#I’m ready for the solavellan healing to begin

[changeling-fae]

I’ve revived my babygirl, Tarensa (formerly Tsura). Can’t wait to make her in Veilguard.

[in-arlathan]

To Heal The Hurt

A/N: More Solavellan today. I was kind of in a sad mood, so this turned out a bit dark and angsty. This time, Lavellan tries to deal with her feelings for Solas after the events of “Trespasser”, aided by our beloved spirit friend Cole. Please enjoy!

––––

She will never shoot an arrow again. She knows it with unwavering certainty as she pulls the sash of her uniform over her head with one hand. 

Her one remaining hand.

Her fingers toy with the buttons on her jacket. The fabric rustles, while she struggles to push the buttons out of their holes, but she eventually manages it. Swearing under her breath, she tosses the jacket aside. Luckily, there are no servants nearby to hear her outburst. They would only alarm her companions, and she is not ready for their pity just yet.

Lavellan is back in the apartment she had been assigned to for her stay in Halamshiral. It consists of a set of three rooms large enough to house an entire family, with statues of golden lions and lavish oil paintings of human women in fine Orlaisean silks lining the walls.

Suddenly, being at the heart of the Winter Palace feels like a charade. What is she doing here, after all? She, a simple Dalish elf?

The notion reminds her of her time in Haven, when the Breach was still threatening to tear the world apart. Before she had become the Inquisitor. Before all of this. 

It had taken Lavellan weeks before she had grown accustomed to sleeping in a bed. Back in Haven, she often ventured outside her small wooden cabin to watch the stars as they traveled through the night sky, waiting for exhaustion to claim her. Even in Skyhold, where everything had been made to represent her, from the Dalish curtains to the lush gardens, she had a hard time sleeping with a massive stone roof over her head. It had taken her months to get used to it, and even then, she sometimes dreamed of sleeping out in the woods, listening to the wildlife and the wind around her.

But these chambers––they are just ridiculous. Suddenly, her stomach churns with revulsion. The same revulsion she had felt on her first stay at Halamshiral. 

She flings some more swear words at the lion statues and kicks her jacket farther away. Most of them are elvhen phrases, but she tosses in some curse in the common-tongue for good measure. 

It is a good thing the Inquisition was disbanded. For the first time in two years, she can go wherever she wants, free from the burden that came with the title of Inquisitor. 

Free from the burden of the anchor.

A sob escapes her and she sinks to her knees, her fist clenched, jaws tight.

“The mark will eventually kill you. Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you, at least for now.”

Solas’s voice is still loud and clear in her mind as if he stands right in front of her, but she knows he is gone.

“I walk the Din’anshiral. There is only death on this journey. I would not have you see what I become.”

But does he know that not being with him felt like dying, even after all this time?

She covers her face with one hand, as the tears begin to cloud her vision. Once more, she had reached out to him. And once more, he had pushed her away. Holding onto him had brought her nothing but pain, again and again. Yet, she holds onto it like it was some precious thing. 

Why was it so hard to let him go?

“Because the pain reminds you of the joy you felt when you were together,” a soft voice informs her. Without turning, she knows it is Cole. He sits on the floor beside her, cross-legged, his head bowed.

“You keep it hidden within, so the others won’t see it,” Cole continues. “But you can keep the hurt inside forever. The pain demands to be freed, felt, or it will eat you alive, tugging, tearing away from your being.”

Lavellan knows he is right, but she doesn’t know if she is up for the challenge. As long as she keeps the hurt bottled up inside her, she can pretend she is not deeply wounded. She can pretend that there is nothing wrong...

“I'm so stupid,” she breathes.

“He would strongly disagree,” Cole tells her.

She huffs, forcing a sad laugh, and wipes the tears from her cheek. 

The spirit beside her stirs, lifting a hand as if he wanted to pad her shoulder. “You wish you could heal his pain. I tried to heal it, too, but he knows how to hide himself away. It is not your fault he chose to walk this path alone.”

Lavellan turns to face Cole, trying to focus on his familiar features. The young man’s bonds with Solas were almost as strong as her own. If any of her companions knew what she was going through, it would be him. Yet, she can’t help but think about the countless conversations between Cole and Solas during their time with the Inquisition. Most of it had sounded like nonsense to her, Fade-talk neither she, nor the other companions had any part in. But now that she knows the truth, all of it makes perfect sense. Cole had seen into Solas’s soul, just like he sees into hers now.

“Did you know who he truly is?”, she asks, although she already knows the answer.

The silences between them endures, turning seconds into centuries.

“Yes,” Cole admits at last, his voice full of regret.

Her heart fills with more sorrow, all but suffocating her. Sucking in shuddering breaths, she waits for the wave of pain to fade away again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because he asked me not to,” is all Cole says.

More tears come and she doesn’t hold them back any longer. She has tried too hard to keep them at bay for far too long. Sobbing uncontrollably, she opens up, lets the emotions flow freely until she feels empty, exhausted. If only she could go back to the simpler days. To the life she lived before any of this happened. 

“Can you make me forget?” she asks hoarsely.

“No, you burn too bright,” he tells her, his voice low and heavy. “But the pain gives you purpose. It will help you in what must come next.”

Blinking, she regards him once more. Something in his face has changed. He looks set, stern, determined. Like he has a plan ...

“I will go back to the Fade,” he says.

“What? No!” Lavellan springs to her feet. “You can’t just leave… I… we need you here.”

“I have to,” Cole replies. “What Solas is about to do will affect both worlds. I have to go back, to make sure everyone is safe.”

She takes a moment to consider what he means by that.

“The world that dreams and the world that wakes,” Cole says before she can come to a conclusion. “Both need someone to protect them.” The young man tries to smile. “You are here, keeping everyone safe. You do it better than I could. My place is with my own kind, now.”

Lavellan is surprised. This is the first time, she hears Cole talk like that, proud and willful, with so much clarity. 

A wisp of air rushes past her and Cole is gone. A heartbeat later, he reappears next to one of the lion statues, tracing the stone nose of the beast with his fingers. 

“Once, you and Solas help me to become who I was meant to be,” he says, referring back to the incident with the old templar in Redcliffe. Memories of that moment rush through Lavellan’s mind, as the young man speaks. “And he helped you to become who you were meant to be. A powerful woman. A woman of peace and plenty. It will take both of us to make him stop.”

She grits her teeth. “Easier said than done.”

“We need to heal the old pain or he will inflict more on those we love. We cannot let that happen.”

“No, we cannot,” she agrees and rubs the tears off her cheeks. “I only wish I knew how to carry on. I feel so... tired.” 

Cole turns to her again. “You are stronger than you think you are. That is why he loves you.”

Despite all the pain and sorrow, Lavellan huffs out a laugh. It’s a short, but genuine sound, and suddenly she feels like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. 

“This is goodbye then?” she asks.

“I don’t want to go, but I have to,” he tells her. “I am sorry.”

Slowly, very slowly, Lavellan nods. Of course, he has to help. It is in his nature. It is why the young man grew on her in the first place.

“Dareth shiral, my friend,” she says.

“This not the end,” Cole replies.

Not yet, she thinks but doesn’t dare to say the words out loud. And she doesn’t have to. She knows that he heard her anyway by the grief-stricken look on his face.

“We will make it all go away.”

Lavellan smiles. 

“We will try, at least.”

Another moment of silence falls between them. And then, in a heartbeat, the young man named Cole is gone, vanished from this layer of existence. Lavellan feels his absence with the same intensity like her missing arm. A phantom pain that will stick with her for years, maybe even for the rest of her life. But she will carry it with her, nourish the memory of Cole, so she can never forget him. 

“You are stronger than you think you are,” she hears him say, his voice echoing in her mind. “That is why he loves you.”

Lavellan stirs, straightens up.

That’s why he loves you, she thinks again. “Loves”. Not “loved”.

A wave of warmth washes over her, pushing the pain aside. Maybe Cole is right. Maybe there is a chance to save Solas after all.

[auds-art]

Solavellan AU- Rated E for eventual shenanigans

What if Lavellan was not the Inquisitor, but a simple healer, come as an emissary from her clan to assist the refugees gathering at Haven? Would she be able to prove, without the anchor, that this world was not what Solas expected? Will she still be able to change everything?

It wasn’t a hot day, but Ellana felt a bead of sweat trickle down the length of her spine. Whether it was nerves or the large bag of dried elfroot she was carrying, she couldn’t say. She breathed in deeply, and the cold stung her lungs, but refreshed her at the same time. A fresh wave of energy hit her right in the chest. With that came more anxiety. She shielded her eyes and looked over her shoulder. If she hadn’t know they were there, she likely would have missed them in the trees. Their bows weren’t drawn, but they were ready nonetheless, their eyes scanning ahead. With a huff of reluctance, Ellana returned to her trudge through the snow. This was her duty, as First, and she motioned to her one visible companion to follow.

Maereth nodded, quickly coming to her side. The fort was in sight now, if you could call it that. They had passed the remains of the village, and the smell of charred flesh was still clinging to the back of Ellana’s throat.

She held up a hand, halting their progress. Maereth stopped instantly, waiting for her to signal again. She could see humans below, what looked like Templars, clashing and fighting, preparing for something. Of course, news had spread. The survivor, whom some were beginning to call the Herald of Andraste, was the key to closing the tear in the Veil.

“This place is setheneran,” Maereth whispered, their voice a harsh ghost of a sound that was nearly lost on the breeze.

“I haven’t seen any felandaris,” Ellana returned, then glanced at them askance. “But I can feel the vibration.”

Her companion repressed a shiver, but they had never been fond of the beyond. Ellana checked on their hidden guards one last time before she pressed forward, Maereth one step behind. At first, when they two emerged from the trees, they were largely unnoticed. Then, as Ellana expected, the training soldiers began to stop, to turn, to stare. A few weapons were drawn, but nothing was aimed at them. It took only mere moments before two shems—humans—Ellana corrected, approached them.

The woman was tall, elegant as she walked, hips swaying, hand on pommel. The man beside her was impossibly large, fur-trimmed cloak making him appear even larger. He stopped just slightly behind the other warrior, and Ellana took that to mean she was the superior of the two. Of course, she knew their names. She knew what their functions were in this growing, well, movement she supposed. She reminded herself to breathe.

“I am Ellana Lavellan,” she said, keep her voice low, melodic and soothing. They were not a threat, and she prayed these humans understood that. “I’m here as First from clan Lavellan to offer our assistance to Haven and the people gathered here.”

Cassandra looked between the two, not trusting. She narrowed her eyes, and not because of the glint from the sun. “You...two,” she paused, emphasizing the word, “are here to help?”

It did seem a bit strange, when put like that. Ellana nodded, her large eyes sparkling in the blinding sun. “I’m our clan’s most talented healer.” She said it plainly, and reached around to pat the large satchel on her back. “We’ve brought enough elfroot and other healing herbs to last our clan a month. I imagine it would help to bolster your supplies. If you have a healer, I would be happy to speak with them and see how we can best assist.”

“Out of the goodness of your hearts, is it?” Cullen didn’t sound angry when he spoke—more tired. Wary.

“We were near when it happened.” Maereth’s voice was deep and still, like the rumble of summer thunder in the distance.

Ellana pressed a hand to their shoulder, knowing their patience was much shorter than her own. “My apprentice speaks truth. We would have been here sooner, but we are a cautious people. We wanted to help, but did not know how. After much discussion, our Keeper has decided this is the best course of action.”

“He’s your apprentice?” Cullen sounded genuinely shocked. “But he looks to be ten years your senior.”

Ellana could sense the instant tension in her companion. “They are only a handful of winters older than I,” Ellana corrected, gently but firmly emphasizing the correct pronoun. “And they only realized seven seasons ago that they were drawn to healing.”

It was a partial truth. Maereth was interested in healing, yes, and had been studying with Ellana for the last two years, but they were a rogue, an assassin, and were to be Ellana’s protection.

“May we see?” Cassandra asked, motioning at the bags both elves carried. Without hesitation, Ellana dropped her satchel and opened it. There were bricks of dried and packed elfroot, and Maereth revealed much the same, with a few other herbs and dried flowers. Cassandra’s eyebrows shot up.

“That is an impressive amount. Yes, I am certain our potions master, Adan, will be grateful for the help.”

Cullen, perhaps to make up for his faux pas earlier, stepped forward. “I will get you through the gate’s. Come, and I apologize for my earlier mistake.” This last he said, looking into Maereth’s eyes. The rogue nodded their acknowledgment, but said nothing.

The lion-crested man led them past the crowds, many of who had begun their sparring again, and into Haven again. The large doors were open, but soldiers killed about everywhere. Cullen spoke a few words to a handful of ironclad warriors, and turned to the elves. “You’ll be unharassed while you’re here. Our potions master, Adan, as Cassandra said, is in the back. To the right of the Chantry.” As he turned to leave them to it, he paused, and looked back. “I’m Cullen Rutherford, and I apologize again for not introducing myself before.”

With a polite nod of his head, he turned and was a gone. Ellana watched him go for only a moment, then made eye contact with Maereth. They nodded once, and followed Ellana’s lead as she made her way through the sea of humans. There was some muttering, stares at the blood writing on their faces, but mostly the quicklings kept their distance.

There was that panicking sensation in her chest again. She never felt comfortable near the Chantry. It was just a matter of meeting a particularly ardent worshipper before she was accused of being an apostate. The relief that hit Ellana in the gut was palpable when she saw another elf. No, he didn’t have a vallaslin, but his broad shoulders and height let her know he was no city elf.

He was aware of her gaze, sensing it. His eyes, a piercing blue, met hers, and she could immediately see the curiosity that sparked. She adjusted her path, aiming for him. She stopped a few feet short of him, and inclined her head respectfully.

“Hello,” she tried, almost tripping over the elvhen that nearly spilled from her lips. It was rude to assume that every elf she met spoke their language, so she would wait to see. “Would you be kind enough to direct my friend and I to the potions master?”

“Adan,” Maereth supplied, the gruff sound emanating from where in their chest.

“Ah, yes,” the elf said, his voice deep, regal. Oddly, it made Ellana’s toes curl in delight, an embarrassment given their lack of footwear. Maereth would notice. “Master Adan works from that cabin,” he continued, looking behind her. Ellana glanced over her shoulder to spot the cabin. Hard to miss. Only a few feet away.

“Thank you,” Ellana said, a smile dimpling one of her cheeks. At his nod, the two turned together and knocked upon the door.

A voice, not tempered by patience, answered. “Whatever Maker-damned person that is better be bringing the supplies I ordered, and not suffering another self-inflicted injury—and yes, training counts as self-inflicted!”

“Well,” Ellana said, raising her voice to be heard through the door, “we have two satchels of healing herbs, dried and ready to be brewed into potions.”

It sounded like something slammed closed, a tome, perhaps, and the door was abruptly thrust open. A man with more scruff than beard opened the door, eyes wide beneath bushy brows. “Dalish!” he exclaimed, truly surprised. That was better than knife-ear, Ellana supposed.

Needless to say, Adan was grateful for the help. He set them to work, and as they were unloading the dried herbs, brick by brick, the potions master appraised them.

“I’m surprised to see the Dalish actually taking an interest in human affairs.”

He hadn’t said much, up to that point, other than to give out orders. He clearly didn’t mean it to be an insult, but Ellana could almost feel Maereth tense beside her. The sun was beating down upon them heavily, where they were working on a table Adan had set up out front. It warmed the air nicely, giving the icy atmosphere a golden feel.

“While the hole in the Veil concerns all peoples,” Ellana said, gently, “we are hoping to break some of the stereotypes surrounding the Dalish.” She wiped her brow on the back of her arm, smiling over at Adan to keep the tone friendly. “We all share this one realm. It makes sense to work together for a greater good, doesn’t it?”

She couldn’t help her eyes sliding to the mysterious elf just a few feet away. His back was to them, so she felt free to examine him at leisure as she worked. His hair was shorn, close to the scalp, which, to her, seemed to emphasize his handsome features. Of course, it could just be the mystery of a non-Dalish, non-city elf. That wasn’t why she was here, however, so she quickly returned her focus.

“I agree,” he said after a moment. “If only more Dalish did!”

Well. She had tried. She said nothing, and as the silence lingered, the human mage paused his own work of hanging embrium. “...I can see how that sounds, and I apologize. I don’t mean that elves—what I mean to say is—well, I know, the past—well, dammit, I’m trying to say that elves have a good reason to want nothing to do with us.”

Ellana smiled, and inclined her head, fingers deftly separating bricks of elfroot. “Yes, but we hope to put such things behind, if we can. Someone must make the first gesture, and we need to look to the future.”

They fell into silence. After the herbs had all been sorted, separated and properly stored, they used the remaining sunlight to prepare a few potions.

“Are you staying?” Adan asked as the dusk chill swept away the remaining warm glow of day. “I can get a cabin for the two of you, maybe. I was using the one there,” he waved at the cabin to the right, directly across from the one the tall elf had disappeared into. “But I can move into here with my work.”

Maereth looked at Ellana. She nodded once, and they snorted softly. Ignoring them, Ellana produced her dimpled smile yet again. “Yes, we shall stay. For a few days, perhaps longer. Our clan plans to leave the area in two weeks, so we will rendezvous then.”

Adan sighed in relief. “Thank the Maker. This,” he said, waving gruffly at the pots and piles of herbs, “is not my forte.”

He saw them settled into their cabin, and disappeared. Maereth sighed heavily as they unrolled the small bundle they carried beneath their satchel. They wrote something onto a scroll so small it might as well have been a blade of grass, and slipped out the window facing the Chantry hall. They were going to release a small bird, which would inform the Clan of their expected departure.

It had been a long day. Ellana expected tomorrow they would meet with the Spymaster, Leliana, and softly hoped to see the so-called Herald. Her hand glowed, she had heard. That would be quite the sight.

With such thoughts dancing behind her eyelids, she slipped into a light sleep, not bothering to wait for Maereth to return. She trusted them implicitly, as they did her. They’d see themselves to bed, and would waken her if they needed her.

xxx

Solas sat before the hearth of his cabin, gazing at the flames as he prepared himself for a walk in the Fade. That young elven woman was fascinating, as was her clan. Wanting to work with humans, focusing on, what had she said? The greater good? Of course, it didn’t change anything, but it was...interesting, nonetheless.

As he set the wards he always used before sleep, it occurred to him that he was going to enjoy the coming two weeks, if only to see more about this clan Lavellan.

[cedarmoons]

real important question here: is there a beloved alternate universe where ariala and solas seal the deal before everything goes to angst hell

anon, there is always an alternate universe for everything, especially when i can ho it up. thanks for prompting me! i tried to make this more lighthearted than my Hot and Serious™ smut. ft. solavellan halamshiral sex, WITH A TWIST! ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

read on ao3 || tip jar || nsfw below the cut!

beauty in the moonlight

He makes sure no one sees him when he steals away to the upper floors, navigating the marble-floored corridors with ease. The door opens when he knocks; Ariala pulls him in, grinning, and kicks the door shut behind him. Before he can say a word, she’s fisted her hands in his tunic and pressed him against the wall, rocking up onto the tips of her toes to kiss him properly.

Solas groans and pulls her closer, hands tight on her hips, creasing the fabric of her dress. When she sucks his lower lip into her mouth, he parts his lips, lets her taste the sweetwine they have both, perhaps, overindulged in. Her hands cradle his face and he is warm and in her arms, and when their teeth knock together she pulls back with a giggly laugh, a sound he has only ever heard her make when drunk. 

He wishes, in that moment, that he had a vial and stopper - he could bottle that sound, quite literally, and enchant the vial to play it whenever he opened it. On and on it would loop, and he would never tire of hearing it. In the same way, he wishes he had a memory crystal, so he could preserve the sight of her smiles - the crinkles in the corners of her eyes, and the curve of her lips (plumped, now, and red from their kisses) and the light in her eyes.

She keeps laughing, and eventually her thumb lifts, wiping at his mouth. Solas kisses the pad of it, and she grins at him. “Solas, arasha, I’m trying — you have lipstick on your face, love —”

She had descended the palace’s marble stairs in a dress styled after those of the old Dalish kingdom, her vallaslin and back tattoo and ears on full display for the gathered humans, and she had been so unafraid even trapped in this pit of vipers.

He has never loved her more.

He does not stop kissing her fingertips, and even as she scolds him she giggles, eyes too-bright and too-beautiful. Eventually she cleans him of all evidence of her lipstick and grins at him.

“Want to do something fun?” she asks him, but kisses him again before he can reply.

When he breaks the kiss, breath catching as he tries to steady himself, she rests her forehead against his, grinning. She laughs again, wipes at the skin above the left corner of his mouth, and he almost sucks the point of her finger into his mouth. Void, he has not been like this since — he cannot remember.

“What did you have in mind?” he asks, and she kisses his nose, stepping outside the circle of his arms. She disappears behind a divider and returns a moment later, chucking a bundle of clothes at him.

“Get dressed, arasha, and I’ll show you.”

While she dresses behind the divider, Solas unfolds the bundle, listening to her absent humming. It’s a servant’s uniform, smuggled into Skyhold by Leliana’s agents and then smuggled back to the Winter Palace for this event. He is supposed to don this tomorrow, to investigate the alleged violence in the servants’ halls with Sera and Varric. Though this week of Halamshiral is ostensibly to celebrate the truce between Celene and Gaspard’s forces, there is a war occurring in the shadows, of that he has no doubt.

She emerges when he is only half-dressed, gathering the tunic in his arms to pull over his head. He watches her look at his bare chest, watches her bite her lip and then lick it, and an ache very much like hunger, like lust, pulses dully in the center of his stomach.

He turns away, pulling the loosely-fitting shirt over his head. When he turns back to her, she is in the midst of pulling the golden comb shaped like laurel leaves from the underside of her bun. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, swaying gently against the middle of her back, and Solas cannot stop himself from closing their distance and leaning down, brushing her hair out of the way so he may kiss the underside of her jaw, and then trail his kisses lower.

A high-pitched noise escapes her throat and Solas stifles his groan against her skin. Her hand lifts up, cradling the back of his head, blunt nails scratching softly against his skin. Solas inhales and lowers his head, forehead pressing against her shoulder. Ariala laughs again, turning in his arms, kissing his cheek. “All right, all right, let’s go, arasha.”

He smiles (arasha, she had called him arasha, her happiness), and takes her hand, and lets her lead him out of the palace.

They navigate the servants’ corridors, hidden behind the elaborate paneling and paint and gilt of the Palace’s halls, and eventually come to the front gardens, where forty-eight hours ago she had arrived on horseback in her Inquisitor’s martial finery rather than a carriage as Josephine had wanted. They leave the Palace grounds, and Ariala leads the way into the High Quarter; to their credit, they are both sure-footed, only swaying or almost collapsing a handful of times between the two of them.

They are both mostly sober by the time they leave the human High Quarter and reach the center of the city proper. It is then that Solas realizes she is not on an aimless wandering quest, exploring the city for exploration’s sake. He can see empty spaces where buildings used to stand, scorch marks in the dirt-packed ground, rubble from collapsed tenements that had yet to be cleaned up. 

The damage is not limited to the square. They walk throughout the city, its streets abandoned save for a few sleeping beggars, all of whom Ariala gives a sovereign to, and everywhere in the city they observe the damages and healing (slow, but present) from the massacre. It seems worst in the residential areas. 

Ariala’s smile is sharper, now. It is a smile he has seen before: it is the smile she gives those who have presumed too much, crossed too many lines, said the wrong thing. It is the smile of a wolf waiting for the deer to make a move so it may rip the deer’s throat out.

Sometimes, when she smiles like that, burning with righteous anger for the injustices the People have suffered and so beautifully fierce, she reminds him of Andruil. Andruil had never had a tenth of Ariala’s wisdom, or her iron will, or her compassion, but that anger, hidden beneath a razor-sharp smile, is exactly the same.

“I hate her for this,” she says. They are standing on a street that should be residential, but instead hosts a long row of hollowed-out buildings, stained black with soot and ash. “I hate her for this.”

“Would you prefer Gaspard on the throne?” he wonders.

“I hate them both. I would let Orlais rot if it wouldn’t give Corypheus a stronghold for his armies.” She pulls away, wrapping her arms around herself, a gesture he has only seen when she is speaking or thinking of the Emprise. Solas draws her back, resting his chin atop her head, letting her lean against him. Eventually she sighs, and pulls herself from the circle of his arms. 

“Come on, arasha,” she says. “This isn’t very fun. I’m sorry. Let’s go find something fun.”

“I am with you,” Solas says. “That is enough for me, vhenan.”

Ariala smiles at him, something heartbreakingly grateful in her expression, in the dark liquid black of her eyes. They leave the ruined shell of a burnt-out city, exploring instead , making their way toward the High Quarter as the night goes on and on.

Halfway to the High Quarter, among houses that are not destroyed, Ariala sees something and gasps. “Look!” she says, pointing, and Solas follows her finger to see the outline of a tree on the roof. Thick ivy grows up the side of the whitewashed house, all the way up to the roof; without hesitation, Ariala goes to the ivy and begins to climb. Solas calls her back, but she only grins at him and keeps going.

Shaking his head, Solas stands below her, fully expecting her grip to rip out the ivy and fall to the street — and if that occurs, he will be there to catch her. But as she climbs higher and higher, the ivy holds her weight, and he sees her using uneven brickwork as foot- and handholds when necessary. When she’s almost at the top of the roof, she looks down at him and calls out, teasing, “Aren’t you coming, Solas?”

He sighs again, and reluctantly takes hold of the ivy. To his infinite surprise, the ivy is stronger than he had anticipated; tugging at it does not even shake the roots loose. There is a handhold not far above him, a result of poor brickwork. It takes him longer than Ariala to climb the wall — she must be used to it, trying to climb mountains instead of taking nearby paths — but she is there when he reaches the top, helping him over the roof’s ledge.

“Look,” she breathes. Solas calls forth small magelights, which spread out, bobbing in the air, shedding golden light in the darkness. The rooftop is a vegetable garden, one they explore hand-in-hand: he sees trellises for peas and grapes, a row of cabbages and tomatoes, potatoes almost ready for harvest. In the corner are two armchairs of wicker and cloth, one of which has a folded blanket on its seat.

Above the rooftop garden is the Winter Palace, lit up from within, and though they can hear no music he is certain that festivities are still going on. Last night, the Orlesians had not begun to retire until four in the morning, and “breakfast” had been served at three in the afternoon. Ariala stares at it for a while before scoffing under her breath and turning around.

Her gasp makes him turn as well.

Below them is the whole of Halamshiral, stretched out in a complex network of buildings and rooftops. The city is mostly dark, but a few lights are lit and spilling out, golden squares among a sea of black. 

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers beside him. Solas wraps his arm around her waist and tugs her close, ducking his head to kiss her hair.

Of course she would look upon the Winter Palace and show scorn, and yet find beauty in something many others would consider lesser. Of course she would find something to love even in the wreckage of something ruined and better left forsaken.

They return to the tree, which turns out to be a peach tree in the midst of season. Ariala reaches up and pulls a peach free, holding it in her hand. Watching him, she eats of it, teeth sinking deep into the flesh. She chews, swallows, and Solas cannot look away from her lips, red and shining from the juice.

Her smile, this time, is softer. She holds it out to him. “Want a bite? It’s pretty good.”

Solas looks from her shining lips to the peach, cups her hand with his and lifts it higher. Holding her gaze, he leans forward takes a bite of it right from the palm of her hand. Her eyes widen, and he can see the flush under her skin, steadily rising high on her face, coinciding with the sudden dilation of her pupils.

She mutters a soft curse, and Solas swallows his bite of peach, laughing. He doesn’t look away from her as he leans forward, pressing his tongue into the bite, licking excess juice that pools between fruit and soft skin. It is good; sweet. He makes a point to lick his lips afterward, just to watch her mouth go slack.

Her breath stutters out of her. “Oh my gods,” she whispers, sounding hoarse. “You’re— Solas, you’re drunk, aren’t you? Drunker than me.”

“Mm, perhaps,” he says, with a slow smile that makes her breath catch. “Either on wine, or on watching you all night. Perhaps both. Seeing you dance circles around those fools in the palace was… stimulating.” 

She laughs, though there is something choked about it, and he takes another bite of the peach, holding her gaze all the while. His thumb curling over her wrist to press against her pulse point. It’s rapid under his thumb. “Sweet talker,” she whispers, licking her lips.

Before he can reply, a high whine echoes in the air behind them. Solas looks up and sees a firework sailing through the air, bursting into a thousand crackling red lights that stream down the night sky in arcs. Another follows it, though its glittering lights are green. Solas turns back to her and kisses her, his fingers threading through her hair, and her hands lower. He hears the dull thud of the peach as it falls from her hand, rolling on the floor. She tastes sweet, a mixture of sweetwine and honey cakes and peach, and if he could he would sip from her mouth until his thirst was slaked —

He thinks of sipping from her in other ways, and suddenly he is hard, aching, cock trapped in too-tight trousers. He breaks away at once, resting his forehead against hers, tucking hair behind her ears, making sure his juice-wet fingers brush against the tips of them. She shudders, hard, eyes falling shut and a low moan escaping her throat. She sags against him, fingers curling in his shirt, and pants out, “So— so we’re doing this?”

“I will get the blanket,” he promises her, lowering his hands from her ears. She shudders, hard. In the distance, another firework crackles, casting green over them both.

“Okay,” she says, dazed. Her pupils are as black as her eyes when they are not reflecting light; he is pleased to see it. “Okay.”

It is the work of the moment to retrieve the blanket from the other side of the garden and return to her side. He kisses her, once, before setting the blanket out over the ground and casting a silencing ward. Any noises he pulls from her will be his alone to hear.

He is the first to sit, and he tugs her down with his hands on her hips. She goes down with a laugh, collapsing beside him, messy and uncoordinated and perfect. Solas moves, resting over her, and she grins, draping her arms over his shoulders lazily. He waits a long moment, watching the different colors — purples, blues, and golds — play over her skin.

Her eyes lid. “What are you waiting for?” The sultry confidence vanishes a moment later and she looks at him, lips pressing into a line. “Having doubts?”

“You are so beautiful,” he says, leaning down to kiss her. Her mouth curves against his, and he feels her hands smooth over his shoulders, burning hot as an iron through his clothes. Her legs shift, knees moving to bracket his hips, and he presses closer to her, hips shifting to rest flush between her legs, making his arousal evident. She gasps and one of his hands cradles her head when it falls back, cushioning her from knocking it against the stone floor of the flat roof.

“Oh, gods,” she rasps out, and Solas breaks the kiss, moving his head to kiss a spot under her jaw that makes her shiver.

“No gods here,” he says.

“Just us,” she replies. “Just us.”

“Yes.” He kisses his way down her throat, to her collarbone, and he moves his hands to her waist, dipping under the hem of her loose tunic. She helps him pull it up and over her head, leaving her in her breastband. He brushes his fingers over the soft fabric, searching for a clasp or a loose end, but is unsuccessful. She laughs and kisses his nose, sitting up so she may remove it herself, and Solas takes the opportunity to remove his own shirt as she does so. 

When she is topless before him, she leans back on one hand, dangling the other between her fingertips. Holding his gaze, she bites her lip and lets it fall to the blanket. Then she leans back on both hands, watching his face. Solas holds her gaze for a moment, then lets his gaze trail down to her breasts. After a moment he moves forward, reaching out and weighing them in his hands. They are small, warm in his palm, and her dark brown nipples are already pebbling under his touch.

Ariala giggles, a rosy flush on her cheeks. “You know,” she tells him, “I will never understand men’s fascinations with breasts. They’re just there to feed babes.”

Solas hums, looking up at her an instant before he gently pinches her nipples between his forefingers and thumbs, tugging them. She gasps, back arching, eyes going wide as a full-body shiver runs through her. Solas smirks, running his thumbs over her nipples until they harden into small peaks. “Of course,” he says. “Surely there is no other purpose.”

“Ass,” she says, but she’s smiling, her flush deepened. Solas leans forward, fingertips skating down from her nipples to the curves of her breasts, and then from there down her ribs. She twists away, laughing, and Solas pulls her flush against his chest. He presses his lips to the sensitive ridge of her ear, feeling it flick against his jaw, feeling her shiver against him.

“Let me drink from you,” he tells her, voice low and rough with his desire. She moans, hips rocking against his, grinding down against his arousal. Solas does not stifle his moan, does not try to keep himself from shifting and grinding back against her.

“Drink from…” she pants out, and gasps out oh when he sneaks his hand between her splayed thighs, rubbing over a damp patch of fabric. Oh, if she is wet already, he will be utterly ruined. He will be unable to keep himself from her, after tonight.

And what is the harm? he asks. What is the harm in loving her?

Many things, logic replies, cold and detached. Any other day he would listen to reason. But he is a little drunk on wine, and intoxicated by her very presence, and he wants to know what she sounds like, what she looks like, when she comes. It is a desire so fierce, so bright, it steals his breath.

“Okay,” she says, and it is several long heartbeats before Solas realizes she’s giving him permission. She gets to her feet with all the elegance of a newborn colt, but the dance she performs while she attempts to untie the laces of her trousers is enchanting, moreso than any Elvhen courtesan’s. 

She somehow makes the knot tighter, and bursts into a fit of nervous, embarrassed giggles. Solas joins her laughter and moves forward, helping undo the knot. When her pants are loose around her hips, he hooks his fingers under the waistband. She bites her lip and nods, fingertips brushing across his cheek. He leans into the touch, turning his head to kiss her Anchored palm before pulling both pants and smalls down to her ankles. She steps and he presses his face against her wiry black curls, inhaling deeply.

“Fuck,” she hisses. 

Solas mouths at the seam of her cunt, hands smoothing up the backs of her strong thighs and the soft hairs there — she has an archer’s body, built from heavy longbows and trekking across Thedas, and he loves, he loves the strength hidden within her body— to grip the cheeks of her ass. 

Her legs suddenly give out and he catches her. Laughing, she kisses him, and Solas twists so he is the one on his back. The late summer air is cool on his skin, and the blanket warm against his back. He holds his hands out to her, intending to guide her to sit over his face, but she has other ideas. Biting her lip, Ariala laughs again, how he loves that sound, and shuffles on her knees toward his hips.

Her brow shines with sweat, her body is bathed in a rainbow’s worth of colors from the magelights and the fireworks, and the thick mass of her hair is frizzed from the humidity. She has never looked more beautiful. She grins at him and starts untying his trousers, the heel of one palm grinding down against his erection, and he is helpless to resist the sweet pressure she offers. 

He groans, hips lifting, pressing back against her, until she draws his cock out and runs her thumb up the length of it, gathering the wet that has already gathered at the tip of his cock. She leans down, wrapping her lips around the head of him, tongue dragging against the slit, and he almost shouts, jerking against her, though one hand keeps his hips still. She hums, the vibration of it rumbling through him, and everything goes hot and blinding and he shouts something, tensing as his cock pulses once, hard, he’s so close—

She pulls off of him the instant before he comes and he presses his hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut as he stifles his whine. He is distantly aware of the pain in his cock at the denial, the throb of want that pulses like its own heartbeat, the tremble in his thighs. 

“You okay?” she asks. His mouth is too dry to reply, so he only nods. “Okay. You told me to stop.”

Had he? He doesn’t remember, though it is very probable. To finish so soon— anyone in Elvhenan would have laughed and thrown him out of their bed. Though, he supposes, somewhat bitterly, this was the expected byproduct of three thousand years of celibacy.

He pulls his hand down from his mouth, reaches for her instead. “You have a very pretty cock, by the way,” she says, taking his hands in hers. 

“Thank you,” he replies, smiling, and pulls his hands free from hers. 

“But that was just my first impression. I’ll need to see it more often to determine if it was just pretty or if it was maybe the prettiest cock I’ve ever seen or if it was, in fact, the prettiest cock —”

He takes hold of her hips, tugging her forward onto her knees, and she gasps, her half-slurred words coming to a stop. Solas laughs, running his hands from her hips to her thighs, squeezing the meat of her muscles. “Let me drink from you, vhenan.”

She does not understand until he tries to lift one of her knees, so that they straddle each side of his face. She gazes down at him, breathing hard, whole body flushed. This close, he can see her curls, glistening with her wet, and the sight makes him swallow. 

He tugs on her legs again and she shakes her head. “Oh that’s— Solas, gods, you’re going to suffocate.”

Solas smiles up at her. “I doubt it, vhenan, but if I do, I will die happily, knowing I did so pleasing my heart.”

Ariala laughs and resists his attempts to lower her down so she is sitting on his face. “Okay, that’s sweet, but, I won’t— I won’t come to your funeral, arasha. I’ll be too embarrassed. Imagine the epitaph! ‘Here lies Solas, crushed between the Inquisitor’s thighs,’ rest in— in pieces. Dorian would just waggle his eyebrows at me and Bull would have this shit-eating grin and Mother Giselle, fuck, Mother Giselle!” She starts laughing again, so hard she doubles over, and that is when he succeeds in lifting her knee up and over, so that she straddles his face. He pushes them out until she is forced to slide down, down, until her cunt is pressed against the lower half of his face.

His first thought: she is drenched.

His second: she is beautiful.

He parts her folds with a long lick, eyes falling shut. Ariala curses, moaning low in her throat. Solas grips her ass, pulling her down flush against his face, so he is nearly overwhelmed by her. He takes to her as he has longed to do all night, devouring her with ravenous hunger. It has been so long since he had had a woman this way, but he retains some memory of the proper technique. He listens for her reactions as he tries a variety of combinations — he fucks her with his tongue, and swirls the tip of his tongue around her clit, and sucks it into his mouth. His hands knead at her ass, gently urging her into a rocking rhythm, and soon enough she takes it up, grinding down against his face.

The fireworks are still going on, their booms like distant rolls of thunder, but Solas can only hear Ariala: her weak gasps, her hissed curses, her stuttering moans of pleasure. He opens his eyes to see she is hunched over, stomach folded in three long lines between her abdomen and chest, one hand pressed over her mouth and eyes squeezed shut. He pulls one hand free from her ass and reaches up, pulling her hand down by the elbow. Her eyes snap open and meet his gaze.

“Solas, fuck,” she gasps. “You, oh, don’t stop, please—”

He redoubles his efforts, listening to her hitching breaths until he finds something that makes her groan and curse and roll her hips against his face so hard his head hits the stone floor. 

(It is this: his lips sealed around her clit, sucking rhythmically, and two fingers in her wet cunt, curled and insistent against that soft spongy spot in her walls.)

She falls over, bracing herself above him on her forearms, and he feels her thighs tremble around his head. She’s begging him, don’t stop don’t don’t please fuck, and fresh wetness gushes from her cunt, soaking his chin and inner wrist. He drinks her down, swallowing, greedy for her taste, but he can tell she is not sated: the walls of her are still tight, still on the edge of that final cliff. She’s close, so close, if he just—

But then he realizes that he wants to see her face when she comes. It is with that thought that he lifts her hips off of his face and she wails, bucking against air. “Hush,” Solas says, and her breaths sound almost like sobs. She is trembling so badly it is easy, to gently guide her onto her side and from there onto her back. “Hush, vhenan, I only want to see you.”

Her wide eyes meet his, her mouth open and slack, tongue pressing against her lower lip. She reaches for him, weakly, and he lets her grip his shoulders as he cups her mound, pressing two fingers inside her. He watches her face as he finger-fucks her, his thumb circling her clit, and his wrist is cramping but the bliss on her face is so worth it, why had he ever been hesitant, he loved her, he loves her —

Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open with her gasp, and he thinks: there.

She comes with a high, breathy, lewd moan that electrifies him. Her whole body shudders and her thighs close around his hand, trapping him between shaking thighs as her cunt milks his fingers in rhythmic pulses. He keeps going, watching her face as her eyes roll back, as her hips jerk and her legs alternate between splayed open and clamped tight around his wrist. But it is not until he has coaxed another rush of wetness from her, soaking both his hand and the blanket beneath them, that she finally makes a strangled noise and shakes her head.

The fireworks had ended, but the magelights linger, shining bright on the sweat that coats her body. Panting, she lifts her head, glancing over the wetness that shines upon his skin and darkens the blanket beneath them both. With a wince she lies back down. “Sorry. I should’ve… I should’ve warned you about that. It happens sometimes.”

“Hm. I did not mind in the least.” Solas gently pulls his fingers free of her. Holding her gaze, he licks his wrist, dragging his tongue up his palm to suck on his two middle fingers. Her taste, the salt and musk of it, is enough to make his eyes close in pleasure. It has been too long.

Tomorrow his hand will still smell like her. It is an enticing thought.

“Gods,” she gasps out, chest lifting and falling in shallow, sharp breaths. She laughs, a note of roughness in the sound, and her smile is tired, eyes heavy-lidded. “Here lies Ariala Lavellan, came so hard she ascended directly to the Fade. Tell Varric that’s how I want it written down.”

Solas laughs, unable to help himself, doubling over with the force of his amusement. She grins and holds his face between her hands, pulling him down for a kiss. He groans, pressing closer, rubbing himself against the slick skin of her thigh. She breaks the kiss at once. Somehow, she has the energy to sit up— swaying, loose-limbed, languid and heavy with release — and push him into sitting down. She sits in his lap and kisses his temple, and then his jaw. “I’m too sensitive to take you, arasha, so do you want my hand or my mouth?”

“Hand,” he replies, holding her closer, arms tight around her back. “Stay here. Right here.”

“Always.” She hums and slings an arm over his shoulders, sneaking her other hand down between their sweatslick bodies. She cups the head of his cock in her palm, slowly grinding her wet cunt against his length, covering him in her wet. She peppers kisses over his face as she begins to stroke him, long, hard, squeezing at the tip.

He buries his face in her throat, listening as she whispers to him (you made me feel so good, Solas, that was so good, it was wonderful, you’re amazing) while her strokes grow faster and faster. But it is not until she calls him arasha, her happiness, that he groans and comes, cock pulsing in her palm, his spend splashing hot upon both their bellies.

It is a long, long time before he finds the strength to extract himself from her. His mind still feels fuzzy, though whether that is from the sex or the wine he cannot know. All he knows is that his body is relaxed and warm, and he is safe with her.

Ariala uses the blanket to clean them both, grimacing at the mess they’d made of it. She promises herself she’ll leave a bag of royals at the doorstep of this house, and then delicately folds the blanket so as to hide all evidence of their encounter. She is naked as she darts across the garden, replacing the blanket, and Solas cannot help his laughter as he dresses. She returns to him and he helps her pull on her servants’ clothes. 

She is beautiful, shining with sweat, her makeup all but gone, her hair plastered in all directions and her eyes bright, reflecting the magelights for an instant before he extinguishes them. He draws her into another kiss, though this one is more tender, more subdued than their other ones.

It takes much more effort climbing down than it had been climbing up, and of course most of it is in the perception that the ground appears further away than it is. Still, they manage. Once on the ground, Ariala makes a point of learning the address of this house, and mutters it intermittently as they walk uptown toward the Winter Palace; its lights are still burning bright, though the firework show is over.

Once they are far enough from the house, Ariala pulls him into another kiss.

“I don’t want to go back,” she whispers, when they are forced apart to breathe. He rests his forehead against hers.

“I know,” he says. “But I will be by your side. I swear it.”

She smiles, and that is enough for them both.