the slums. Maybe she would have taken over her father’s inn when the time came, and maybe she would have been happy doing it but this…

This was a chance to do so much good for the people these nobles, even Halva and Isera and Grath himself, never truly thought of. She could be their voice where they never formerly had one. As queen, she could not be shouted down by anyone but Grath. Not that he ever would. Grath was gentle to the bone and respected her in particular and women in general to shout her down, even if they disagreed.

“Shim-lass, they’re right, you know.”

That was her mother. Hild Innkeep was no court flower, even gowned as noble herself in silks and jewels gifted to her by a very insistent elf-king. She looked magnificent, and as regal as any queen.

“You got my clever,” Hild told her with a gentle kiss to each of her cheeks. Shimra did her best not to tear up, and took a handkerchief when Halva offered one. “And you got your papa’s strong. Them two, they would have given you what you need to run our inn an’ run it well. They’ll also give you what you need to be a queen proper.”

“You aren’t mad, me leaving?” Shimra asked tentatively. Yes, she had a younger brother, but he was a child still, and not big enough to be much help around the inn. Gold was good, and she had plenty of it now from the income Intevar gave her as a duchess, but gold wasn’t the same as family to help. “Won’t see you much, especially if we have to leave on Progress like the council says. Let the kingdom see me.”

“Me? Be mad my girl-child will be a queen?” Hild chuckled ruefully. “Nah, sweet girl. I’ll miss you. We all will. But you’re to be a queen an’ that’s a duty like the nobles maybe forget. I’m proud of you, an’ so is your papa.”

“It’s time.”

Intevar stepped through the door. He matched his sister, but unlike Isera, he wore a slim, emerald-set crown, and a larger emerald at his throat. Shimra’s father, looking very fine, a little nervous, and so proud he could burst, stood beside him. He was to walk Shimra to Grath’s side and give her hand to the man who would be her husband.

The nobles argued that it should be Intevar, as he was her liege, but both Intevar and Isera threw a very public tantrum about disrespecting the honors of family bonds. Nobody argued much after that.

“Last chance to run,” Harrow Innkeep told Shimra with a fond smile that promised he was joking. He liked Grath, had met the young king a dozen times since the first time Shimra brought Grath down to the slums, and approved of the man as much as he approved of the king. “We could go out the window. Use that veil as a rope.”

“It would hold,” Isera told them both with a straight face. Shimra couldn’t tell if she was joking, but rather suspected she wasn’t. “Spidersilk is very strong, although it might not be long enough.”

“I’m not fleeing my own wedding,” Shimra told them all, but she was smiling again, at the jokes and her family who came together to make sure she was ready to pledge her life and love to her soon-to-be husband. She took her father’s arm and straightened herself proudly. “Besides, there isn’t time to kidnap Grath on our way, and anyway, that would leave Marn on the throne.”

“Perish the thought,” Halva muttered, but she was grinning, one arm around her wife. “Come on, Innkeeper’s Daughter. It’s time to become a queen.”

+++

And that's a wrap! Spider-Eating Elves is officially CLOSED! Keep your eyes out for the anthology, coming soon!

+++

Spider-Eating Elves:

Elves are beautiful, icy, and untouchable. Unfortunately, they always thought the same of humans. Worse yet, they also live in a forest full of giant insects, think tiny spiders are a delicacy, and have a strong-willed princess who is nothing but trouble.

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

Introductory Trouble

Lady of Grace

Lady of Stone, and her Girlfriend

Lady Retrieved

Monsters on the Wing

Spiderwebs and Cookies

Royal Match

Lines in the Sand

From One King to Another

Duchess of Pies

Twilight Silk

An Entrance to Make

Raise a Glass (Subscriber Only!)

The Oak and the Climbing Rose

Under the Willow Boughs  (Subscriber Only!)

The Brightest Flowers

Back Road to the Slums

Beneath the Sky (Subscriber Only!)

+++

More Stories!

+++

[the-rat-plays-games]

ISERA - SKYTR (SCOUT)

“Oh, we’re just a bunch of fucking animals -- but we’re afraid of the outcome.” - Architects, “Animals” “Pain is personal. It really belongs to the one feeling it. Probably the only thing that is your own. I like mine.” - Henry Rollins

Who knows where she comes from? When did it matter? Never. Never. 

Not to her, anyways. 

And sure, the new pack, Blutothinn, they ask, but Isera, she doesn’t care much about it. She doesn’t remember the old place much. Just remembers some old man with a limp who couldn’t fucking keep up, who fell behind, who starved and died. She remembers the winter, too, the harshness of it, the driving hunger in the forest. Remembers jumping to catch a bird in the air. Like a weasel would, right? 

Or a bobcat. 

Speaking of: she gets her first scar from a bobcat, the scars across her eyes -- boom, a right claw, the stripes of blood down her face. Isera reels. Sure, she kills it, but -- but -- fuck. Fuck. It hurts. 

But the scars, they make her feel alive. It’s weird. 

Isera can’t help how sharp-tongued she is, either. She doesn’t mean to be so shitty to Vilhelm, and the other hunting team crewmates, but they’re clumsy, and Isera gets into an actual fight with Vilhelm on the trail one day, which ends fucking terribly, ends with an elk kicking Vilhelm, and --  -- well.  The bobcat scars?  Nothing compared to what happens when they bring her to Yvar.  Yvar rips her face apart. Rips her open. Kicks her off the hunting team, too, when it’s done. 

... but then Yvar makes her a scout, instead. 

She doesn’t say why. 

Isera still ain’t sure. 

She’s not planning to ask, though. Ain’t worth the trouble. 

[sasskarian]

Fanfic Masterpost ... sort of

In honor of Fanfic Appreciation, I put together a list of my fics for anyone who’d like to look 

Under the cut, because length

Dragon Age:

After the Glitter Fades (Glitterverse):  Hawke x Fenris, modern AU. (Long fic, WIP) Hawke and Fenris are movie stars in a torrid love affair. Fenris has a mysterious past. Also Cassandra is investigating a murder mystery? Varric, as ever, is a delight. (*this is borrowed from @nug-juggler‘s excellent and shorter summary!)

Memorable quote:   Fenris observed candidly was something sacred. For a moment, Hawke fiercely wished she were an artist. The scene in front of her was too… every word she could think of— beautiful, elegant, breathtaking— was trite, a pale description of perfection. 

In the Heart of the Woods: Lavellan x Fairbanks rarepair. (WIP) Inquisitor Lavellan’s heart is broken by a certain Commander, Fairbanks has an appreciation for her, and a love story blooms like elfroot in the Emerald Graves.

Memorable quote:   This kiss, she thinks, two mouths moving in perfect unison, is a spell of its own. Not quite love, not yet, but close enough she can pretend it is. Hope wells up, a solid thrum beating in counterpoint to her heart, and for one perfect moment, the world just bows down and… stands still. All that exists, all that ever has existed or ever will exist is wrapped up right here, right now, in Fairbanks’ lips on hers. Motes of dust turn golden in the sunbeams splashing through the roof, and a touch— his thumb, her cheek— says a million more words than words ever could.

Yesterdays: Surana x Zevran, mild Surana x Alistair pining. Post Origins, complete. A Warden’s sacrifice means something only as long as someone remembers it. A king looks back, balancing regrets with happiness.

Memorable quote:   With a half-sob, he realizes he’s forgotten the sound of her voice. Oh, he remembers how it made him feel, all those years ago, all the glorious, shining moments where happiness dwells still. But what she truly sounded like, what sounds she made as she buried herself in books, the snap of her magic, the low buzz of her and Zevran whispering in their tent, all of that is gone. He knows it happened, but the memory is lit dimly in his mind, a torch burned too low to be flame but not low enough for embers yet.

If You Ever Did Believe (for my sake):  Lavellan x Cullen. (On temporary hiatus) A wary Commander. A lost Dalish mage. Two hearts beating alone and exhausted on a battlefield, their only rest coming from each other.

Memorable quote:   “Does your Maker hate us so much?” Isera asked bitterly, and for a moment, Cullen felt as though years had rippled, bringing his past self— still clanking through the halls of Kinloch Hold in Templar plate— and his current together. He’d asked Ser Greagoir the same question once, after a Harrowing went wrong and the body of a former apprentice lay at their feet. So much potential wasted, so much fear in the mages’ eyes after that. For once, Greagoir had shown a hint of emotion, clapping Cullen’s shoulder briefly before walking away, but hadn’t answered.

Voiceverse:  Lavellan x Solas/Dread Wolf. (WIP) Building off of the great works of @khirsahle and @athreehundredthirtythree. All mages are born with a soulmate--a voice they hear in the darkness of the Fade all their lives. The lucky ones find their soulmates and forge a bond strong enough to threaten the very foundations of the Chantry. At least, that's what they claim. So what happens when a Dalish mage hears the voice of their most reviled and feared god shaping her dreams? 

Memorable quote:   Accompanying the thundering voice, great fissures ruptured around her hiding spot, green light streaking upward as they gathered into a roiling cloud. A wave of raw sound— howls, cries, pleas— rolled over her, forcing her to her knees. Iveani clapped her hands over her ears, losing her own scream among the agony thundering through the Fade. All caution, all her hard-won lessons about walking the Fade, vanished into the back of her mind under the need to simply ride out the explosion and survive.

Mass Effect:

Home is Where You Are: Ryder x Jaal (WIP). Ryder didn’t cross two galaxies and 600 years in search of love. But damn if she didn’t find it anyway.

Memorable quote:   “I should take a shower,” he mumbled, as the same time as Sara said, “Would you like to stay?” Both of them broke off, staring at the other, and she laughed nervously. That feeling was back, the one from the tech lab, fragility and strength and affection turned fierce and bright tumbling over and over one other.

A Song of Sea and Stars: Garrus x Shepard x Thane (WIP). Our favorite turian badboy sees right through the mask the galaxy’s most famous Commander projects. Neither of them expected to fall in love on a host of impossible missions. And both are taken by surprise by a pious Drell who steals both their hearts.

Memorable quote:   (He opens his eyes, shocked how it feels to look into her face, intimate and hungry. He hazily notices that up close, her eyes are thulium-gray. There's a hot, tight knot in his chest and she's pressed so close, he thinks he could count each faint freckle on her face.) (They look like tiny stars.) (…there are twenty-eight on her right cheek. Thirty on her left. And fourteen, right across the bridge of her nose.) (Those are his favorite. They remind him of his own markings.)

the sound of shattering glass: Generic Shepard, post-Tuchanka, pre-Citadel II. The Shroud explodes, taking a beloved friend with it. Shepard only has herself to blame.

Memorable quote:   “Damn Reapers,” he said, striving for nonchalance. “Always throwing us around.” “Banged us up pretty good,” she agreed, and he knew she wasn’t talking about their bumps and bruises. “So what do we do about them?” “Get back on our feet. Keep fighting.” Garrus hummed as she shifted closer, pressed her forehead against his neck. “Maybe find a way to use some really big canons I spend half my time adjusting.”

Star Wars:

He Might Like That: Mandalorian x Cara Dune pining. So they argue. So they took down Gideon, and have a magic green frog baby older than both of them. That doesn’t make them a thing. Does it?

Memorable quote:   He tunes back into the not-so-friendly argument in time to hear Greef splutter. “You trash talked while holding hands! If that’s not flirting, I’m a kowakian monkey lizard.” “It was arm wrestling, not holding hands,” Din points out mildly. 

Star by Star:  Post TRoS. Ben x Rey pining, Finn x Rey x Poe. Can three hopeless idiots in love fill a wound as deep as the death of a dyad? Maybe not, but they’re out to try anyway.

Memorable quote:   “You know,” Poe whispers, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “if we ever did tell him we loved him, he’d probably sleep right through it.” Rey touches her fingers to his lips, tracing the shape of his questioning smile. It’s an invitation to play, that smile. A careful offer of love, of comfort. And though she’s not sure if he can really understand when even she doesn’t, she’s finally ready to try a little. 

Counting The Days (Since Exegol): Finn x Rey x Poe, Ben x Rey. Its been 42 days since Palpatine’s death. 42 long days since she felt the surge of light in Ben Solo. And in her dreams, something whispers on the edge of the Force. But she’s shut it down too tightly to hear it. 

Memorable quote:   True to form, Poe can’t resist the urge to kiss away Finn’s troubles whenever possible, and Rey looks away to give them a moment. Some love stories work out, yes, and she loves Finn and Poe more than almost anything else. But that doesn’t stop the way bitterness floods her mouth as the memory of Ben surfaces, and it isn’t until Poe gently squeezes her knee (and she throttles back the near-instinctive urge to break his fingers from a lifetime of fending off handsy scavengers on Jakku) that she comes back to the moment. His brow furrows and she reaches for him, smoothing out the lines of his frown with her thumb. “I’m okay,” she says, answering his unspoken question. It’s mostly a lie, but she has to say it. Most days, she’s okay enough.

A Language Made for Lovers: SWTOR (NSFW). Torian Cadera x Bounty Hunter, gender neutral. Reflections on love and marriage under the glow of hyperspace.

Memorable quote:   He murmurs in your ear, words that should sound harsh in that still-new tongue scalding your mouth, molding you from aruetii to mandalorian. But the love in his voice softens them, steeps them in warmth and adoration. Still the language of a hunter, of those brave souls willing to be reforged, but with a gentle side, a language reserved for lovers. Words like cyare and riduur, words that mean I love you and forever and home.

Malicious Compliance: SWTOR (NSFW). Malavai Quinn x Sith Warrior, gender neutral. Far away, in an apartment no one knows about, a Sith Lord plays dire games of control... and trust.

Memorable quote:   It takes a man with the courage of an entire fleet of Mandalorians to love a Sith, and oh, how he loves you. Like you hung the moons and the stars and all the spaces between. Like you are his other half, like loving you is his sole purpose in life, does Malavai Quinn love you. Your old masters spoke nothing of this, of this enraging hunger gnawing at your bones and curling into the hollows of your rib cage. ... Is it really even love if you don’t want to devour him just a little?

Misc:

Tumblr Prompts: Grab bag of every fandom and series listed above. Prompts filled originally here on tumblr.

Visual Files: Collections of art and commissions from talented friends and artists here on tumblr.

Every Beautiful Thing: Crimson Peak. Thomas x Edith, Edith x Alan. Edith learned, in the dark halls of Allerdale, not to take ghosts lightly. But still she waits, every year, for a chance to see Thomas again. Until the night their son tells her he can see him too.

Memorable quote:   Snow heralds nothing but pain in Edith’s world: first her mother’s funeral, smothered in fat white flakes wet on her lashes like tears, then her father’s. Smaller ones, then, rain slowly freezing and scattering on the ground; the ones that night at Allerdale were the smallest yet, more ice pellet than snow. Jagged, hateful things scraping at her with a cold that burned through skin and encased bone.…God, how she has come to hate the snow.

Where I Can’t Follow: Co-authored by @suspendnodisbelief. show!Witcher, mild Geralt x Jaskier. (Temporary hiatus) Drawing from a variety of inspiration, including greek mythos. Geralt takes a blow meant for Jaskier, finally granted the death by battle he expects Witchers to end by. And Jaskier is not having it, at all. It’s his turn to save Geralt, even if he has to walk the entire bloody underworld to do it.

Memorable quote: “Geralt, get up. Come on, open your eyes. You’re going to upset Roach if you keep this up, and she’ll bite me. You know you aren’t allowed to be dead, because Yennefer didn’t give you permission, and neither did the Princess, and I’m pretty sure they both outrank you.”  

[thebookworm0001]

ELLANA ELLANA ELLANA OWO ☹☠❣ also some of these I don't have the right emoji for, so also the lightning bolt( have you ever gotten pleasure out of killing) and also the moon one about how you feel about the night/dark okay love u!

thank you friend.💕 I’m gonna make an attempt to answer these in Ellana's voice so bear with me.

☹ Name one person they would kill for.

Ellana glances at the web-like scarring that runs up the remains of her left arm and clenches her jaw. She takes a breath, and her lip twitches up into a wry smile. “My sister. Though I doubt she’d let me. She’s entirely too impatient.”

[Isera Lavellan would absolutely beat her to the punch if someone needed killing. She is sweet but terrifying.]

❣ If someone had the power to bring them back after death, would they want them to?

“No, I wouldn’t. If it’s my time, then it’s my time. I have people… waiting for me on the other side. I’d like to see them again.”

☠ Do they fear death?

“No. Death is inevitable, but that does not mean it is a terrible thing that must be feared.”

⚡️Have they ever gotten pleasure from causing others pain? /have you ever gotten pleasure out of killing

Ellana looks down for a moment, chewing the inside of her cheek. She takes a moment, composing her thoughts before she speaks. Ever the inquisitor, she choses her words with care. "I find pleasure in making sure the people of Thedas are safe and that justice is served when they are wronged. Sometimes that includes necessary actions others might find distasteful. I take no joy in causing others pain or taking a life, but I will be glad to have done my part to make this world a better place."

Bonus from Cole: "Screams between the trees and it smells like burning. You break bones for the ones you couldn't bury. Like hunting the bear that didn't hurt the village, it helps but it doesn't heal."

[Ellana may have actively hunted down humans she knew she wouldn't get in trouble for killing after her clan was attacked. she may have enjoyed that quite a bit. then felt guilty about it later but not as guilty as she thinks she should have.]

🌙What is their favorite and least favorite thing about the night?/how you feel about the night/dark

"I enjoy the night. The stars and moons are beautiful, and everything becomes so peaceful. There's also so much to explore at night. An entire world awakens when so many of us go to sleep, and it has just as many secrets to discover."

Bonus from Cole: "Things come easier to him in the Fade. He smiles louder here, shows more of himself in memories and moments. His pain is quieter, calmed with a quick smile. ...He likes being with you too."

[sinedras-snippets]

Recent commission of trouble sister mage duo: my Isera Surana and @janeopries Hallain. Part fiery trainwreck and part too-exhausted-to-keep-fixing-your-shit. They're here to expload dragons, help Hawke cause more chaos in Kirkwall, and make templars question their vows. Watch out Thedas! We love this series too much.

Thank you again @warie-lym for another amazing commission! It's always a great experience and you have the patience of a saint. Everything always looks spectacular! Love them a lot!

[enterenews]

The first couple of 'Camping in Love' was born…

Kim Kyung-mi and Jeon Dae-joong of 'Spring Again, Camping in Love' became a couple.

In the MBN entertainment program 'Camping in Love Again' (hereafter referred to as 'Camping in Love'), which aired on the afternoon of the 30th, the final choice of 8 middle-aged single men and women who finished camp camping was included.

On the last date before the final choice, Kim Eun-jin surprised everyone by choosing Lee Ho-eun as her last date. Regarding her choice of reversal, Kim Eun-jin, who seemed to be going straight to Se-ra Lee, said, "I've never lived, never met, and only talked for a short period of time." Kim Eun-jin and Lee Ho-eun's date seemed to be going well, but the conversation continued one-sidedly, and Lee Ho-eun expressed regret by describing her date as 'patience' at Eun-jin Kim's insensitive appearance.

Kim Kyung-mi, Park Michelle, and Isera Lee chose Jeon Dae-jung as their date. Unlike the friendly Michelle Park and Se-ra Lee, Kim Kyung-mi's dark face drew attention. At the end of her troubles, Kim Kyung-mi confessed her worries, saying that the rich and prosperous life of the entire public would not be able to handle it. Accordingly, the entire public persuaded and comforted her Kim Kyung-mi based on her own experience. In the end, Kim Kyung-mi burst into tears at her drumming emotions.

Kim Kyung-mi, who was worried about her burden from the economic gap with the public, eventually said, "I think I'm going to have a hard time," and she conveyed her heart to the public. In an interview with her production crew, Kim Kyung-mi shed tears as she confided, "I don't know if she's a cowardly ego, but she's going to look shabby."

[garneredhostility]

[ defend ]

Nonsexual Acts of Dominance ; Not Accepting     @cuervocanto

Drips of crimson surrounded her in a gruesome ring often displaced by a corpse here, or the tell-tale splats of black from hurlocks and ogres there. Yet waged the scuffle all the same; if ten darkspawn surfaced, why not a few dozen more as apparently dictated by their own pack law. It was a task better suited to those with more experience fighting to throw forward in their blows, but Creators be damned if they had to defend her like some helpless babe. Alongside the others, the surging ( albeit relatively small in comparison to what it could be ) hoard fell in time til naught but a handful remained scattered among the group.

Prudence bade already unsteady hand to hesitate in drawing blade across bleeding wrist, but attacking hurlocks insisted lest a less strategic wound be made. All that mattered, she supposed, was that her spell worked as it should – that she fell to her knees in a sickly haze was a trouble to be handled at a later time. Yet the audible puncture and subsequent darkspawn death behind her earned little more than perked ears for a sluggish moment, and turned head later than it should have.

“Gracias, amigo,” Antivan left Isera’s lips even before her eyes focused in on Zevran – an anecdote altogether dismissed in favour of her feeble attempt and failure to push herself back to her feet. “Pero,” she added following momentary pause, only to fall quiet a breath longer. “Podría necesitar un poco más de ayuda.”

[asoulonfire]

For DWC: "I can explain" for character(s) of your choice :)

Oh I hope this doesn’t disapoint. :D It’s kind of fun to embarrass Solas.

Midnight Interrogations

for @roksanalyasin​ and @dadrunkwriting 

pairing: Solas x Isera Lavellan from my fic ‘A Soul on Fire’

Other Characters: Iris Lavellan and Dorian Pavus

Solas lay awake in bed. Tonight the Fade eluded him. He gave a heavy sigh and rolled over, resting his gaze on the sleeping form next to him. Isera seemed to have no trouble falling asleep tonight. Though from the stories she had told him of the antics of the school children today, he wasn’t surprised.

He reached out a gentle hand to brush a strand of hair from her face. She sighed in her sleep as he stroked her cheeks with his knuckles. Solas let his eyes wander over her, taking in the way her hair desperately tried to escape the braid she kept it in at night, and how her arm tucked under her head, or how she kept one foot kicked out from under the blanket, not matter how cold it was at night. This was still so new. He wanted to remember everything, every moment, for when….

But he didn’t want to think about that right now. Not yet.

With a heavy sigh he threw the covers off himself and pulled himself out of bed. Perhaps he could get some research done or work on his frescos if he couldn’t sleep. He got dressed in his foot wraps, leggings and undershirt, his sweater draped over his arm. Before he left he gave Isera a soft kiss on her forehead. While he didn’t like the idea of her waking up alone unexpectedly, he knew that she would know he had trouble sleeping since he was not in the Fade.

As quietly as he could, he opened the door of Isera’s room and slipped into the hall. While the door clicked shut, Solas slipped his arms into his sweater, preparing to pull it over his head.

When he turned and saw the Inquisitor, Iris - Isera’s daughter, leaning against the wall down the hall, glaring at him.

For a moment he stared at her, his arms still trapped in his sweater as he hadn’t pulled it over his head yet.

“Inquisitor.” Solas finally said with a nod.

“Solas.” Iris said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Skyhold is home to both of us.” Solas said. He watched as Iris walked towards him and swallowed nervously as she looked pointedly between him and door he had just exited.

“And many others.” Iris replied. “Like my mother. Whose room you just left. At 2 in the morning. While not fully dressed.”

“Ah…” Solas said, licking his suddenly dry lips. “I believe that I can explain.”

“Please do.” a second voice said from the other side of the hall. “Enlighten us on what could have brought you here at this hour..”

Solas turned to see Dorian sauntering up from the opposite direction, twirling his mustache and looking far too pleased with himself. With a frown Solas looked between the Tevinter mage and the Inquisitor.

“Perhaps we should let the man get his shirt on before we interrogate him.” Iris said, trying, and failing, not to laugh.

Without hesitation Solas pulled his sweater over his head and straightened it. Perhaps he could slip away while they were engaged in laughter.

“Oh no you don’t!” Dorian said with a grin, draping his arm over Solas’ shoulders, almost as if he had guessed his thoughts. “I think we all need to go have a long talk somewhere about your intentions with my dear Dalish Rose.”

“Please Dorian, Isera is a grown woman…” Solas began with an exasperated groan.

“Who happens to be my mother.” Iris interjected, jabbing a finger in Solas’ chest with each word.

“Ah, yes, well…..” Solas began to stutter, grasping for words.

Iris gave Dorian a smirk and then turned back to Solas. “So,” she began sweetly, “does that mean I should call you Papae now?”

Solas let his mouth hang open. He felt the flush of embarrassment and shock begin to creep up his face.

Iris and Dorian burst out laughing, their guffaws causing them to double over and have to brace themselves on each other to remain standing.

“Creators, Solas! You should see your face!” Iris gasped out between laughter.

Solas ran a hand over his face, counting backwards in his head to try and calm his frustration.

Just then, the door behind him opened and Isera stuck her head out, blinking blearily at them.

“Solas, what are you doing up?” She asked sleepily. Then she looked beyond him to see Dorian and Iris, both looking at the red head with the wide eyes of children caught being naughty. She narrowed her eyes at them. “And why are my daughter and Dorian standing here in the hall?”

“Mamae…” Iris began.

“You see…” Dorian said.

Isera held up her hand for silence and Iris and Dorian both stopped mid sentence. “You two, go to bed. Stop making noise in the hall and waking people up. It’s two in the morning for goodness sake!” She chided.

Iris and Dorian looked sheepishly at each other and then at the floor. “Yes, we will.” They said together and slunk off down the dark hallway.

Solas watched them leave, his shoulders finally relaxing as he let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Solas,” Isera said softly, her hand entwining with his. He looked at her and she smiled warmly at him. “Come back to bed.”

“Yes, vhenan.” Solas said, returning her smile while she led him back into the bedroom.

[altmerdovahkiin]

Tanya shrugged and ate the food she originally offered. She wasn’t going to force feed the poor thing. If she wasn’t hungry then she wasn’t hungry. She frowned lightly as she listened to Isera talk. ‘Given’ was not a good word in this context. Perhaps ‘transferred’ would have been better.

“Forgive me if I’m jumping to conclusions, but are you a slave?” She asked, jaw tensed. Her own race enslaved a more primitive race of beings back home and she’d found it rather troubling. While it was true one could argue that work horses or dogs were enslaved, she believe both should not suffer abuse under the law. But this was a fully intelligent being, no different from anyone else. If he se people had slaves she was going to give Saint Alessia a run for her Septims.

 @altmerdovahkiin​ liked for an Arlathan starter  

 ~    The elf stands tall as the prisoner is brought before him, hands clasped behind his back. He seems all too worthy of his prideful name as he regards her with narrowed eyes. She is unlike any Elvhen he has ever seen - gold skin, sharp facial features, and exceptionally tall. Truly, the only thing that identifies her as an elf is her pointed ears. With a wave of his hand, Solas dismissed the guards. He stalks over to the prisoner, a small smirk pulling at his lips. ~ 

  ~   “ The guards tell me you were found hiding in the bushes, ” he begins. “ Hm…you do not have the look of an assassin, nor a spy; in fact, you are unlike anything I have ever seen. ” There’s a purr in his voice as his eyes quite obviously travel over the Altmer’s frame. “ If you tell me what you were doing in the gardens of Mythal’s highest ranking attendant, I may just be merciful…”. ~

[vir-tanadahl]

Timeless

Summary: Isera Lavellan is living in modern Thedas completing her research on plants when her research takes her to a place in the Solasan Mountain range. The discovery of a strange glowing mirror takes her to a world she has never known before where she meets someone she never thought existed. (Find on Ao3) Fen'harel (Solas) x Lavellan

Chapter 17: Elegance in Entropy

In the days and weeks following their kiss in the Fade, Isera devoured every piece of knowledge she could find on the i’ve’an’amelan. These ancient figures were more than mere guardians; they were weavers of the Fade’s raw energy, capable of shaping its threads into tangible reality. As she read, she realized they weren't just protectors—they were artists of creation, able to manipulate the fabric of the Fade itself, guiding its chaotic essence into harmony.

The i’ve’an’amelan were tasked with the sacred duty of maintaining balance between the spiritual and physical realms. They stood as the bridge, ensuring that the energy of the Fade flowed in alignment with the natural order. Their role was to guard against the risks of corruption and chaos that could arise when drawing on such immense power, allowing the elves to harness its strength without losing themselves to it. In this way, they were both the architects and the stewards of the natural magic that sustained elven society, shaping it in ways that made their existence not just powerful but vital.

Isera balanced a textbook in her arms, its pages fluttering lightly in the breeze, as she walked through the winding path from the conservatory to the community garden. The rest of her books were left open on the desk back in the conservatory, carefully positioned so she could easily return to them between tasks. Her focus was divided—thoughts drifting to the passages she’d just read, while her hands instinctively went through the familiar motions of tending to the plants.

As she reached the garden, her gaze shifted to a basket filled with young plants waiting to be transplanted. She crouched down, gently lifting the basket, her fingers brushing over the leaves with practiced care. The earthy scent filled the air, grounding her, as she let her mind wander back to the knowledge she’d just absorbed about the i’ve’an’amelan, trying to connect the threads of history with her own experiences. Each plant she touched seemed to pulse with a quiet energy, as if sharing in her determination to understand the legacy she was beginning to uncover.

Isera’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she stumbled back, the book nearly slipping from her hands. Felassan’s familiar chuckle reverberated in her ears, a sound she’d come to associate with trouble. She glanced up to meet his amused eyes, his grin wide as ever, like he’d been expecting this very moment.

“Well, well,” he said, the teasing lilt unmistakable in his voice. “I see you’re becoming quite the scholar.” His grin widened as he raised an eyebrow, clearly delighted by her flustered state. Isera shifted on her feet, trying to find her words. “I—uh, sorry,” she muttered, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. She hugged the book a little tighter to her chest, resisting the urge to hide her face behind it.

Felassan stepped aside with a slight tilt of his head, wordlessly gesturing for her to continue. Together, they fell into step, making their way back to the conservatory. The easy rhythm of their footsteps seemed almost companionable, even with the ever-present mischief in Felassan’s gaze.

"And what have you learned?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual, though his eyes gleamed with genuine curiosity.

Isera glanced sideways at him, hesitant for a moment. “Well,” she began, her fingers fidgeting against the worn edges of the book, “a lot, actually. The i’ve’an’amelan... they were more than just guardians of the Fade.” She took a breath, gathering her thoughts. “They were like... shapers of reality itself, almost. They guided the energy of the Fade, made sure it flowed smoothly, kept everything in balance. They didn’t just protect the Fade—they made sure it could be used without tearing everything apart.”

Felassan’s brow arched, his grin curling wider, a hint of something almost too knowing dancing behind his eyes. “Ah, indeed,” he drawled, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “they accomplished all of that and more.” His tone grew softer, almost wistful as he added, “And yet, in the end, they’re still dead,” the words carrying a somber weight that undercut his usual lightness.

As they stepped into the conservatory, the vibrant greenery seemed to close around them like a secret embrace. Felassan paused mid-stride, his gaze drifting over the plants as if considering their place in the grand scheme. Then, he turned back to her, his eyes flicking with a glimmer of intrigue, and hummed softly, the sound rolling out like the beginning of a melody. “But,” he mused, drawing out the word, “not you.” He spoke her name like the first note in a song, something yet to be composed, filled with possibility and unanswered questions.

Isera's gaze darted to Felassan’s face, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. She hesitated, unsure of how much he already knew or what Solas might have shared with him. “I… guess?” she murmured, the words barely audible, watching Felassan closely for any hint of his intentions.

He held her gaze, his expression still light, but there was a subtle shift in his posture, the air around him seeming to tighten. “How did you escape?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm and curious, the question rolling off his tongue with a practiced ease. But Isera could sense it—a barely perceptible shift in his energy, like a predator testing the wind, trying to catch the scent of the truth.

Felassan’s grin softened, yet a trace of mischief remained in his eyes, like a hidden spark waiting to ignite. It was as though the roles had reversed, and now he was the one demanding answers with the subtlety and precision that Solas had used before. Isera hesitated, her mind racing as she weighed her options, trying to decipher his motives.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked cautiously, her voice steady but with a hint of suspicion, eyes never leaving his face. She watched for any flicker of emotion, any crack in his playful demeanor that might reveal his true intentions.

Felassan’s smile didn’t falter, but the amusement in his eyes seemed to deepen, as if her question had only confirmed something he suspected. “Curiosity,” he said, drawing the word out lazily, as though savoring its taste.

“Solas has decided to mentor you…” Felassan’s words trailed off, his tone light and almost playful, but there was a flicker in his eyes, a shadow that hinted at something far less casual. “…and he takes his commitments very seriously.” The smile on his face never quite reached his eyes, the playful lilt in his voice tinged with an edge—like a blade concealed behind a velvet sheath. He watched her carefully, gauging her reaction, as though he was waiting for her to slip, to reveal something hidden.

Isera's gaze dropped, her fingers fidgeting at her side as Felassan’s words unsettled her. The suggestive tone, laced with an undercurrent of something darker, felt out of place compared to their usual light-hearted banter. “I, uh…” She glanced around the conservatory, searching for an anchor in the familiar surroundings. If this had happened when she first arrived, she might have been terrified, but now… now, it only left her confused.

"I appreciate the time he’s taken to teach me," she replied, her voice steady but carrying the weight of uncertainty, her honesty offering a quiet shield against the strange shift in their dynamic. Her response gave him pause—his confident smirk faltering for the briefest moment, as if her honesty had thrown him off balance.

"He knows," she added, her voice softening just a touch. She hesitated, watching his expression closely, then continued, "in case you’re worried." The words hung between them, a subtle acknowledgment, like she was testing the waters to see how much he truly understood.

Felassan’s expression flickered, the ever-present smirk faltering just for a heartbeat before he composed himself. His eyes narrowed slightly, curiosity mingling with something else—something harder to read. “Ah, well then,” he said, his voice softer, almost thoughtful, “isn’t that interesting.”

He leaned in slightly, as if to catch a secret only she could whisper. “And what, I wonder, did you tell him?” His words were light, but there was a glint in his eyes that suggested the question was anything but casual. He tilted his head, the familiar grin reappearing, though now with a sharper edge, as though he were testing her for cracks in her armor.

Isera took a slow, steadying breath, her gaze shifting slightly as she processed the realization that Solas hadn’t shared the truth with Felassan—at least, not yet. Whatever his reasons were, she decided she wasn’t going to be the one to reveal them. Her lips pressed together in a thin line before she started nodding, almost as if to herself.

“Felassan,” she said softly, her tone calm but firm, the way you might speak to someone walking too close to the edge, “you should talk to Solas.” Her voice was gentle, almost coaxing, yet resolute, clearly signaling that she wasn’t going to engage in this particular dance of words with him. The finality in her gaze told him that, for now, this conversation was over.

Felassan's grin faltered again, replaced by a shadow of something unreadable—a flicker of frustration, perhaps, or curiosity gone unsatisfied. He straightened, watching her carefully, the playful mask he so often wore slipping just a bit. For a moment, he looked at her not as the jester, but as someone assessing the pieces on a board, recalculating his strategy.

“Ah, well,” he finally said, the grin returning, but now tinged with a hint of resignation. “Perhaps, his mentorship is benefiting you. Telling me to speak to the wolf.” He chuckled, but it was a low sound, almost devoid of its usual mirth. “I suppose we’ll see where that leads, won’t we?”

Without waiting for her reply, he took a step back, his eyes still on her, as if he was searching for a hidden entry way into her mind. Then, with a slight nod, he turned and walked away, humming a tune that seemed to carry both mockery and a lingering note of curiosity, leaving Isera standing in the conservatory surrounded by the silent witnesses of her stepping into herself.

Isera carefully set the tome aside, her fingers lingering on its worn cover for a moment as though reluctant to part from its secrets. Then, with a small sigh, she picked up the basket filled with young plants, their tender leaves quivering slightly as she moved. The harvest was better, yes, but still not enough—not yet. She held onto a quiet hope that by nurturing these saplings in the controlled environment of the conservatory before reintroducing them to the larger garden, their roots would take stronger hold, and they’d yield a more bountiful crop.

As Isera gently dug small holes in the soil to transplant the saplings, her thoughts drifted to the idea of using magic to help them grow. The concept felt almost silly at first—like something out of a child's story, where you wave your hands and say a magic word, and voilà! But this wasn’t that kind of magic. There were no simple chants or phrases like "abracadabra" to mutter under her breath. It was more about focus, intention, and the raw force that seemed to exist just beneath the surface of her thoughts.

She paused, her fingers still in the dirt, the cool earth grounding her. How did Solas do it? He’d made it look effortless, the way he shaped fire and electricity as if it were second nature, like breathing. She tried to remember his words from their lessons, how he spoke of channeling magic like a current, flowing from the Fade through the mage, then out into the world.

Isera closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to center herself. She focused on the small plants in front of her, imagining their roots digging deeper, their leaves stretching higher toward the sun. She could feel the pulse of the earth beneath her hands, the hum of life, like a soft vibration waiting to be guided. Tentatively, she reached for that energy, not quite knowing what she was doing but hoping her intentions would be enough to coax a response.

Isera’s fingers hovered over the soil as the sensation of magic pulsed through her, delicate yet powerful, like she was softly plucking the strings of a harp. But this wasn’t just music—it was more intricate, like threading a needle through an elaborate tapestry, each movement deliberate, each stitch altering the larger design. The energy seemed to flow through her fingertips, weaving itself into the roots and leaves of the saplings.

She opened her eyes, her breath hitching slightly as she watched the plants respond. Their leaves seemed to quiver with life, stretching just a bit higher, their colors more vibrant under the touch of the Fade. She could feel the energy dancing around them, whispering through the air like a breeze stirring the branches.

A flicker of fear crossed her mind—what if she was doing it all wrong? What if this chaotic thread of magic unraveled everything? But then, as the saplings swayed ever so gently, Isera remembered why she loved plants and gardening in the first place. It was because they thrived on chaos. No matter how unpredictable or disordered the world around them became, they always found a way to adapt, to grow, to root themselves deeper into the earth.

She smiled to herself, letting the memory calm her nerves. If she could embrace the same unpredictability in her magic as she did in her gardening, then maybe—just maybe—she could learn to make both flourish.

As Isera focused on channeling the magic, drawing its energy carefully into the roots and leaves of the saplings, a sudden flash of light blinded her. In that split second, an image burned in her mind—her mother’s face, vivid and real, turning toward her with a gentle smile, calling her name like she used to when Isera was a child lost in thought. The echo of her mother's voice, so clear and familiar, cut through her concentration like a blade.

The air around her seemed to pulse as Isera's emotions surged, feeding directly into the magic she wielded. The ground beneath the saplings trembled, responding to her unconscious pull on the Fade. The plants exploded into life, leaves expanding with a rapid snap, vines spiraling and tangling in every direction, their tendrils reaching skyward. Blossoms burst open in a kaleidoscope of color, and fruit weighed heavy on the branches, ripening in mere seconds. The once orderly rows of the garden were overtaken by an unstoppable wave of growth, a riot of leaves, flowers, and fruit that seemed to consume the space in its chaotic bloom.

Isera’s scream tore through the air as the garden erupted in a surge of untamed life. Greenery spilled out in all directions, the orderly plot transformed into a tangled, chaotic mess of vines and branches twisting upon themselves. Leaves unfurled with an almost unnatural speed, and vibrant blooms burst open in every hue, all growing far beyond anything she’d intended.

Panic welled up in Isera’s chest as she watched the plants surge uncontrollably, tendrils and vines twisting like they were alive with purpose. The air was thick with the scent of fresh earth and blooming flowers, almost suffocating in its intensity. Her hands shook as she reached out, trying to gather the magic back into herself, to calm the chaotic energy that pulsed through the garden. But it was too late—the magic had a will of its own now, feeding off her distress.

Her eyes widened in shock, hands trembling as she fought to pull back the magic, to contain the surge. But it was like trying to stop a tidal wave with her bare hands; the magic flowed through her unchecked, twisting and weaving into the earth, making the growth more rampant, more wild. She clenched her teeth, the memory of her mother’s voice echoing in her mind—just one brief moment of distraction, a flash of grief and longing—and now the magic was spiraling beyond her control.

The sound of cracking stone and splintering wood echoed through the air as the vines twisted and coiled, snaking up the walls and merging with the very structure of the conservatory. Isera watched in stunned silence as the plants seemed to devour the space, weaving themselves into every crevice, creating an eerie blend of nature and architecture. The chaos finally slowed to a halt, leaving behind an overgrown tangle that had consumed the orderly garden entirely.

Isera’s breath came in shallow gasps as she fought to calm the rising tide of panic and embarrassment threatening to overtake her. The conservatory, once her haven of quiet cultivation, was now a fortress of uncontrolled nature, its entrances completely sealed by the dense overgrowth. The roof above had cracked under the strain, and shards of shattered glass from the windows lay scattered across the floor, glinting in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the foliage.

The guards outside shouted orders and tried to force their way in, but the writhing vines held firm, turning their efforts futile. She could hear the frustration in their voices, the metallic clank of their armor against the impenetrable thicket. Isera's hands shook slightly as she tried to still the magic within her, to regain control over the chaos she had unleashed, but the fear of losing control had already planted deep roots in her mind.

Solas felt it first—a subtle tremor running through the stones of the fortress, followed by the unmistakable resonance of raw magic, vibrating in the very air. The shouts of alarm reached his ears even before the sound of the scream split the chaos.

He'd been in the middle of a conversation with Felassan, the two of them locked in a heated discussion regarding Isera when the distant echo of a scream reached his ears—a scream that was both primal and all too familiar.

His eyes narrowed, his focus already turning inward, attuning himself to the magic in the air, tracing the chaotic thread back to its source. He recognized it instantly—Isera. The raw energy she was channeling had slipped out of her control.

Her usual melody, the one that usually danced alongside his in a harmonious balance—raw yet defiant—now felt disjointed, spiraling out of sync. The tempo was too fast, like a symphony gone offbeat, each note crashing into the next without rhythm or control. Solas could feel the chaotic surge of her magic, wild and unrestrained, vibrating through the air like a storm threatening to break free.

Felassan's expression shifted, his usual smug smile faltering as his eyes flicked towards the direction of the disturbance. “I wonder what she unleashed this time?” Felassan remarked, though his tone lacked its usual playfulness, replaced instead with a touch of genuine concern.

Solas and Felassan exchanged a look that spoke volumes, the weight of their realization settling heavily between them. In that shared glance, they both understood the gravity of what they were dealing with—not just an untrained mage, but an untrained i’ve’an’amelan. The term itself seemed to hang in the air like a warning, its implications far-reaching and dangerous.

By the time they reach the conservatory, Felassan's usual smirk had vanished, replaced by something far more serious, almost grim. His eyes flicked back to the wild, overgrown chaos of the conservatory, the tangled vines and shattered glass that now bore the unmistakable signature of untamed power. Solas's expression was a mask of controlled intensity, his lips pressed into a thin line as he contemplated what to do next.

"Perhaps," Felassan murmured, his tone now threaded with a hint of wonder. His eyes danced with something akin to mischief as he turned back to Solas. "Consider reevaluating her training and study schedule?" he suggested, the playful grin creeping back onto his face, his earlier seriousness morphing into that all-too-familiar glint of excitement. It was the look he wore when something unexpected and challenging presented itself.

The shift in Felassan’s demeanor was quick, almost seamless, as though he couldn’t help but revel in the chaos of the situation, seeing endless possibilities where others saw only danger. He gave Solas a sideways glance, his grin widening, the thrill of the unknown sparking in his eyes. "After all, we wouldn’t want her to, ah... overgrow her potential too soon, would we?" he teased, the double meaning of his words hanging in the air, his gaze flicking briefly to the wild burst of foliage surrounding them.

Solas’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, the weight of Felassan’s suggestion and the gravity of Isera’s situation colliding in his mind. But there was also a trace of something else—a reluctant agreement, a recognition that Felassan's chaotic enthusiasm had a point.

Isera's heartbeat pounded in her ears as she surveyed the tangled, chaotic mass of overgrowth spilling from the conservatory. She could hear the desperate shouts and clanking of armor from the guards outside, their muffled voices struggling to find a way through the impenetrable foliage. Panic twisted in her chest, but then, amid the noise, another sound emerged—a voice, familiar and distant, echoing in her mind.

It was her mother’s voice, gentle and amused, from a memory long ago. Isera could almost see the warm light filtering through the sunroom of their home as she reached for something too high, only to knock over a dozen stained-glass squares her mother had set aside for a project. Glass had shattered everywhere, a kaleidoscope of color scattering across the floor. Isera had frozen, expecting her mother’s reprimand, bracing herself for scolding words she was sure would follow.

But instead, her mother had laughed, a sound like the soft chime of bells. “Isera, you’ve made quite the mess, I see,” she’d said, amusement dancing in her eyes.

Isera had stammered out apologies, her voice cracking as she offered to pay her mother back somehow, desperate to make things right. But her mother had only smiled, as if broken glass was the least of her worries, as if this mess was just another moment to be cherished. “Sometimes, when things get broken, we just…” She’d paused, her eyes twinkling with mischief, tapping her chin as though deep in thought, before her lips curved into a playful grin, “make something new.”

And that’s exactly what they did. Together, they’d crouched on the floor, gathering the shattered shards of stained glass, their hands moving in unison. Instead of discarding the broken pieces, they had rearranged them, creating a mosaic that was even more beautiful than what it had been before. The sun streaming through the window transformed their creation into a dance of colors that spilled across the room, painting the walls with light.

As Isera stood amidst the chaos she had created, her eyes darted to the tangled vines and shattered structure around her. She took a deep breath, grounding herself in the memory of her mother’s words—"make something new." With a steadying exhale, she reached out to the Fade, feeling its hum beneath her skin like the pulse of a living thing.

Instead of fighting the wild growth, she allowed her will to flow through it, guiding the energy rather than suppressing it. She focused on reshaping the vines, coaxing them to weave into the fabric of the conservatory itself, strengthening the walls and stabilizing the roof. The plants responded to her touch, twisting and curling into place as if they’d always been meant to be there, reinforcing the structure instead of tearing it apart.

Slowly, the vines that had choked the entryways began to unwind, inch by inch, and reposition themselves. They framed the windows with a natural elegance, turned the broken roof into a canopy of interlaced greenery, and left the doorways clear and welcoming. The conservatory was no longer just a room—it had become a living entity, a seamless blend of architecture and nature, a tribute to both her power and the gentle wisdom of her mother’s teachings.

She can feel her chest rising and falling with deep, controlled breaths as she surveyed her work. The conservatory was no longer the mess of overgrown plants; it was transformed into a beautiful sanctuary, with vines now supporting the structure like it was always meant to be.

The guards flooded into the conservatory, their armor clinking in a discordant symphony as they surveyed the transformed space with a mix of awe and suspicion. Their initial alarm at the overgrowth shifted into something like wonder, as they realized the vines now framed the conservatory like a living masterpiece, rather than a chaotic tangle.

Solas and Felassan were close behind, both of them halting just inside the threshold. Solas’s gaze swept across the room, lingering on the way the vines interwove to stabilize the structure, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He took in every detail—the way the vines framed the windows, the reinforced roof, the open doorways now unobstructed and inviting—as if cataloging her progress, her potential.

Felassan's ever-present smirk returned, his eyes dancing with amusement as he observed her work. “Well, I must say,” he drawled, turning to Solas with a playful nudge, “I never expected such... creative interior design.” His tone was light, but there was a touch of awe in his voice that he couldn't quite mask.

Solas's stoic expression softened just slightly, the ghost of a smile threatening to pull at the corners of his lips. “It appears we underestimated your abilities,” he said, his voice low and controlled, though a note of pride slipped through. His eyes found Isera’s, holding her gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if acknowledging the hidden depths, she was only beginning to uncover.

Isera felt a mixture of relief and embarrassment as she stood amidst the transformed conservatory, hands still trembling slightly from the effort. She wasn't sure if she should apologize or bask in the accomplishment.

[vir-tanadahl]

Chapter 15: Whispers Beneath the Veil

I’m eagerly rewriting As the Moon Rises, which was originally written back in 2017, in anticipation of Dragon Age: Veilguard, channeling my excitement into refining the story. Summary: Isera Lavellan, at her mother’s behest, is sent to assist her twin brother, Banreas—the Inquisitor—in his mission to stop a force determined to bring about the world’s end. Together, they uncover long-buried secrets of their shared family history while Isera finds herself drawn to a mysterious non-Dalish elven mage whose knowledge of her heritage runs far deeper than she could have imagined. As the stakes rise, Isera must navigate this dangerous journey of discovery, where the past holds as much peril as the looming threats of the present. Solas x F!Lavellan.

[Ch1][Ch2][Ch3][Ch4][Ch5][Ch6][Ch7][Ch8]

[Ch9][Ch10][Ch11] [Ch12][Ch13] [Ch14] [Ch15]

It has been two years since the defeat of Corypheus, and the political winds have shifted dramatically. Ferelden seeks to disband the Inquisition, while Orlais pushes for its continuation, albeit with strings attached. Divine Victoria, the new leader, has been forced to call for an Exalted Council, triggering the return of all members of the inner circle.

Isera left days before her brother at the request of Divine Victoria. Though the invitation was formal, Isera knew it was motivated by the Divine’s desire to meet the twins, who are now 3 years old. Born amidst a year of turmoil and chaos, her children are the light for those closest to the darkness.

Now, Isera sits outside the Winter Palace, watching her three-year-olds waddle about, their laughter ringing in the crisp air. Every so often, they glance back at her, their eyes sparkling with mischief before continuing their playful conquests in the gardens.

Blackwall approaches first, looking older than before, his face lined with the weight of experience. He settles down next to her with a loud grunt, a warm smile breaking across his rugged features. “Lady Lavellan,” he greets her, though Isera can see the hint of discomfort in his eyes.

She smiles softly. “Blackwall.”

He shakes his head, the smile faltering slightly. “It’s Thom now,” he states, his tone more serious. “I’m trying to…atone.” There’s a weight behind his words. As he sits beside her, watching the twins, a loud shriek breaks the serene atmosphere. Sora and Viera suddenly spot Thom and rush toward him, their little legs pumping with excitement. Their faces are bright with joy as they babble happily, their tiny voices echoing in the air.

Thom scoops them up effortlessly, his laughter booming as he cradles them. Viera, ever the mischievous one, tugs playfully at his beard. Thom lets out an exaggerated yelp, clearly pretending to be in distress, much to the delight of the girls. Their giggles fill the space around them, creating a moment of pure happiness that momentarily lifts the heaviness of the world’s troubles.

Isera frowns, her brows knitting together. “Veira, no,” she firmly tells her daughter. But Veira simply grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Fun!” she babbles, undeterred, and promptly pulls on Blackwall’s beard again.

Isera rolls her eyes, exasperated, but Blackwall only chuckles, his deep voice rumbling with amusement. “That one will be a warrior when she’s older. Just watch,” he predicts, glancing knowingly at the spirited toddler.

Isera can’t help but smile despite her concern. Veira’s fearless nature and headstrong demeanor are unmistakable even at her young age. In contrast, Sora stands nearby, her big, expressive eyes contemplative as she observes the world around her. Quiet but equally passionate, she embodies a different kind of strength.

“By the sun, I hope not,” Isera replies, shaking her head with mock seriousness as she stands up, brushing off her skirts. The ringing of the afternoon bell chimes in the distance, a reminder that it’s almost time to visit the Divine.

“Come, girls, let’s go find Varric,” Isera calls, turning to guide her daughters away from Blackwall’s playful antics.

Thom nods, his expression shifting to one of encouragement as he gently places Veira and Sora back on the ground. “It was nice seeing you,” he says to Isera, then strides off toward a practice area where he can hone his skills with a training dummy, the soft thud of his boots fading into the background.

The girls squeal at the sound of Varric’s name, their excitement palpable as they rush towards him. They both adore his stories and the unique gifts he brings from Kirkwall. Isera chuckles to herself, remembering how she often had to physically remove the twins from his lap during their naps, their eyelids heavy with sleep yet unwilling to leave the allure of his tales.

Varric grins broadly as the twins hug him tightly, their small arms barely able to wrap around his stout frame. He turns his gaze toward Isera, winking playfully. In a swift motion, he pulls out another intricately carved figurine from his satchel. The girls’ faces light up with delight as they scramble to examine the new treasure, their giggles filling the air as they begin to play.

After a moment of watching them, Varric’s expression shifts to something more serious. “I’m going to ask a personal question,” he announces, his tone shifting slightly. Isera can sense the gravity in his words and nods, already anticipating what he’s about to ask.

“All right,” she replies, her voice steady.

“Now, you don’t have to answer,” he clarifies, his respect for her boundaries evident. “But your eyes are that white color again. Do you still have your sight? Like how we see?” Varric’s brow furrows slightly as he watches the twins run around him, their laughter contrasting with the concern in his voice.

“Surprisingly, yes.” Isera is taken aback by her own words. “I’m not sure why they went back to the white color. It happened soon after the Breach closed, I think. But I can still see.” Her explanation is laced with a hint of confusion.

She recalls waking up one morning, bewildered to find her irises consumed once again by that milky white color. The realization struck her when Banreas had panicked, his eyes wide with concern as he stumbled over his words, apologizing profusely. It was only when they both recognized that she could still see—albeit differently—that the tension in the room eased.

Varric shrugs, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Well, shit. Magic is weird,” he says with a sigh. “But you know what? I think the Divine would like to see these two.” He gestures toward the girls, who are now sprawled on the ground, their little faces flushed from the dizzying fun of chasing each other in circles.

Isera chuckles, her heartwarming at the sight of them. “Leliana is their favorite,” she winks at the dwarf, knowing how the spymaster has taken a particular liking to her daughters. She signals to her little ones that it's time to go, and they spring to their feet, clutching their dolls tightly.

Varric laughs, the sound hearty and infectious. “Isera, please! We both know I’m their favorite storyteller, right, girls?” He leans down, winking at them with exaggerated flair. The twins burst into laughter, their innocent joy lighting up the courtyard as they wrap their tiny arms around Isera’s legs, dolls precariously wedged into their mouths.

“Noooo!” they cry out in unison, their words muffled but filled with playful protest, followed by more giggles and shy glances up at Varric.

“Now, ladies, I am offended!” Varric exclaims, throwing his hand in the air with exaggerated flair, his expression mock-serious. As a courtier approaches, he quickly adds, “You all might want to leave before the joy is sucked out of you too.” His frown contrasts sharply with the playful glint in his eyes.

Isera shakes her head, suppressing a laugh as she overhears Varric gagging dramatically at the Seneschal talk about the Merchants Guild. His antics always lighten the atmosphere, and she appreciates the brief respite from the political tension that seems to linger in the air.

As she leads the twins toward the Divine, a broad smile spreads across her face at the sight of Divine Victoria. The Divine’s eyes light up with delight as she spots Sora and Veira approaching. “Pardon me,” she tells the nobles engaged in conversation, crouching down with her arms wide open.

The twins squeal with equal excitement, running to latch onto the Divine. “Sora and Veira! My loves, how are you?” she exclaims, showering them with kisses on their cheeks. The girls beam back at her, responding with enthusiastic “Gooood!” as their tiny fingers tug at the rich fabric of the Divine’s gown, captivated by the shimmer.

“They are growing so fast, Isera,” Divine Victoria comments, her gaze drifting to Isera, who stands beside her. The Most Holy glances around, ensuring the coast is clear before turning back to the girls. “When you are seven, I will teach you a few things about well-placed daggers,” she whispers conspiratorially, a sly smile playing on her lips.

Isera arches an eyebrow, giving the Divine a disapproving look. “Only for self-defense, of course,” the Divine says, raising her hands in a gesture of innocence as she stands back up, clearly amused by the exchange.

Isera chuckles softly, watching as Sora and Veira clamber onto a nearby couch, their giggles echoing through the room. “These two are probably the safest toddlers in Thedas,” Isera points out, feeling a swell of pride as she observes them, their innocence shining brightly amidst the complexities of the world around them.

Leliana nods in agreement, her expression serious. “Between Bull’s Chargers, the Inner Circle of the Inquisition, and…well…me, no one would dare touch them,” the Divine confirms, her voice steady. “But it still makes them targets. I will see to it that they have escorts during this time.”

With a graceful wave to a nearby servant, the Divine whispers instructions. Moments later, another elf approaches them with a gentle smile. “Most Holy, I was informed we have two little ones who want to see the litter of nugs?”

“Oh, yes!” The Divine's eyes light up as she looks at Isera for approval. Isera glances at the elf, recognizing her poise beneath the guise of a mere servant. “I am sure the girls will love them,” Isera replies, giving her permission for the twins to be taken from her sight.

“Oh, good.” The servant kneels to the twins’ level, her voice soft as she introduces herself and begins to share stories about the nugs. The twins glance at their mother, their eyes wide with excitement, waiting for her nod of approval. When Isera gives them the go-ahead, they erupt with joyful screams, bounding off the couch and eagerly grabbing onto the servant’s hands.

Isera watches with a mixture of pride and a touch of melancholy as they disappear down a side corridor of the Winter Palace.

Turning back to the Divine, she feels a sense of warmth in their exchange. “I believe your brother has arrived as well. You should go find him,” Divine Victoria advises, her tone encouraging. “And I have to return to these duties.” She pauses, her gaze softening. “It's nice to see you again, Isera. You must come visit more often.”

“Of course.” Isera nods as she heads back down the steps, her heart lightened by the twins’ antics. She first spots Cullen with a mabari, his focus entirely on the dog. He throws a stick with a strong arm, but the hound merely wags its tail, barking with glee and refusing to retrieve it.

Isera approaches, a smile creeping onto her face. “New friend?” she asks, bending down to meet the dog’s eager gaze. The hound barks in delight, as if in agreement with her statement.

Cullen nods, stroking the mabari’s glossy fur. “They said he was abandoned. Another Ferelden stuck in Orlais.” His tone is light, but Isera can sense the underlying yearning for home—a feeling that had grown in him since their journey began.

Isera smirks, nudging him playfully. “Maybe a Ferelden will take him in,” she suggests, arching an eyebrow. Cullen chuckles, the grin on his face wide. “Well…”

Isera leans closer, a teasing glint in her eye. “Your nephew will adore him!” Cullen laughs softly, but his gaze grows thoughtful. “I’m not completely sure if Mia will want another hound,” he admits, shaking his head slightly. Isera rolls her eyes; she knows better. Mia lived on a farm, and another lively mabari would be a welcome addition to their family, not to mention a source of endless joy for the children.

“No one can say no to that cute face!” Isera grins as the mabari barks in response, tail wagging furiously. Cullen looks up at her, a smile breaking through the weariness in his eyes. “I believe your brother is with Cassandra on the other side of the courtyard. Also, Mia wanted me to inform you that she misses you and wants you to come visit again.”

“I was just there!” Isera gasps, her smile widening. Mia had unconditionally taken her in during a time of vulnerability, and their bond had only grown stronger since. They were family, through and through, despite everything. “Tell her I will visit soon!” she calls back, a warmth blossoming in her chest.

Isera makes her way toward where her brother is, taking her time to soak in the atmosphere of the Winter Palace. It has been over two years since she first set foot in this grand hall, and the memories flood back—both good and bad.

As she strolls through the lush gardens, she spots Briala making her over. “Lady Lavellan,” Briala greets, her voice smooth and melodic. The Marquise of the Dales wears a mask that beautifully reflects her status, adorned with intricate designs that hint at her heritage.

“Marquise,” Isera replies, bowing her head slightly in respect. Briala has blossomed into her role, cultivating a substantial elven presence in the Dales, particularly in the Emerald Graves, where she advocates for their rights and heritage.

Briala’s gaze sharpens as she studies Isera. “Your title suits you,” she says, a glimmer of admiration in her eyes. “An audacious reward for assisting with the defeat of Corypheus.” Isera shrugs, a hint of discomfort creeping in. Empress Celene had granted her a noble title after the battle, and King Alistair had echoed that sentiment. But the weight of those honors often felt suffocating, especially after she had fled Skyhold to seek solace. “Such as it is,” she responds, her voice tinged with reluctance.

Briala continues to assess her with a playful smile. “Perhaps such a title is in need of something more…” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “Such as land to own and people to protect.”

Isera’s eyebrows rise at the idea. “Perhaps. Such a cost could be significant.” She had begun advocating for the rights of elves in both Ferelden and Orlais, with Josephine assisting in crafting a narrative to make her appealing to the nobles.

Briala gestures for Isera to follow her, a friendly smile lighting up her face. The two women appear like long-lost friends, delighted to reconnect. But this is Orlais, and the Great Game never sleeps.

“Perhaps it may be, for others. The Empress has granted me land within the Dales to call my own. None desire the elven keep in the Exalted Plains after the massacre during the civil war. They believe the fortress to be cursed,” Briala shares, her tone laced with a mix of pride and trepidation.

Isera grins at the notion. “There is one thing I know about humans: they are terrified of curses, especially elven curses.” Briala laughs, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “That they are. But I do not have sufficient manpower to fill the castle. However, you could.”

Isera stares at her, the weight of Briala’s suggestion sinking in. The land, though barren from the war, holds potential. Could the Dalish really be drawn to her? They could rebuild, restore their heritage. Briala continues, her voice imbued with urgency. “Rumors have been swirling about the blind elven mage who has walked among city elves, Dalish elves, and those bound to the Circles. They all seek a leader and a place. With my assistance…”

Just then, an elven servant passes by, picking up the remnants of a feast left behind by someone else. Isera watches the servant move, sensing the quiet determination that echoes through their actions. Isera keeps her smile, though it falters slightly. “The changing of the winds is quite interesting this year, isn’t it?” she asks, a hint of caution underlying her words.

“Quite. Hopefully, they will remain calm. But alas, a storm may come,” Briala answers, her gaze shifting to the servant. There’s a weight in her words, as if she senses the turmoil beneath the surface of their seemingly peaceful world.

“That it may. It might do one well to have strong walls, no?” Isera replies, watching as the servant walks away without a glance in their direction. Briala smirks, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “It is nice to see you, Lady Lavellan. We should do this more often.”

“Of course!” Isera beams, turning to walk away in search of her brother. As she turns the corner, she spots him sitting on the stairs next to Cassandra. Isera observes as Cassandra rises and walks away, her expression contemplative. Banreas stands, turning to ascend the stairs, but he looks agitated, his body stiffer than usual, and a scowl creases his brow.

“Brother?” Isera calls, quickening her pace to catch up.

He meets her gaze, a storm brewing in his eyes. “Do you think I would make a good husband?” he asks abruptly, the seriousness of his tone catching her off guard. Isera blinks, taken aback. “I—what? Are you getting married?” She glances back at Cassandra, who is now looking out towards the horizon. The Seeker had always been a closeted romantic; if there was to be a proposal, Cassandra seemed oddly calm about it.

Banreas glances over his shoulder, ensuring the coast is clear before continuing down the stairs. “No. She doesn’t want to get married.” His voice is laced with frustration, and he shakes his head as if trying to dislodge the thoughts plaguing him. “Do you think it’s because I’m a Dalish elf?” He asks, the vulnerability in his tone evident.

“Never mind, don’t answer that.” He waves her off dismissively, the agitation radiating off him like heat. “I have to attend the Council.”

Isera silently follows her brother into the grand hall, where the Divine, Arl Teagan, and Cyril de Montfort await. The atmosphere is thick with tension, and the air is punctuated by the occasional cough or murmur of the courtiers. As the talks begin, they quickly devolve into posturing between Orlais and Ferelden, the speeches filled with flowery language that masks the underlying power struggles.

An hour into the discussions, an agent approaches Banreas, speaking urgently in hushed tones. The shock on Banreas’s face is palpable as he abruptly excuses himself from the table, leaving the court in a flurry of whispers and curious glances.

Isera's heart races as she watches her brother’s expression shift from surprise to concern. She hurries out of the hall, desperate to catch up with him. However, she quickly realizes that the area beyond the doors is cordoned off by the Inquisition guards, preventing her from following.

He is gone for a few moments before he reappears, his expression carefully neutral as if nothing significant had occurred. “We have a slight problem, and I need your help,” he whispers urgently, leaning in closer to Isera. “Can you get Iron Bull, Cassandra, and Cole?” Without waiting for her response, he dashes away again, disappearing into the throng of courtiers.

Isera’s heart races. The tone in Banreas’s voice sends a chill down her spine, igniting a sense of urgency within her. She glances around the hall, spotting Iron Bull nearby, engaged in conversation with a few soldiers.

---

Banreas shared the thrilling news of their latest discovery: a dead qunari and an active eluvian. With a mix of anticipation and trepidation, the group stepped through the shimmering surface of the mirror, leaving behind the familiar surroundings of their world.

As they emerged, they found themselves in the Crossroads, a realm alive with vibrant colors and an almost palpable energy. The air crackled with magic, and the enchanting beauty of the landscape stretched out before them, beckoning exploration and adventure.

“Woah…” Isera breathes, her eyes wide as she takes in the breathtaking landscape. “It is…beautiful here,” she adds, her voice filled with wonder. Banreas points excitedly at the vibrant bushes of flowers that seem to pulse with life. Everything around them is far more radiant than anything she has encountered before; the sky is alive with swirling colors, and the flowers shimmer with an ethereal essence of magic. Even the stones beneath their feet twinkle with ancient energy.

Banreas kneels to pluck a flower from one of the bushes, marveling at its brilliance. “Do you see this? How are plants thriving here?” he wonders aloud, twirling the delicate stem between his fingers as if it might dissolve in his grip.

Cassandra, however, looks around with skepticism. “What are you talking about? All I see is gray and dead plants,” she announces, her brow furrowed in confusion as she squints into the distance.

“Yeah, Boss, all I see is gray,” Iron Bull chimes in, shrugging as he surveys the area, before turning his attention to the trail of blood leading into another eluvian. “But I’m not exactly one for gardening,” he adds with a smirk, his focus shifting back to the task at hand.

Cole looked around, taking in the kaleidoscope of color and energy, the pulse of the Crossroads resonating with his very essence. It’s a song,” he mused, his voice a gentle whisper that seemed to blend seamlessly with the vibrant chorus of the realm. “The colors weave together like notes, each one telling a story, each blossom echoing a heartbeat.”

Isera and Banreas exchange puzzled glances, grappling with the mystery of why Cassandra and Iron Bull could only perceive the landscape as gray and lifeless. “Perhaps the elves crafted this place in a way that resonates differently with us,” Isera proposes thoughtfully. “It could be that our connection to the Fade? To what the elves of old created.” As they venture further, the path leads them to an ancient elven ruin nestled and floating in the mountains, its architecture a testament to the artistry of a bygone era. Almost everything remains remarkably preserved, despite parts and pieces crumbling and separate, echoing with the whispers of the past.

As they cross the bridge, they are greeted by spirit warriors, their forms unmistakably elven, yet ethereal in nature. The air crackles with the weight of their presence. One steps forward, speaking in an ancient tongue, the sound of the words thick with an accent so archaic it feels like the echoes of a long-forgotten time.

“Atish’all vallem, Fen’harel elathadra,” the spirit intones, its voice reverberating with ancient power. The words are incomprehensible, save for a single name that resonates with Banreas—Fen’harel. His brow furrows, recognizing the Dread Wolf’s name but not the rest of the message.

Isera's gaze remains fixed on the spirit warriors, her eyes narrowing as the whispers in her mind stir. The voices from the Well begin to murmur, piecing together the meaning behind the cryptic elven dialect.

“Neuvas mana helanin, dirth bellasa ma!” the spirit calls again, urgency in its tone. Isera closes her eyes for a moment, focusing on the voices that work to translate the ancient words. Slowly, their meaning begins to crystallize in her mind, but an uneasy feeling grows alongside the understanding.

“Isera…” Banreas whispers, his voice low as the spirit warriors shifts with growing impatience.

“Ahhhh!” Isera cries out in frustration, clutching her head as the voices in her mind surge. She inhales sharply, her expression twisting as the translation finally clicks into place. “Ar-melana dirthavaren. Revas vir-anaris,” she recites, the words foreign on her tongue yet filled with a strange sense of authority.

The spirit warrior inclines its head, stepping aside as if recognizing the phrase. “Amae lethalas,” it responds, the tension dissipating as the way forward is cleared.

Banreas stares at Isera, his eyes full of unspoken questions. "What just happened?" he asks, his voice hushed but urgent.

Isera hesitates, the weight of what she’s learned settling over her. “It was part of a ritual. A secret greeting for those… Fen’harel trusted.” Her eyes meet Banreas’s, her brow furrowed in thought. “The Well of Sorrows knew this. If Fen’harel’s spirit warriors recognize it... does that mean they were close?”

Banreas shakes his head, clearly unsettled. “I don’t like this,” he says plainly, his tone laced with unease as they continue forward.

---

They stood in the ancient elven ruin nestled deep within the mountain range, the last remnants of the qunari they had fought lying scattered around. The battle was over, but the mystery was far from solved. Banreas pointed to a mural etched into the far wall, its intricate carvings bathed in a soft, mystical glow.

“It’s showing the removal of the vallaslin,” Isera said, her fingers tracing the delicate lines of the ancient art. Her voice was quiet, reverent, as if speaking any louder might disturb the sanctity of the space.

Cassandra stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as she studied the mural. “Untouched for Maker knows how long,” she murmured, her tone filled with wonder.

“But how did the qunari get here? And how in the Void did they gain access to these magic mirrors?” Iron Bull growled, his frustration evident. The lack of answers left him unsettled. He hated being in the dark, and right now, that’s all they had—shadows and mysteries.

While the others examined the room, Isera wandered back toward the bunks, her curiosity piqued. She began sifting through the worn bedding, her hands brushing against something solid. A codex. Pulling it free, she flipped through the brittle pages, her brow furrowing as she read.

“I think we have another player in this game,” Isera called out, rereading the note aloud. “This letter mentions an attack. They didn’t understand anything… except the name Fen’harel.”

She hopped off the bed, handing the note to Banreas. He took it, his eyes scanning the words with a grim expression.

“We need to inform the Council,” Banreas said, his gaze drifting back to the large, imposing statue of Fen’harel standing in the center of the room. Its stone eyes seemed to watch them with silent judgment. “Is, this involves magic. Which artifact do we need?”

Isera grunted in frustration, the overwhelming layers of magic tiring her. “The third veil fire lantern—it's more heavily enchanted than the others,” she said, pointing to the artifact glowing faintly in the corner of the room.

Banreas grinned mischievously. “Da’fen!” he whispered just loud enough for Isera to hear. She shot him a sharp glare, her hand flicking out to send a harmless orb of energy his way. Banreas yelped in surprise but quickly erupted into laughter. Isera, rolling her eyes, lit the veil fire lantern. The magic pulsed through the room, and with a deep rumble, the statue of Fen’harel shifted, revealing a hidden stairwell beneath. “Hey, Isera…” Banreas's voice took on a playful, sing-song tone despite the seriousness of their situation. Isera tensed immediately, recognizing the all-too-familiar setup. “Don’t you dare!” she shouted, already knowing what was coming.

“Do you wanna blow this statue up?” Banreas said in a rush, grinning from ear to ear, fully aware that his sister wished this joke would die a quiet death. Isera groaned loudly, her face contorted in frustration. Without another word, she jumped down into the stairwell, eager to escape Banreas's antics.

“Ugh!” she muttered under her breath, though a small, unwilling smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she descended into the hidden depths. Isera’s eyes quickly scanned the dimly lit room as a cold realization hit her—she wasn’t alone.

“Enemies!” she shouted, instinctively hurling a fireball at the nearest Qunari. The fiery blast erupted in a burst of light, slamming into the enemy as her companions rushed down the stairs to join the fray. The sound of steel clashing echoed through the hidden chamber, and magic crackled in the air as the fight raged on.

With precise strikes from Cassandra and Bull’s sweeping blows, the last of the Qunari fell. Banreas, breathing heavily, wiped blood from his blade as Isera lowered her staff. “Is that the last of them?” Bull grunted, surveying the scene. Isera nodded, her pulse still racing. “We need to get back.”

Without hesitation, the group retraced their steps, moving swiftly back through the eluvian. The magic swirled around them as they were transported back to the familiar halls of the Winter Palace, leaving the hidden ruin behind.

[vir-tanadahl]

Chapter 14: Veil of Shadows and Secrets

I’m eagerly rewriting As the Moon Rises, which was originally written back in 2017, in anticipation of Dragon Age: Veilguard, channeling my excitement into refining the story. Summary: Isera Lavellan, at her mother’s behest, is sent to assist her twin brother, Banreas—the Inquisitor—in his mission to stop a force determined to bring about the world’s end. Together, they uncover long-buried secrets of their shared family history while Isera finds herself drawn to a mysterious non-Dalish elven mage whose knowledge of her heritage runs far deeper than she could have imagined. As the stakes rise, Isera must navigate this dangerous journey of discovery, where the past holds as much peril as the looming threats of the present. Solas x F!Lavellan.

[Ch1][Ch2][Ch3][Ch4][Ch5][Ch6][Ch7][Ch8]

[Ch9][Ch10][Ch11] [Ch12] [Ch13] [Ch14]

The wooden caravan shakes with every step of the horses pulling it. It has been an hour since Cullen left Skyhold to visit Honnleath and see his family. Four months had passed since the defeat of Corypheus, yet the shadows of that battle still loomed large over him. He had thrown himself into his duties, working tirelessly to ensure the safety of the realm, even after the fall of the darkspawn magister.

Cullen had dispatched troops to monitor the movements of fleeing Venatori, protecting villages and rebuilding what had been lost. Leliana had collaborated with him, strategizing their efforts to track down Solas after his sudden disappearance—a task that had yielded no results, no leads, only unanswered questions.

Now, as he traveled away from Skyhold, Cullen couldn’t shake the weight of concern that pressed on his chest. It had only been two days since Isera was declared missing, and the air was thick with anxiety. The Inquisitor insisted that he depart for Honnleath, with Cassandra stepping in as acting Commander until his return. Publicly, no one dared to question Cullen’s departure, especially after the unsettling news surrounding the Inquisitor's sister.

Cullen glanced around the road, scanning the landscape for any signs of trouble. It had been a few hours since he departed from Skyhold. He took a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs as he tried to steady himself. “I think you can come out now, just keep your head covered,” he announced, his voice tinged with nervousness as he rubbed the back of his neck.

A trunk behind him shifts, the lid squealing open as a figure rises from within. “I am never doing that again,” Isera mutters as she climbs into the front seat, adjusting her cloak with a frown.

Cullen shakes his head, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “Isera, you didn’t have to leave like that. You had a choice.” His voice carries a mix of concern and authority, his hands gripping the reins of the horse tightly.

Isera shakes her head, her expression resolute. “I don’t want people knowing,” she replies cryptically, leaning back against the seat as she wraps the cloak tighter around her body, as if seeking comfort in its fabric.

He lets out a long sigh, nodding in understanding. “I know.” A heavy silence lingers between them, punctuated only by the rhythmic sound of hooves on the ground. Cullen hesitates, stealing a glance at her before looking away, wrestling with his thoughts. “I’m sorry. Mia will help, though. You won’t have to go through this alone.” His attempt at comfort is sincere, though he knows words can only do so much.

“Do you think it’s the voices urging you to leave?” he asks after a moment, curiosity and concern intertwining in his tone.

Isera shakes her head. The voices often took control of her body when they desired, weaving their magic through her limbs, but they never truly possessed her mind. They shared their knowledge when it suited them, but they did not compel her in the way he suggested. “I don’t think so.”

Despite her reassurance, Isera’s smile feels forced, as if it barely touches the sadness in her eyes. “Thank you for letting me stay with your family,” she says, her voice softening, genuine in its gratitude.

Isera watches the trees blur by as they slowly trot past, their trunks flickering in and out of focus. A sense of unease settles over her, and she can’t quite place the source of her desire to hide. Perhaps she’s running from the memories etched in every corner of Skyhold, or maybe the voices are silently influencing her decisions once again.

Cullen coughs, discomfort flickering across his features at the gratitude she's expressed. “You’ve been…extremely helpful. This is the least I can do,” he replies, a hint of awkwardness in his voice as he snaps the reins, urging the horses to pick up their pace.

Isera nods, her expression shifting from thoughtful to serious. “There’s a stack of potions hidden in the chest by your desk. Only drink one-fourth of it. The ones with the green ribbon are more potent,” she instructs, her voice firm and practical. “Only drink that when you start to notice a tolerance developing. I don’t foresee that happening, but I won’t be there to monitor you.”

She had planned this for a month in advance, meticulously considering every detail, and Cullen’s willingness to assist her meant more than he likely realized. The thought of him relying on her creations, however, only deepens her resolve to ensure they are effective.

Cullen glances at her, his expression softening. “I trust you, Isera. You’ve done well with those potions. I’ll be careful.” His assurance brings a small measure of comfort. As the rhythmic sound of hooves on the forest floor fills the silence, Isera feels the weight of their journey ahead pressing down on her.

It didn’t take much to convince Cullen. He had been the one to offer for her to stay with his family, emphasizing that Honnleath was close enough to Skyhold for her to return quickly—or for her brother to visit her. He described his sister, Mia, as open and protective, assuring Isera that she would be welcomed into their hearth without hesitation.

Banreas hadn’t been thrilled with the arrangement, but he had agreed—not that it mattered; Isera was determined to go with or without his blessing.

“The Inquisitor won’t be able to write to you directly if you wish to remain hidden,” Cullen explained, his brow furrowed in thought. “I can write to Mia, and she can write back to you if that is what you prefer.” He took a deep breath, glancing at her with concern. “You’ve set a motion into play that will be hard to explain if our letters are intercepted.”

The caravan rocked her body gently as it traveled down the winding road. “I know,” she whispered, trying to convince herself as much as him. “We can do that.” There was a sense of relief that washed over her since leaving the confines of Skyhold, a weightlifting from her chest with every mile they covered.

Cullen continued, his tone earnest. “Leliana has ordered Inquisition agents to integrate into the town. They’ll come under the guise of farmers, watching from afar.”

Isera nodded, her mind racing with the implications. “I know.” The knowledge that she wouldn’t be alone in this journey provided a small comfort. Always watching, always protecting—she could feel their presence like a safety net woven into the fabric of her new life.

Yet, despite the reassurance, an unsettling instinct coiled tightly in her gut. The nightmares had grown more vivid, more oppressive, and their meanings eluded her grasp. Banreas had reached out to the Seers in Rivain, hoping for clarity, but all they offered was vague foreboding—an ominous warning of something yet to come.

As she settled back into the cushioned seat, Isera stifled a yawn, placing a hand on her swelling belly. Things were continuing to change, and with each passing day, she felt a mix of excitement and dread. The future was a murky shadow ahead, but she would face it, no matter what it held for what choice did she have?

---

Isera paced anxiously in her brother’s quarters, her mind racing with the startling realization that she had not bled in almost two months—possibly more. The weight of her discovery pressed heavily on her chest, constricting her breath. She had never been diligent about tracking her cycle; the thought of being late had barely registered in her chaotic life. Solas was nowhere to be found, and she needed to tell him.

When Banreas finally entered the room, Isera was a whirlwind of emotion. The moment he opened the door, she blurted out, “I’m pregnant.” Her voice trembled, and her body shook with the anxiety that surged through her. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she continued to pace, each step echoing the turmoil inside her, the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

Banreas’s expression shifted to one of cautious concern. He slowly nodded, his mind racing as he assessed the situation. “How far along?” he asked, his voice low and steady, an anchor amidst her storm. He moved to his desk, the weight of her news settling heavily between them.

“I’m not sure,” Isera admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe two months…maybe longer.” The reality of her situation hit her like a wave, leaving her feeling unmoored and vulnerable.

His body movements stiffened as he focused intently on Isera, his expression shifting to one of concern. “There are potions…if that is what you want,” he gently suggested, trying to offer a lifeline amidst the chaos.

Isera recoiled at the suggestion, shaking her head vigorously. “No!” she exclaimed, her voice sharp and filled with panic. After a moment's hesitation, she continued, “I don’t know. If I take something now, without knowing how far along I am, I could kill myself and the child.” The weight of her words hung heavy in the air.

She recalled the faces of young girls she had seen during her travels—desperate and filled with regret—who had unintentionally ended their lives while trying to rid themselves of an unplanned pregnancy. The haunting images flashed through her mind, intensifying her resolve.

Banreas grimaced, the anger simmering just below the surface. “Have you heard from…him?” he asked, his voice tightening as he struggled to maintain neutrality. Isera recognized the fury brewing in her brother; his hand was clenched into a fist, resting against the desk, the tension radiating from him. She could sense that he wanted to lash out, to find Solas and confront him for the pain he had caused her.

Isera shakes her head, her voice trembling. “Can you… I know it’s a lot to ask. One last time, can you send out agents to look for him?” The desperation in her tone is palpable. She had tried to reach Solas in her dreams, but her efforts had been in vain. Despite using his necklace as a focal point, every time she felt close, magical barriers would spring up, thwarting her attempts. She had theorized that he was actively blocking her from his subconscious, a painful realization that twisted her gut.

Banreas nods, his expression softening. “Of course, I will.” He pauses, rifling through the reports scattered on the table. “I haven’t heard from Mother since we received that letter. Have you?” His question hangs heavy in the air.

“No,” Isera replies, her brow furrowing in worry. “It’s unlike her to be gone this long.” The uncertainty gnaws at her, a constant ache in her heart.

Banreas exhales sharply, frustration etching lines on his forehead. “I’ll send agents to look for her as well.” He moves closer to Isera, his concern evident as he studies her face. The fear etched into her features deepens his own worries.

Weeks pass, and despite their efforts, the agents fail to uncover any leads on Solas or their mother. Each day that passes without news feels like a weight pressing down on Isera. Exhaustion settles into her bones, a heavy cloak of despair. Banreas sits across from her in the War Room, the atmosphere thick with unspoken tension. The Advisors are aware of her condition, their sympathetic gazes filled with helplessness as they glance at her, wishing for results that remain stubbornly elusive.

“Isera…” Banreas begins, his voice low and careful, breaking the silence. But the words feel inadequate against the enormity of their situation. She looks at him, and for a moment, the room feels suffocating, the walls closing in around her as the weight of uncertainty hangs heavy in the air.

It is clear that the Inquisition has exhausted all avenues in their search for Solas and their mother. Isera sighs, her resolve hardening. “I want to leave. I don’t want people to know that I am pregnant or where I am going,” she announces, determination lacing her voice. With her pregnancy just beginning to show, this is the perfect time—if not the only time—she can slip away without attracting undue attention.

Leliana nods, her expression serious yet understanding. “If that is what you would like, it can be arranged for you to disappear.” Her gaze shifts to Banreas, who sits stiffly at the table. “Banreas will need to play a part if that is to be.”

Banreas raises an eyebrow, his face a mixture of concern and determination. “What role would you have me take?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest as if to brace himself for whatever task lies ahead.

“An official absence,” Leliana suggests, her tone steady. “We can create a cover story that you are focusing on diplomatic efforts elsewhere, making your own leave for a short time. It should draw attention away from Isera’s departure.

Isera shakes her head, a sense of urgency in her voice. “No—I need to go missing.”

Leliana’s brow furrows slightly, her eyes narrowing as she processes Isera’s insistence. “You understand the risks involved, don’t you?” she replies carefully, gauging Isera’s resolve. “I do,” Isera insists, her gaze unwavering.

Banreas shifts uncomfortably, his concern for Isera palpable. “But what if something goes wrong?” he asks, his voice low. “You’ll be alone.”

“She won’t be alone. She can go to Honnleath. Mia can help her with the birth and keeping her presence a secret.” Cullen’s voice is soft. Leliana studies Isera’s expression, recognizing the fierce resolve in her eyes. “Very well, if this is truly what you wish,” she concedes, though her tone remains cautious. “But we must ensure that we cover your tracks thoroughly. The Inquisition will not easily forget you nor will anyone else who has an interest in your whereabouts.”

---

Isera stands over the hearth, her body weary and heavy with exhaustion as she attempts to breastfeed her newborn. Viera, her tiny daughter, is refusing to latch onto her nipple, leaving Isera feeling frustrated and defeated. “Why can’t you be like your big sister and nurse?” she pleads softly, glancing at Mia with a mixture of hope and desperation.

Mia chuckles from her chair, where she cradles the other baby, Sora, who is peacefully sleeping with a full belly. “She’s going to be a stubborn one, that one,” Mia replies, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she watches Isera’s struggle. She rises and approaches, her steps light as she balances Sora in her arms. “What will you call them?” she asks, genuinely curious.

Isera hums thoughtfully, finally feeling Viera latch on. Relief washes over her as she glances down at her daughter. “This one is Viera,” she announces, her voice warm with affection. She gestures to the other child nestled in Mia’s arms. “And she will be Sora.” Both babies have skin as soft as freshly made caramel, adorned with delicate freckles that seem to dance across their cheeks.

“How will you tell them apart?” Mia jokes, her tone playful as she coos at Sora, who begins to stir, opening her big eyes. One iris is a brilliant golden hue, while the other is a striking blue, creating an enchanting contrast.

Isera smiles as she watches Sora, then turns her gaze back to Viera. “Oh, their eyes,” she replies, a glimmer of pride in her voice. “Sora’s right eye is golden and her left eye is blue. Viera’s right eye is blue and her left eye is golden.” The uniqueness of each child fills Isera’s heart with joy, and she can’t help but feel that they are destined for something extraordinary.

Every time Mia has come to check in on her, the twins were sound asleep. But Isera has had countless sleepless nights, staring into the eyes of her daughters, particularly Viera, who is a notoriously difficult sleeper.

Mia looks at her in surprise. “Surely, you are joking?” She leans over to the nursing child, who opens her eyes intermittently. “Ah! She does!” Mia gasps at the discovery, her face lighting up with excitement. “They are going to be quite enchanting.”

Isera smiles, settling into a rocking chair as Viera continues to nurse. The rhythmic motion of the chair provides a soothing balm to her weary body. “The Inquisitor will be making a visit in the coming weeks with Cullen,” Mia informs her, pulling out a letter from the pocket of her gown. “He is excited to ‘meet the new pup.’” Mia grins, clearly amused by the hidden meaning.

Isera laughs, rolling her eyes in playful exasperation. “I still hate that I was dubbed a mabari in the letters!” she exclaims, her voice tinged with humor. She remembers the sting of tears that fell the first time she read a letter referring to her as a dog; the image of herself as a farm animal felt both absurd and demeaning.

But it was a convenient deception, considering Mia had a mabari who was also pregnant. The playful lie about Isera being a "dog" took on a humorous twist, as they could both claim to be nurturing new lives.

---

Banreas is sitting across from her, cradling Viera in his arms. He coos softly at the baby, who gazes up at him with wide, innocent eyes. The twins are now six months old, and Viera responds to his playful storytelling with enthusiastic babbles, a broad, toothless smile lighting up her face.

“And then Leliana is going to be the new divine!” Banreas concludes, grinning widely. Viera reaches out, her tiny fingers wrapping around his, pulling it to her mouth with an adorable curiosity.

Isera, with Sora securely strapped to her chest, pours water into cups at the nearby table. “She’ll have them ramming drakes in no time,” Isera jokes, setting a cup near Banreas, the sound of porcelain clinking echoing softly in the cozy room.

Banreas chuckles, glancing up at her, his expression bright. “You should come back, sister. They’ll want to meet their aunts and uncles.” His voice carries a hint of longing, a soft reminder of the chosen family ties they share.

Isera feels the familiar pang of guilt tugging at her heart. Each time he suggests returning to Skyhold, she has offered a different excuse, each one flimsier than the last. “I’m... just not ready yet,” she says, her tone evasive.

Isera frowns, her expression clouded with uncertainty. “Maybe when they are a year old,” she tells Banreas firmly. “I do not feel comfortable leaving just yet. They are too young.”

Banreas studies her skeptically, his brow furrowing. “The Dalish travel with children much younger,” he points out, knowing full well that his sister is avoiding the memories that linger like shadows. He just wants her to create new memories with those who would help keep her safe.

“I don’t care,” Isera replies, her voice flat and monotone as she meets his gaze. She knows she is being difficult, but the thought of returning to Skyhold feels overwhelming. Deep down, she understands that it would be easier to go back—surrounded by friends and guards, where the girls would always be watched and safe. No member of the Inquisition’s inner circle would allow harm to come their way.

“Isera…” Banreas sighs, his tone filled with concern.

She looks down at Sora, who is content against her chest, her little eyes staring off into the distance, unaware of the tension in the room. The sight of her daughter calms Isera’s racing heart, if only for a moment. “Maybe,” she finally concedes after a prolonged silence hangs between them, the word escaping her lips like a whisper of hope.

---

Isera sits in the clinic at Skyhold, a warm smile playing on her lips as she watches the inner circle fawn over her daughters, who are celebrating their first birthday today. The atmosphere is lively and filled with laughter. Leliana, soon to depart for her new role as Divine, cradles Sora in her arms, singing sweetly to her. The soft notes of the song drift through the room, enchanting both the baby and Isera.

The girls are captivated by Leliana’s voice; Sora coos in delight, and Isera can’t help but reminisce about how reluctant Leliana once was to share her songs. Now, it seems she can’t stop, filling the clinic with melodies that dance around the air like sunlight.

Viera, ever the spirited one, is more rambunctious than her sister. She babbles a string of nonsensical syllables, her expression serious as if she’s sharing a profound secret with the adults. The inner circle plays along, pretending to understand her gibberish, and Iron Bull is particularly animated in his responses, changing his tone dramatically to match her excitement. Viera giggles, utterly enthralled by his antics.

Banreas, seated beside Isera, leans in closer. “Will you take them to the Clan?” he asks, his voice low but hopeful. “We can ask the Clan to come here.” Despite everything Isera has shared about the Dalish failings, he still clings to the traditions he wishes to pass on to his nieces.

Isera shakes her head firmly. “I’ve overheard that the Lavellan Clan is doing well in Wycome. I do not wish to move them. The elves will need the political power.” The lessons she’s learned about the Game from her time at Skyhold have sharpened her instincts. Briala of The Dales has reached out to her multiple times, seeking a stronger elven alliance, and Isera knows that her daughters are part of that future.

Banreas nods thoughtfully, his gaze drifting toward Cassandra, who is attempting to balance Viera on her hip. The Seeker’s face is a mix of concentration and amusement as Blackwall steps in to help her, demonstrating a firmer hold on the squirmy toddler. “Mia says your nightmares are coming more often. Have you been able to make sense of them?” he asks, concern etched across his features.

“No,” Isera sighs, her voice heavy with fatigue. “It’s always the same. I feel like I’m being pulled from something—there's smoke, fire, and fear. Someone always calls out to me.” The dreams have persisted through the years, haunting her even now. Each time she attempts to block them, they return with a vengeance, stronger and more vivid. The pain of waking up has become an all too familiar agony.

Banreas frowns at her admission but nudges her shoulder lightly with his own, a comforting gesture. “I’m glad you’re back,” he whispers, his tone sincere. “And so are they.” He gestures toward the inner circle, who are engaged in playful chaos, surrounded by laughter and joy.

He’s right. The moment the inner circle learned that Isera had “returned,” they all flocked to her side, eager to reconnect. The excitement had felt almost overwhelming, yet warm, filling her with a sense of belonging. The Advisors had to gather everyone for a meeting to clarify that she had not truly been lost, leading to a few awkward conversations. Isera found herself apologizing repeatedly for the secrets she had kept, trying to navigate the delicate balance between her past and present.

“They just want to see the babies,” Isera grins, her eyes shining with warmth as she watches the inner circle fawn over her daughters. Each laugh and coo from the group fills the room with a vibrant energy, creating a comforting atmosphere that wraps around her like a warm blanket. Yet, amid the laughter, a pang of sorrow tugs at her heart—a reminder of the one person she longs for the most to meet them: Solas.

[officialleehadan]

Beneath the Sky

“Is it fair to ask you to be my queen?”

Shimra looked up at Grath, who had been slowly working the braids out of her hair as they sat in the grass together. Well, sat wasn’t the right word, considering her head was in his lap, and her hair was spread across his legs where he could make a mess of it at his leisure. Isera would laugh at her, and her maids would despair of cleaning her up before evening court, and Shimra didn’t care a bit.

Nobles took themselves too seriously on the whole. Any afternoon that she could coax Grath outside was a victory. He spent too much time inside with his papers. She understood it, being king was a big job. All the same, someone had to look after Grath and make sure he didn’t work himself to death.

READ THE WHOLE STORY HERE!

+++

Spider-Eating Elves:

Elves are beautiful, icy, and untouchable. Unfortunately, they always thought the same of humans. Worse yet, they also live in a forest full of giant insects, think tiny spiders are a delicacy, and have a strong-willed princess who is nothing but trouble.

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

Introductory Trouble

Lady of Grace

Lady of Stone, and her Girlfriend

Lady Retrieved

Monsters on the Wing

Spiderwebs and Cookies

Royal Match

Lines in the Sand

From One King to Another

Duchess of Pies

Twilight Silk

An Entrance to Make

Raise a Glass (Subscriber Only!)

The Oak and the Climbing Rose

Under the Willow Boughs (Subscriber Only!)

The Brightest Flowers

Back Road to the Slums

+++

More Stories!

+++