#Panowen Lavellan

[ozziyo]

you think you want love, you wouldn't want it if you knew what it was

(or: putting Dove in the middle of the messiest romance in Thedas <3 shoutout to my bestie @tieflingwizard for having the hottest lavellan)

[inquisitorpanowen-blog]

Type of Hero

She thought that leaders were sun-touched beings

And so forgot a fundamental truth.

In dark of night, the lost to the stars turn.

Green eyes with clarity crystalline saw,

with wisdom beyond kin long ages past,

but were blind to triumphs her own hand wrought.

She pushed away human divinity,

named herself a mortal agent only,

and rejected the blessed Herald's due.

Yet her indomitable focus did

together bring simple acts of kindness,

and set in hearts those wistful sparks aflame.

With quick mind and a clever tongue she asked

questions seeking beyond prejudice held,

and contemplated those answers given.

Though she looked outward for valued knowledge

on her morals she acted quick and firm.

Not by power led she, but sweet intent.

Still among the flames of hope she set, she danced,

believing not that her hands inspired them.

Such foolishness yet such intelligence

and as a moth by smile slight I was drawn

Barely the Inquisition understood

the value of what chance gifted to them.

A soft but fierce guardian she became,

and her star turned a pulsing blazing sun,

defiant against the crazed would-be god.

The scattered lost turned to see such pure light

and helpless watched brittle white wash over it.

They feared her gone, blotted out, as did I.

Until between two peaks she did appear

exhausted amidst howls of wolf and wind;

flickering and faint the dawn did come.

Reverent eyes upturned their faith did give

and with great sword held high she vowed to lead.

Around  home she walked once in lucid dream

And her impulsive act set a cruel course

so that it would be kinder then to leave

but that would be more unbearable yet.

And so I stayed witness to her vast feats;

troops gathered, acclaim was won, and secrets found.

Armor was fashioned from a slain dragon

to be worn snug while freeing the detained

or resolving issues of many types.

For each solution marvel deeper grew.

Perhaps she could accept the truth of me.

[inquisitorpanowen-blog]

On Panowen and Being the Clan's First

Panowen was never Clan Lavellan's only First.

She was born within days of another, and the clan treated the two girls as a set. Panowen and Liasa were not interchangeable, but grew up inseparable. Panowen was quiet, contemplative but cheerful and ready to join Liasa on invented adventures. This bond deepened when Panowen revealed her magic to Liasa under the tangled branches of an ancient oak and within the week Liasa produced spots of frost and snow to Panowen's ball of flame. They were excited beyond belief, and swore to be friends and the best apprentice (for neither could fathom being steps ahead of the other, so they swore to stand together) that Clan Lavellan would ever see. The revelation of two new mages in the clan was less well-received by the adults.

The clans had met only two some years ago, with Clan Lavellan gaining their current First in a trade. It would be eight years before the next , and the girls were so young. How could they send one away, and keep the other? How could they choose? Parents who relied on each other fought, emotions tangled between friendships and family, a horrible choice and widespread tradition. They were not even close a shem settlement.

Panowen couldn't find a solution to make everyone happy; she did not wish to make her parents suffer but could not imagine a life in the clan without Liasa there. Liasa grabbed her hand and declared that if Panowen was to leave, so should she. The ties pulled them closer, and the two turned it as a weapon.

Then Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan spoke, voice firm and unwavering. It did not matter she already had a talented First. Both would stay. Clan Lavellan, she declared, would not abandon any of their own, least of all children for the sake of superstition [1]. The girls would be trained together, as they refused to be separated. If it bothered any, they could simply view the two as one in this matter. No one dared cross the keeper, for she was like a bear, fierce and unforgiving when set to it, and as the duo grew, the clan did as the keeper said.

Years later, Liasa and Panowen grew and practicing magic together they developed a refined ability to channel magic to the other[2]. A meeting between clans came again, but Keeper Deshanna kept both girls; no clan would take them together. Their ability to boost each others abilities caused as much distrust as respect. Clan Lavellan had adjusted and accepted for the girls were nothing but bright chatter and attentive listeners. Ideal members of society, if over prone towards magical and theoretical discussions.

When bandits came and killed many, including the current First, both became her replacement. If it were any other two mages, it could not have happened, but by now their two as one role was only a strange natural quirk. No one questioned this oddity. It was not until years later, when Keeper Deshanna heard of the Conclave that the two would become separated in any meaningful fashion. She instructed them to choose one to go and spy on the gathering.

After a night of discussion, they agreed that Panowen would be the one to go. Of the two, she was more interested in the affairs of others, and better at unfocusing from specific events or actions to see a wider picture. (It was always Panowen that selected the targets in battle, releasing lightning to mark them for Liasa to freeze or blast.)

[1]- Keeper Deshanna's declaration is forever burned into Panowen's memory and she can recite it word for word to this day. It is inspiration for never abandoning any of her people, even as who 'her people' shifts to include everyone that works for the Inquisition. Certainly, abandoning a mage child is something that Panowen considers abhorrent even if she must accept that some clans feel forced to do so.

[2]- This experience, among many other things, is why Panowen chose to visit the mages. She had no first hand experience with Templars, only stories of why she should avoid them, so was not so confident they could suppress a giant hole in the sky. She knew, however, with total assurance that she could properly accept and supplement her efforts with magic channeled to her from other mages.

[inquisitorpanowen-blog]

Good morning

Being Dalish meant rising with the sun. This had not changed in Haven, it was not different at Skyhold. The sunlight came in through her collection of fine windows every morning, and even with her bed's curtains shut tight, the ambient light woke her. The distant sound of the new recruits being set through their paces began and a new day like many others began. Stretching languidly was her response and addition to the daily routine.

Except, unlike any other day, when she did, her legs slid along others and one arm was stopped by something solid and warm. Awake all at once, her eyes snapped open and she recalled the night before, which had not, by any measure she used, been like other nights. Not amongst her clan, at Haven or any other here. None of them had ended with her sharing a bed with Solas.

He, for all his careful nature, was still asleep. One arm curled around her, and his head dipped down towards her forehead. Any other she had slept with had moved away by morning, close but separate. Solas still held her, with their legs tangled. How that was managed, she didn't know. He managed wonders she hadn't considered.

With one elbow, Panowen propped herself up. In sleep his features were soft, free of daytime tension; no guard against the public eye, no focus on solving a world full of issues or countering a mad would-be god's actions.  He was just a slumbering man, holding onto something precious. A warm and dizzy joy filled her heart. It had taken to doing so more and more often, parting her lips before she realized she'd begun to smile and coloring conversations and memories with a gentle euphoria. She wanted to run her fingers across his cheeks and along the back of his ears but didn't dare. 

It was almost certain to wake him, and for every careful reminder he gave about her sleep was a long night he worked.

Cullen's voice rose from the courtyard but what he was admonishing a recruit for was unclear. The day went on, and her presence would be demanded. Panowen tucked her head against his, attempted to absorb this moment through the weight of his arm around her waist, the scent of oakmoss and juniper. The moment it was disturbed, it would end. She shifted backwards. If she could escape the bed without waking him, she could pretend it lived as long as he slept.

She did not get far. The arm wrapped around her tightened, stopping her immediately. It was unprecedented. Solas took great pains to ensure she had her freedom. She reached for him, always, he gave her the chance to escape. He pulled her back into kisses, held her tight so all of her skin felt alive with his touch, but it was always back, it was never a start. Even the kiss thick with chocolate came after she'd held out her hand.

His eyes were open, half lidded and thick with sleep. Her heart sang, but then Solas blinked and clarity and wakefulness reached him. His grip became loose, but she still smiled.

“Good morning.” Her words hummed through the air.

His expression shifted, his eyebrow taking up their subtle movements. He reached up and cupped her face, “Good morning, vhenan.”

[inquisitorpanowen-blog]

Flower Crowns

After dextrous fingers tucked the last stray stem into the chain, Panowen held up her work to study it in the light. Taking their midday travel break in the flower field was one of the best decisions she'd made as Inquisitor. She smiled. Yellow, green and white suited him. Standing up, Panowen tucked her extra flowers into her belt and headed to where Solas stood half way across the field.

“Solas,” Panowen held the crown out towards him.

“You have spent this time constructing a flower crown?” Solas asked, with a slight incline of his head.

“Two, actually,” Panowen turned towards where Cole sat in the field, his ridiculous hat decorated with large blossoms in warm soft colors, “I made one for Cole as well.”

“Ah, if it that is the case, then it would be remiss of me to refuse,” Solas said, but he didn't take it from her hands.

Instead he tilted his head downward. She stepped forward and placed it upon his head, taking an extra bit of time to ensure that it was even. It wasn't until she tilted her head back to admire the placement she understood how close they were. Meeting his gaze, she realized she should have used some blue flowers as well. Her hands slowly pulled back from the flowers, uncertain of where to go. She dropped her gaze, look at him once more, and her heart fluttered when she saw he was still looking at her.

“I made a garland for you, too!” Cole exclaimed and he continued speaking as if hadn't just caused the Inquisitor to jump like a guilty child, “You said you wouldn't wear one because you shouldn't wear one you made, so I made one for you. It isn't very good though.”

It wasn't. Panowen wasn't certain it'd stay in one piece. She didn't know how it was staying in one piece now, but there was no way to say that to his face. It was unlikely she could say it with him fifty yards away, or more. The colors were pretty, and in the end, for someone who had trouble with his laces, the thought certainly counted.

“It's fine! I wasn't expecting one in the first place so I'm very happy.” Relief filled her when what she could see of Cole's face behind hat brim and scraggly bangs brightened.

“Oh, good. I was worried. I can't make them stay together the way you do.” Cole's lifted the delicate crown and she ducked her head though she hardly need do so. After it was in place, Cole looked at it and declared, “I am going to see if Cassandra wants one too. She likes flowers sometimes. There won't be any ribbons or little cards, but maybe it will work.”

The idea of Cole convincing Cassandra to wear a crown made of flowers was magical enough that Panowen watched his progress across the field and then Cassandra's expression as her attention was taken away from their collection of maps. At a gesture to from Cole, the seeker turned her head to look at the pair of elves and the look she received made Panowen laugh.

The motion tumbled the garland apart. She only caught a few tangled flowers before they hit the ground and she sighed over them.

“You did not have plans to make one for Cassandra as well?” Solas picked a flower off her shoulder and held it out to Panowen.

“No, I can't imagine she'd like the idea. We represent the Inquisition, even if it's unlikely we'll see anyone for miles.” Panowen carefully took the flower and twirled it, before looking at Cassandra once more. It didn't look like the duo were talking about flowers or garlands anymore, “The flowers would probably look prettier in her braid anyways.”

“Vhenan, may I have those?”

Panowen blinked, and looked at him. His hand was out, and at her confusion his expression changed to slight amusement. She deposited the flowers into his hand, careful that none spilled out of his grasp, “Are you going to make a garland?”

“No,” Solas curled his fingers around the flowers, and gestured with his other hand, “Here, please sit down. I would like to try something.”

Panowen had yet to see Solas fail at anything, so she complied. He shifted so he was behind her and after a moment, he ran his fingers through her hair. She had to suppress a shiver at the unexpected contact. As his fingers parted her hair, and a familiar pattern of gentle tugs began on one side of her head, she understood.

“You used to have longer hair, did you not?” Solas asked as he worked.

“Yes, how did you know?” Panowen frowned.

“When the Inquisition first began, you would make a gesture with your hands after you put on your armor. It was as if you were trying to pull something out from underneath that outermost layer.” There was a short pause, “You are also much better at sitting still for this than I had expected.”

“What do you mean by that?” She raised a brow though he couldn't see it.

“Vhenan, I have watched you read on the couch in the rotunda. That you are able to read uninterrupted while shifting between so many different positions is nothing short of incredible. At your own desk, if you can not move about you lose interest in your work.”

He didn't add the part where this included tasks she otherwise found intensely interesting. She was quiet and contemplative, but even during the stories he shared she could not stay still. They were small movements, but movements nonetheless and at first he had confused them as a sign of disinterest despite bright eyes remaining focused on him. It was only the now expected questions that came after that managed to dissuade him from that erroneous idea.

She folded her hands together, and then separated them again. “I suppose I like the way it feels. It's... nice.”

Solas paused as he tucked the final flower into the braid. There was something hidden in that pause, but he let it go. “If I had known, I might have tried something like this sooner. I shall have to thank Cole.”

“And Cassandra for indulging us in all the flower braiding,” Panowen stated.

“Fortunately for us, I am now done.” He stated with a final twist of her hair.

As her fingers felt the twin braids and brushed flower petals, Panowen smiled. It was absolutely basic in design, but executed so well she couldn't feel any loose ends or places where the flowers stems showed. She could not see how he'd arranged the flowers exactly, but it wasn't as if he lacked an eye for color when he made such dazzling murals. She dropped her hands and turned to look up at him with a grin.

“Is this another thing that you learned in the Fade?”

“And I am very glad that it meets your approval, vhenan,” He stated as he offered her a hand up. Neither of them mentioned how his assistance was a little too enthusiastic and brought her in close enough so his fingers could run over the surface of her braids. They were just as silent about how they lingered just long enough that they thought one of Cassandra's exasperated sighs was directed at them. Hearts skipped, but it didn't stop the slow way their fingers separated before they went to gather their belongings.

Bonus –

As they continued on their way, Panowen took the remaining flowers tucked into her belt and wove another braid, moving from one color to the next. She attempted to convince Cassandra to wear it as a loop off a shoulder or off her belt since it wasn't long enough to make a proper flower crown. However, no argument she used worked, and so the elf retired from that battle field before it became an annoyance. It left her running a finger along the delicate petals, as she couldn't bear to just leave it by the wayside. The solution came in the form of a collection of offerings in front of a wolf statue.

She had not been remiss in praying to the gods, or asking for their blessings, she was too well trained a First for that, but she had not in fact, given offerings to Ven'harel in a decent stretch of time. The Dread Wolf had always been, at best, a powerful yet distant threat unlikely to ever touch her life. Now, as she fought a deranged would-be god, the legendary figure was almost eclipsed by that very real and very concrete threat to Thedas.

“A moment,” She requested, before deviating from the path. The flowers became coiled around another offering, adding color to an otherwise dreary alter. Then she lifted her hand and lit four pieces of incense, one for each member of their group. Skyhold would keep the rest.

Solas gave her an odd expression as she returned. Unconsciously she dusted her hands off on her pants, “What? Do you not think he would like them?”

“No, it is just that they are not a typical offering.” His expression was still watchful, and she assumed it had to do with the habits of the Dalish.

“We don't have any of the typical offerings. Besides, perhaps the the flowers will help.”

“How so?”

She shrugged, not invested in defending the leap of logic and not wanting to trigger another round of the Dalish-are-wrong. Never would she turn away stories from the fade of the knowledge he'd gained there about their ancestors, but sometimes he became so invested in the tales. Certain and offended, though he admitted the Fade shifted on emotion an memory. He called her a mystery, but truly, he was.

“All the flowers Cole found have a strong scent.”

She saw the understanding flash across his face, and all he said was “I see.”

Later, when she came too close to the edge of a sudden drop to judge its depth, his arm pulled her back. She bumped into his chest, and his face pressed into the back of her head. The grip lasted seconds too long, and his eyes were half closed. His thoughts were dangerous to have when Cole was around as his heart filled every painful nuance. He could smell her, warm and clear underneath the flowers in her hair.

'No, ma vhenan, no flower could help. Your scent will remain forever in my mind.'

[inquisitorpanowen-blog]

On Panowen and her Scars

Panowen likes her scars, there are not very many, but each has a story, a little piece of her history preserved. The vallaslin marked her as following a goddess's ideals, but the scars marked lessons she taught herself. They are definition, proof, of her actions and their results.

The scar on her right cheek is benign, and only exists because Panowen smiled through treatment and rest, stressing and pulling the flesh. It is her reminder that not all scars carried heavy tales, and others may lie as she and Liasa concocted stories to cover for the silly injury. When amused by another's antics or sensing a lie, she runs fingers along it's length.

A sharp sudden pain, as a branch snaps back into place. A name thrown in surprise and accusation. Her finger press against the cut, warm, moist, covered in blood. Barely fifteen minutes out of camp, and she is bleeding, wounded by a tree.

Of the two on her face, the one across her lips is the heavy one. It tells her that at times, the price for her safety, and the safety of others, must be paid with blood and pain. She presses her lips together when making a difficult decision, and if it is one she does not like, or the answers leave her feeling sick and hollow, the scar is folded in half. She presses the halves together, feeling the jagged parts catch.

A quick silver swing and she tastes blood and elfroot for months. She thinks of the campfires, warmth and protection, exploding sparks and cooking dinner and she sends the thought out. The whites engulf his eyes, his pupils constrict. She flinches; he screams, burns and dies thrashing against the pain consuming him. He is the first living creature she's killed.

On her right hand, inside the crook of her pointer and middle fingers, are two dark stripes that become one when the fingers curl around a wooden handle. These are the mark of failure, a shallow echo of what the world takes when prices aren't paid, when hands and mind cannot protect others. These scars she plays with. She bends the fingers to form the one line, traces it with a finger from the other hand and remembers faces gone, or she presses down on the scar until it hurts so she doesn't cry about the people she will yet lose.

The wood bites her hand again but she can't pay it any attention. The earthen maw isn't deep enough yet, and she has to be able to say the rites. Magic wiped away her wounds, but the emptiness hurt more. Hurts more. She buries her predecessor, and yards away, her father buries her mother.

The long dark mark on her left leg is the one she's most proud of. Almost no one sees it, and that makes her smile, like a secret proof of how clever she is, and also a hidden story about how she's always just dodged death. She doesn't touch it, but when others talk about her ability to cheat death, how atrocious or miraculous her luck is, her weight shifts to test that leg.

The air whistles as she falls from the cliff. The dark forms gather at the top, and she grins defiant. She will not submit. Water breaks over her, the river swallows her. She can't breath and she doesn't know where up is. The river pulls her. Her arm hits something hard, unforgiving. Then her leg and it hurts. She can't breath. Ice blooms, larger and larger, between her hands and pushes her up. Her head's above the surface but the river still pulls her. Cold, she must get home before they find her.

[inquisitorpanowen-blog]

Clan Lavellan rarely went this far south, and as she stood on the surface of the frozen lake, Panowen understood why. It was beautiful and there was wonder in the moment of standing under the moon, breath wreathing around but the moaning and cracking of the ice unnerved her. As she contemplated the cold clarity of the night, a part of her kept imagining Haven's lake giving way underneath her. Down she'd go like a stone, lost in chilling waters, and then the Inquisition might be over before it began.

The others would be able to sort out the mages and the templars. That mess was started by the shemlen, so they undoubtedly could straighten it out. All their determination, though, would not be able to patch the hole in the sky, or the other rifts opening across Thedas.

She looked down at her left hand where the mysterious mark remained inactive. They called it divine, but at one point, it was going to kill her. Now it did nothing unless she came close to a rift. Panowen wiggled her fingers. Nothing. Why everyone insisted why it marked her as the Herald of Andraste, a chosen of the Maker's Bride, she would never understand.

Panowen turned to look back over Haven. Most lights were snuffed out; only the inn remained bright, since most people had gone to bed. She was surprised to see the figure on the shore, dark against the moonlight snow. Of all people, she'd pegged Solas as the one to head to sleep first. She waved at him, and the figure shifted though he did not return the gesture. Checking her footing as another rumbling came from the ice, Panowen decided it was a good enough time to head back.

“It was not my intention to disturb you,” His arms lifted and settled back into place, and Panowen felt oddly aware of the movement.

She shook her head with a smile, “You didn't. I was only thinking.”

“May I ask what it was? You appeared quite absorbed in your thoughts.”

“You spent enough time watching to figure that out?” She had one corner of her mouth turn up, making it a joke if he wanted it to be.

“It was a beautiful sight.” His words were matter of fact, his gaze even.

She shut her mouth and turned her head. Panowen forgot how easily he delivered those lines, and each time a blush threatened her cheeks and the tips of her ears, “I was thinking about the mark, and how all of Haven seems convinced holy Andraste put it on my hand.”

“Ah,” Solas observed, “And you do not.”

“No, I don't.” Panowen held up her left hand once more, “If Andraste really did chose me to be her Herald, it was either a very complicated jest, or she's intent on teaching a large number of people an important lessons.“

“What lessons do you believe selecting an elf would impart, da'len?”

Panowon shrugged. It would be worse than just being an elf. She was Dalish, a step worse than a city elf who might have grown up speaking the word of the Maker. The concept of growing up disconnected from their race's history rankled her, but to the shemlen it had to be one step in the right direction. No heathen gods, no running around in the woods and no wearing their defiance on their faces. There was of course, also the fact she was a mage, and the shemlen loved cloistering all their mages out of fear. “Probably something about how the Maker loves us all, if Mother Giselle is to be believed. Elves are not held in high regard.”

“While that is true, they appear to be treating you with a great deal of kindness.” Solas observed.

“That's probably Josefina's doing,” Panowen admitted with chagrin. If people didn't ignore her insistence she wasn't a Herald, they happily ignored her other choices on how to be addressed as well. It was frustrating to be watched and heard, but have none of them actually see or listen to her. She looked up at Solas, “What about you? No one is bothering you, are they?”

“It is hardly anything that I could not foresee.” Solas repeated the gesture where his arms went up and back down.

“I'll talk to Josefina. There isn't any point in making sure they don't give me dirty looks if they simply turn around to give them to someone else.”

There was consideration in the look he gave her, and she set her chin and met his gaze. It wasn't as grave a promise as the first she'd made, but Panowen considered it almost as important. No elf was going to suffer the sting of slurs or sideways looks while she received special treatment, least of all Solas who was invaluable since before day one.

The only hint that he'd accepted this new proclamation a small release of tension in his shoulders and around his eyes, “I assume that you are not planning on doing so tonight.”

“No,” Panowen beamed, “Of course not. I'll talk to her tomorrow morning. For tonight, I think I should finally get some rest. Everyone else is already asleep. Good night, Solas.”

“Good night,” he repeated, though he made no motion to move. “Rest well, da'len.”

[inquisitorpanowen-blog]

She holds a tiny knife in her hand as she cuts leaves off of elfroot. It’s barely a weapon, and not one for her. His face drains of color. She cannot be here, not out in the open. The Inquisitor should be at Skyhold, safe, secure. Did they let her out unattended? No, three companions trail her. Solas doesn’t see who, and it doesn’t matter. She turns towards the sound haggard running in her direction. Her eyes widen and her mouth begins to form his name. He doesn’t know what words he’s pushing from his mouth. He only feels the stretch of one arm reaching for her.

There’s an arrow in her chest. It’s suddenly, sprouted like a striped flower made of feathers with a stem of intricate carved wood. Confusion hits before the pain. Lavellan looks down impressed by its beauty. Even in the most decorated hands, only plain practical blades have aimed for her heart. She has never been hunted by an Elvhen god before.

There is a crack of lightning many yards away. It’s larger than she meant it and a tree near her target splits apart. She isn’t used to the new old rules of magic. He, however, is. He casts his barrier and it casts her in green light and illuminates her determination. Without pause she begins the steps for a dance with staff and death.

A twin of of the first arrow appears neatly next to the first, and her pattern is thrown off. The other three have fanned out, moving towards the attacker, a cry falling from from one's mouth. They barely seem to notice him, and he them as he rushes to catch her falling figure.

Now Lavellan is befuddled by the arrows, long fingers twinning around the shafts. Solas shields her body and prevents her from attempting to pull them out. He knows barbs will catch and tear flesh as they come out, and she's too taken too much damage already. Deterred from her initial action, she stares at the blood on her hands.

He curses how Andruil's game had cost so much energy, how hard he had worked just to arrive before her. Solas slips what healing magic he can muster into her small frame, but he watches it become undone. The arrows are poisoned. Playing with mortals who only have decades to perfect their lies and manipulations he's forgotten what masters he used to work against.

“Andraste, Andraste, Andraste. They couldn't stop saying her name.”A sound half soft laughter half rattling cough interrupts the dizzy, half formed words. “I thought that there would be more fire.”

“Inquisitor.”

Her eyes stare into some great unknown trapped in the red substance on her hands. He turns her chin so she looks at him. “Ma vhenan, focus on me. There are far too many things you have yet to see and do in this world.”

After a delay, Lavellan recognizes him once more, eyes focus and she smiles. “Solas. I thought that you didn't want me anymore.”

“That could never be possible.” He realizes the words are only half heard when her fingers trace the shape of his chin, leaving a red trail behind.

“I am glad that you came back.” She smiles again, but her eyes see .

Then she lets out a great shuddering sigh, and her entire body goes limp. The hand hand touching his face falls, striking the group. Without thinking, he reaches out, takes it and squeezes it. Kneeling, he holds her body and both terror and terrible rage take hold. There is blood on his hands, from those he has killed directly and indirectly. Those who deserved death, and those he could not save. He gently lays his heart on the ground. There is no disguising the ugly bolts coming from her chest, she who did nothing to deserve this. Solas can, however, find Andruil and rectify a different issue.

He picks up Lavellan's staff and he turns. A darkness enters his eyes, and his feet pad silently towards the sound of the Inquisition's people battling with a master of the hunt.

[inquisitorpanowen-blog]

Panowen reluctantly propped her head up with one hand as she studied the candle lit war room table. It took some convincing, but her advisers had gone to sleep before her. It wasn't as if they could move troops this late, and the spy network reported when it reported regardless. She certainly didn't expect any nobles to come calling. Yet the Inquisitor pushed off sleep as wax dripped down the candles in hopes to have a ready plan for tomorrow.

Shifting to a new position that granted more comfort, she stared at the Orlesian side. There was another fete, always another, but this one she'd promised her attendance and she needed to check in on things within the Empire. Not to mention the preparations that came long before, being fitted with another outfit, deciding which nobles to drop hints to or which bards to give assignments. All, of course, without neglecting the Fereldan side of the table.

Propping herself into the arm of the chair she'd dragged over, Panowen lowered her head onto her arms. Perhaps it would be better to have some spies sent off to take care of a lingering issue there and have Cullen select an honor guard for a display of power.

Her eyes drooped and her head tilted lower. If she did that, then the right people wouldn't be available to root out the never ending infestation of bandits to the north.

“Inquisitor,” the familiar voice was out of place, but all she noticed was the formality.

Better to stay half-tucked in a ball and her hazy contemplation of everything she needed to do. Long fingers settled around her shoulder, pressing her new outfit gently into her skin. She mumbled something, but she didn't know what she was attempting to convey. His tall frame leaned over her, warmth and a subtle touch of concern.

“Ma vhenan.”

Panowen straightened with a start, one hand coming down on the war table hard enough to disturb the nearest mission markers. No one else was in the dark room, though the sensation of another presence lingered. It was just she and the moonlight filtering through the far windows. There was not even flickering candle light, as the wicks had burnt out awhile ago.

“Fenedhis,” She rubbed the bridge of her nose, “Time to head to sleep after all.”

As she trudged up the many steps to her room, far away, someone smiled in their sleep just a bit.

[inquisitorpanowen-blog]

“Your hand, Solas,” Lavellen gestured towards his hand, half reaching for it half pointing something out.

Turning it over, Solas discovered that adrenaline had covered the sting of a shallow cut. It belonged to a dead man's blade, a bandit so poison was unlikely. Panowen still frowned, though blood collected at her side. She hadn't yet mastered a knight enchanter's barrier, but had the sword to protect, steeled with Resolve, and was well along that path. He'd rest easier when his heart valued self-preservation half so much as she wished to guard others.

“It is nothing, and can be easily attended to when we next make camp.” Solas said.

She was already a step closer, with hands out as a request. Resigned he placed his hand in hers and waited for her to realize that if had barely bled it was not something to concern herself over. Her thumbs brushed by the cut and pressed further out in not-quite-a-massage.

“I am sorry,” A slight knit had formed between her brows.

“The man is dead and there is barely more than a scratch to show for his efforts.” Solas patiently reminded her.

“Hm,” She quickly held up his hand and place a kiss just above the cut, “Alright, all better. Let's go find the next place to make camp.”

It wasn't, but he could forget that for the few seconds she continued to hold his hand. It was simple to her, and it was almost simple there with her. He could play make-believe. Caring, wiping away pain with simple acts of affection, connecting, moving forward together towards a solution. He curled his fingers around hers just before their hands slide apart, and Lavellan smiled.

[inquisitorpanowen-blog]

I wanted to make something like a learning parallel for my Lavellan after that nice podcast with Patrick Weekes. I like the idea of she and Solas having similar revelations, but naturally handling them in completely different ways.

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“Why can't you stay?”

The Inquisitor turned from her red elk to look at a set of young unmarked faces. Last she saw them, their faces were younger, rounder and attentive despite stubborn natures. She was a part of their world, a teacher of stories, instructor on the small practical lessons and the songs and dances that bred community and family, and none knew if it was a part that would return once more. It struck a blow to see that written on their faces, and more, the world she saw through the hope in her eyes wounded her heart.

She could stay. Leave off being the Inquisitor, the Herald for a holy woman that she respected but did not deify, the selector of rulers, the ever-watched Dalish elf who reluctantly played the Game and moved pieces across the whole of Thedas. No more long days and nights as she stared at the war table and crafted plans to help the disadvantaged. She wouldn't need to banter, cajole and threaten nobles into accepting peace or helping the least of their subjects. In her clan she would not need to swallow ire at clever barbs from those who wore masks physical and not. She could be just Panowen, the Dalish elf, one half of the Second to Lavellan's Keeper, and let the world move on without her.

That was the problem. It would move on without her, and Panowen was the Inquisitor, it was a part of her now, and she would not sleep well no matter the distance as she tacitly allowed any resulting tragedies. Even if she was surrounded by the most precious of her kind, Panowen would know, and abandoning her work would destroy a part of her.

“I'm sorry, da'len,” She smiled, but couldn't keep the sadness from her eyes. Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel would likely hear her plea and these children may be the first of the Dalish to become adults without vellaslin since time unknown. Panowen didn't know if she'd be able to witness such growth, “Maybe I became their Inquisitor through a fluke, but I can't put down the responsibilities given me.”

Sormen looked at the ground and scuffed a tuft of grass, and the other two's faces twisted with disappointment, and to hide the weight of her heart she ruffled their hair in turn, “No faces like that. I'm not disappearing from the world, I just don't know when I can next visit. Just think of me when the clan sings, and I'll think of you when I walk through the woods, and we won't be so far in spirit.”

It didn't satisfy them, but mollified, and the trio reluctantly trooped back at the call of the harenn. The Inquisitor mounted before she saw the half-quirked smile of Liasa, once the other half of the First and now only apprentice to Keeper Deshanna. The friend wound so deep into her heart that shared blood could not have made them closer.

“I can't ask you to stay after you turned down those three, and wouldn't have anyways, but,” Liasa paused. Speaking made the end real, “You know, you'll always have a home here. Even if you come with more disturbing news.”

“Thank you,” Panowen looked over the Dalish camp, and up at the sunlight piercing through the tree canopy above. The bittersweet of the moment turned slowly in her mind, and she spoke without realizing, “I should do the same for him.”

Liasa did not inquire. She was clever enough to have read the heart ache between the lines of the Inquisitor's story, “Dareth shiral.”

“Dareth shiral,” Panowen repeated, and turned her elk towards the long travel back to Skyhold.