#SAID SOMETHING ABOUT SOLAS STARTING WITH TONGUE

[carabas]

Hey. Why does Lucanis's storyline end like that. Why would you start a storyline with a conversation like this:

Lucanis: I've always thought that to live truly is to live fully. But even before I was captured, my life was not really my own. So much had been determined for me. Rook: Being grandson to the First Talon must come with a lot of baggage. Lucanis: And when I proved I could carry it, the expectations only grew.

And after he has repeatedly stated in Tevinter Nights that, though he certainly doesn't want to quit the Crows, he does not want to be First Talon and would not be suited to it:

"All that effort training and grooming us, and the old woman still won't step aside." Beneath the bitterness in Illario's tone was something rotten. "Your time will come," Lucanis assured him. "Will it?" Illario's piercing gaze met Lucanis's in the mirror. "People talk. You've always been her favorite." He'd heard the rumors. For all their secrets and intrigue, the Antivan Crows were a chatty bunch. "My talents lie elsewhere," Lucanis said, gesturing toward the arsenal around him. "You're the one with the silver tongue."

Tevinter Nights again:

Illario's gaze grew hard. "How long are you going to keep doing this?" "Doing what?" "Caterina's bidding." The wine turned in Lucanis's mouth. "Illario. Stop." "If I was in charge, you wouldn't have to do this anymore," he cajoled. "You could quit." Lucanis stared at his cousin. "I don't want to quit." Illario sat back. The distance between them suddenly felt much wider than a table. "Even if it kills you," Illario whispered. "Death is my calling," Lucanis stated, matter-of-fact. "Just as yours is to become First Talon." He smiled, hoping to ease the tension, but Illario's posture remained taut. "And if Caterina disagrees? If she thinks you're the better man for the job--" "I don't want it, Illario," Lucanis insisted. "But you wouldn't refuse." "It's impossible to refuse Caterina," Lucanis admitted reluctantly. "Only prolong her, until she sees reason." He knew it wasn't the answer Illario wanted, but it was the truth. And in their line of work, honesty was hard to come by.

...and then Caterina declares Lucanis First Talon and, that's, we're leaving it like that. That's where we're leaving it? We started this story with a statement that his life had never been his own and had been determined by Caterina, and we are ending the story with his life being determined by Caterina, that is what we are doing?

The final pivotal scene of this game is about a spirit being released from an unwanted role he had been twisted into! Solas was Wisdom before Mythal turned him into her weapon as the Dread Wolf, a role he had remained trapped in long after the person who imposed that duty upon him had died! Letting Solas persist in his perceived duty twists him into a monster who starts talking like Elgar'nan, the very thing he'd said he feared becoming! Finally releasing Solas from Mythal's service is the super happy best ending of this game! The obvious parallels are paralleling!

And yet this story ends with Lucanis in the role Caterina put on him as First Talon??

Bioware why would you write it like that, I just want to talk

[vonuberwald]

Hello! Happy Friday! I'm here with DADWC ☺️

Prompt: A Kiss on a falling tear

- asexualtabris 💜

Thanks for the prompt! Have a little Emmrich/Rook - DA:TV spoilers ahead!

@dadrunkwriting

----

Rook’s ribs were screaming every time he hitched a breath, he was fairly sure that he’d done something appalling to his left knee and the less said about his head the better.

It wasn’t completely quiet in the wake of the last battle. The Fade tear sealed itself behind the Dread Wolf to the sound of a people still uncertain of their current fate. Distant confused and angry cries, moans of the injured, terminally or otherwise, filtered slowly past the ringing in Rook’s ears. But he finally had a moment to stand and take it all in.

Blight. Ruin. Death.

As the moon pulled away from in front of the sun, the tyrant god’s work undone in that burst of light, more and more of the damage was revealed. But Rook only had that brief aghast moment before they started coming forward. The survivors. Limping, weary and cautious of their victory.

As the light bathed more of Minrathous, the cheers came. Walking to meet those at the front of the crowd on the street level, Rook felt each step as if his feet were encased in stone blocks, every limb aching. But he met smile for smile as best he could as his head throbbed from the light and the noise until at last, he felt a hand at his elbow - Emmrich - and was steered gently into an empty corner to slump down on a heap of rubble. Emmrich sat beside him, rather more gracefully, although there was a deep exhalation that had Rook instantly move to run his hands over to see where his lover was injured. 

‘Where- is it- are you-?’ He began, but Emmrich waved him off with a wry lilt to his smile, kissing the tips of Rook’s fingers before setting his hand back down. 

‘No injuries, dearest, although I could do with a long, hot bath at the very least after this,��� he countered. ‘No, I’m far more concerned about you - that’s quite a bump on the head you have, quite messy. And don’t think I didn’t see you clutching your ribs back there,’ he added, reaching forward himself to run both hands lightly over Rook’s chest, clucking his tongue at the sharp hiss the other let out at the contact and pressing a light kiss as an apology to the corner of his mouth.

"We'll get someone to look at that," said Emmrich as he stood, craning his neck to see if he could flag down somebody that looked like they could be a healer, but it was chaos as expected. Rook couldn’t even make out the rest of the team in the scrum of people. Some were overturning the rubble, calling names and searching for friends and allies. He could see wardens handling darkspawn corpses and cutting back tendrils of Blight, hauling them off to somewhere downwind to be burnt en masse. 

‘I’ll be alright,’ Rook managed, leaning his head against the wall behind him and closing his eyes with a sigh of exhaustion. ‘Just need five… ten minutes,’ he added, feeling every single one of his injuries vie for attention at the same time. He was aware of Emmrich moving to sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder, the closeness of his lover settling some of the anxiety that had been churning in his gut since talking Solas down. Rook let out another sigh, longer and much shakier than the last, the adrenaline starting to leave him, the emotions he hadn’t had time to let himself feel starting to rush back over him. Emmrich took his hand without a word, his grip tight, grounding, but the flood gates had burst and Rook had to bring his other hand to his face, gritting his teeth at the onslaught.

Try as he might, he couldn’t contain the tears escaping through his fingers as well as he could the howls of grief and everything else that he wanted to let loose. It took him a moment past all of this to register the soft pressure on his damp fingers, tender kisses drying his tears, then a forehead pressed to his own. Words of love whispered by a beloved voice.

The world constricted to this space with only them in it, with anguish, understanding and love. They lived and would live on, thanks to the sacrifice of untold others, strangers and friends alike. There would be many more moments like these, Rook had made sure of it in the end.

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

A Dream So Dark and Lovely

Thanks @dr-demi-bee for asking me to write Spite.... I don't think any of us were expecting this...

I am haunted by ghosts and gods, thought Rook. She fled her room after another argument with Solas, leapt the staircase, and then turned, finding Lucanis in the doorway to the music room- a secret only she knew, she thought.

'Hey,' she said, her shoulders dropping in relief. 'I was just coming to find you.' She reached out a hand. 'C'mere.'

'Rook,' he said. Something cold washed through her, realisation coming too late. By the time she'd registered what exactly was off about the way he said her name, he'd pulled her through the doorway, into the light of music and memory. 'Rook. I have. To. Talk.'

'Spite,' she breathed. 'I don't-' she shook her head. 'Well. You're not trying to escape, so that's a start.'

Lucanis' eyes glowed, the manifestation of the demon inside. He moved differently than her crow. He prowled. Her stomach dropped as he did so now, backing her into one of the murals on the wall. 'Lucanis. Hungers,' he ground out. 'So much. Want.'

'Why do you talk like...'

He growled in frustration. 'Another. Tongue. It's a fight. For control.' He gestured. 'Here. At least.' He inhaled. 'You smell. Like. Wolf.'

'I what?' she snarled. 'That's not- you're talking about Solas, aren't you. He visits me in dreams.'

'I. Can. If you let. Me.'

His hand was on the wall beside her head. Not his. Lucanis'. But his, too. 'How?'

'Trust. You need. To sleep.'

'Like talking to Solas. Right. Well it's... not exactly comfortable in here.' She cast around for a comfortable seat- only the piano stool. Spite gave her an unsettling look and sat down at the piano, holding out his arms.

'Come. Here.'

Rook felt the instinct to recoil, but she would trust, this once. An arm looped around her waist, pulling her in, and he lifted her into his lap, cradling her back. 'This is so... strange,' she said. His hands stroked her back, soothing.

But Lucanis is asleep. This isn't him at all.

'Sleep,' said Spite, tucking her head under his chin and humming- singing? The exhaustion of everything caught on quickly and she grew heavy against his shoulder, her eyes closing.

She was back in what was clearly the Fade, but it was not the Dread Wolf who stood across from her.

'Now we can talk properly,' said Spite. 'Ah, Rook. You are my favourite, but you know that, I think. You're his favourite too.' His eyes flashed, and he was looming somehow, even at his height. 'Oh, how jealous I am,' he growled. 'But then you know that too. You know an awful lot about me, Rook, and I have not yet-' he broke off, taking her by the shoulders. 'Do you understand what you are getting into?' His lips pulled back. 'I smell fear. Don't be afraid, little Doe.' He smirked at her wide eyes. 'Yes, I know your name. Of course I do. It is on loop in his head.'

'I'm not sure about the ethics of this,' she said. 'You using his body to talk to me, you ought to give it back.'

'This is a dream,' he said. 'For him, and for you. You are asleep in his arms, and his body remains his.' He snarled; clearly he wished it were otherwise. 'But,' he stalked forward, and her back hit a wall where before there was only air. 'Here I can do what I like. If you're willing, of course.' He showed teeth, a nasty little grin. 'I'm a demon, not a monster.'

'How are you different?' she blurted. She was a little taller than Lucanis, but to Spite it hardly seemed to matter. He leaned in close, scented her hair, drew exploratory fingers down her throat. She shivered in response.

'Oh, I am different,' he growled. 'Your Lucanis is soft and sweet-' he pressed his lips to hers, in imitation. 'Gentle. But sometimes, you do not want gentle, do you?'

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. In answer, he laved his tongue over the pulse in her neck, bit down to leave tangible proof. She whined, hands moving to his forearms. It only spurred him on; nipping at her jaw, even biting at the point of her ear. 'Spite,' she breathed. 'I-'

'You can't lie to me,' he said. 'I know you were desperate for him to have you against the pantry wall. Filthy thing.'

This was not what she had expected. 'I had no idea you had so many opinions.'

He rolled his eyes. 'Yes you did. You know I was fighting to get out. Now stop,' he pressed their lips together, deep. 'Talking.'

'But I have more questions,' she said. 'Will he know? Is it like... sharing? I don't...'

'I am him,' he said. 'He is me.' His eyes glinted wickedly. 'Lucky you.'

'Fine,' she conceded. 'But I thought you wanted- to talk-' her voice broke off into shallow gasps as he kissed down her neck, parting her shirt as he went to taste the soft swell of her breasts with tongue and teeth no longer inhibited by some kind of metaphysical barrier. In dreams, he could do whatever he wanted.

And she would let him.

'I want to hear you scream.'

Fear, desire, trepidation, all swirled inside her head, a cocktail that made her feel a little faint.

As was the way with dreams, he simply conjured her room and she was there- pushed insistently down onto the chaise, her clothes wished away- his gone too, his arms caging her in, his tongue exploring again, tasting, committing the salt of her skin to some kind of Fade memory. His nails dragged light over her belly, the gooseprickles in their wake making her shiver.

'Spite, are you sure this-'

'I have never been so sure of anything,' he said firmly. 'He will not say it, because he is too polite. You're ours, Rook. Mine.' He panted above her, feral and desperate.

'Show me.'

She might've expected him to fuck into her, desperate to feel her around him. She did not expect him to kneel on the floor and part her thighs, inhaling the scent of her arousal, his mouth watering. For him to bite gently at the soft skin of her thighs, to taste, to pull her yelping against his face and bury his tongue inside. She threaded her hands through his hair, pulling. He seemed to take it as a challenge; her sighs turned to stifled whimpers, and he pulled back, glaring up at her. 'Do not hide from me, Rook.'

He returned to his ministrations with renewed vigour, tearing scream after scream from her throat. She came on his tongue and still he did not surface. She was almost at the point of pain, jerking with every touch; he remained unsatisfied, and she came again, screaming the demon's name. Her voice was a rasp, she shook with sated desire, and yet still... it was not enough. He kissed her, pushed his tongue into her mouth so she would taste the mess he'd made of her, pulled her into his lap.

'You are crying,' he said in wonder. 'Good.'

'Please, Spite, I-'

'More,' he said. He guided her slowly by the hips so she sank down, taking every inch. Watching her face hungrily, he pulled her flush against him, taking her fingers in his mouth.

'Fuck,' she hissed. 'Shit, that's hot.' He was tasting again, remembering. With an obscene pop, he released her.

'You tire,' he noted. 'But I will have my satisfaction too, Rook.'

And then he had her by the throat, driving up into her with gritted determination, near violent in his passion. Rook wept, overstimulated as yet more pleasure crashed through her. Her tears fell onto his chest, the hand not holding her firmly in place brushing away her hair tenderly. He was reverent as he gazed up at her, determined to make her profane.

A guttural sound ripped from his throat as he came. 'Rook,' he snarled. 'Doe. Mine. All mine.'

He held her there, loathe to let her go. 'Spite,' she said weakly. 'i need-to-'

'Stay here,' he said. 'I am not ready to give you back.'

She nodded, exhausted. 'Alright. Alright, fine. But-'

'But I have to give you over when you wake, I know.' He held her gaze, smirking. 'You don't smell like the Dread Wolf anymore.'

Tags:

@bluerosetarot

@forget-me-maybe @poetryvampire

@boufsy @lanafofana

@aryancunin @miradelletarot @marlowethebard

@crimson-and-lavender

@roguishcat @galedekarioswifey

@feedthepheasants @dreamingofthewild @ladyofcrowsandcoffee

@dr-demi-bee @spooky-lil-bee @12thhouse-sun

[askweisswolf]

Hi hello, I would like to see 20 for Harding/Margalit please 🥺

These prompts are doing wonders for making me write on my phone.

Margalit Aldwir / Lace Harding - a kiss on a scar

Margalit jolted awake and realized immediately that she was alone. 

Jolting awake wasn’t an unusual thing for her–if anything, it was far more impressive that she’d been fairly deeply asleep until something had woken her up. She’d had a strained relationship with the concept of sleep since Wycome, and while that was something that was starting to change in recent months, old habits still died hard. No, jolting awake was the most normal thing about this situation.

Being deeply asleep in the first place? Not exactly abnormal at this stage, but still unusual. Waking up alone? That was strange, considering the way Lace had been practically glued to her side since Margalit had been freed from Solas’s prison. Even during the celebration that had followed Elgar’nan’s defeat, Lace had never been far from her side.

Now she was gone, after an unusually deep sleep. Margalit took a quiet breath to keep herself calm and slowly opened her eyes, blinking against the dim light.

At a glance, everything seemed normal in her room. The fish were swimming in their happy circles, all of her little personal touches were still where she’d placed them, the couch she’d fallen asleep on felt as soft and comfortable as ever. It all seemed normal, and yet—

Had she slept, in Solas’s prison? Margalit couldn’t remember. Her time there had been a blur; what had been weeks in the real world had felt endless, to her. The landscape had been vast and constantly changing, and she had never known what to expect from one moment to the next.

The elf took another quiet breath, trying to steady herself. Her mind whispered at her to not move, to stay still, that any sudden movement would change the landscape around her, but at the same time–she needed to know. She needed to be sure.

If this was real, there wasn’t a problem. If it wasn’t real, well… she’d deal with that particular revelation when she got there.

By the gods, please let this be real. If it wasn’t, after everything–

Margalit sat up, swinging her legs off the couch and bracing herself when her feet touched the ground. In the prison, the environment had been… she supposed sensitive was the best word she could use to describe it. It had been difficult for her to be sure of what changed it–movements, emotion, thought. It was entirely possible that this bit of movement, as simple as it was, would snap her right back into the prison like other movements had so many times before when she’d been wandering through her regrets.

Please, please–

Nothing happened when her feet touched the ground.

Relief didn’t come as easily as Margalit hoped it would; she gripped the edge of the couch with both hands, trying to steady herself. This was either real or a particularly strong illusion, and she hated that there was no immediate way of knowing which was true. If she could just remember if she’d slept while she was in the Fade–

Why couldn’t she remember?

“Oh hey, you’re up.”

Margalit’s ears twitched slightly; in any other situation, the sound of Lace’s voice would have been welcome. In her current situation… well, it was still welcome, it was Lace, but her voice wasn’t nearly as comforting as it should have been. ��Yeah,” she said, mostly so the dwarf wouldn’t worry if she failed to respond at all.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Lace came around the couch easily, like this was something she’d developed a habit of doing; Margalit shifted slightly to watch her as she moved around the room. “I didn’t think I was gone for that long, Manfred was doing something with rocks and Emmrich got a little concerned.”

“You didn’t wake me up.” Short, to the point, focused; her mind couldn’t process anything else right now. The usual jokes and charm weren’t on her tongue. Ice was starting to chill her veins as she realized she couldn’t discern from watching if this was Lace Harding the dwarf or a spirit that had somehow slipped into the prison and taken her form, another way of selling the illusion.

Or a demon that had somehow slipped into the prison and taken her form, to try and find a way inside–

Margalit shook her head with a grimace. She couldn’t let that thought linger. Even thinking it was dangerous.

Watching Lace was safer than lingering in her thoughts. Even if she wasn’t real, even if it was just a spirit or a demon in her form, there was still something about her presence that was soothing; it was the only reason so far Margalit’s blood had simply chilled instead of freezing over completely. 

Of course, if she was a demon in disguise, all this was doing was proving to it that it had been correct in taking her form in the first place. Dammit.

Too late, Margalit realized that at some point Lace had stopped moving around the room; she was up next to the couch, leaning against the side of it but not close enough to sit down, and despite moving closer she was maintaining a noticeable distance between them. “You okay?” she asked. “You’ve been pretty quiet, and I can feel you watching me.”

“I like watching you,” Margalit replied, and at least that fell from her lips easily. She’d never been very good at lying.

Lace laughed softly. “And I like you watching me, but that still doesn’t explain why you’ve been so quiet.”

Margalit chewed on her bottom lip, weighing her options, before she sighed. This was either going to be a huge mistake, or the only way she’d know for sure if this was all real or not. She didn’t have many other options.

“I just—I woke up, and I’d been sleeping pretty deeply, and that was weird.” The words fell from her lips like leaves from the trees, now that she was talking. “You weren’t here, and that was really weird, because you’ve been with me all the time since I got back. I started thinking about it, and I can’t—I can’t remember if I ever slept in Solas’s prison.” She ran her hands through her hair, to try and hide the fact that the more she talked, the harder she shook. “I don’t—I don’t know if this is real. I don’t know if you’re real.”

Varric had seemed real, right to the very end—even in the prison he had seemed desperately, painfully real despite his body lying at her feet. Bellara and Davrin, their features cut into unforgiving stone and their voices echoing throughout the prison, had seemed real even as Margalit had known they were both gone. Her parents and Deshanna were long dead at this point, and yet they had seemed as real and alive to her as they’d been the last time she’d seen them, forever frozen and unaging. 

They hadn’t been real. None of it had been real, but that didn’t change how deeply the wounds ran. Another scar for her collection, carved into her mind just as the rest had been carved into her flesh.

By the Maker, she wished she could remember if she’d slept in the Fade.

She was so lost in her rapidly swirling thoughts that she didn’t hear when Lace moved again; she felt it, though, when the dwarf gently gripped her wrists and eased her hands out of her hair. Margalit winced, hissing quietly as she felt her scalp sting in response to the easing tension.

“There we go.” Lace’s voice was soft. “Take a breath, love.”

Margalit breathed, flexing her fingers as her lungs burned; the movement must have caught Lace’s eye, because a moment later her grip slid down from her wrists to her hands, squeezing gently as she ran her thumb over her pulse point. Margalit breathed in again and closed her eyes, focusing on the here and now.

Her response to Lace’s touch was immediate; it always was. Even with her powers under control she could feel that tingle of lyrium dancing just under her skin, mana raising up to meet it even as the Stone gently soothed it into a quiet hum in her blood. The ice that had been gathering there melted entirely, and Margalit opened her eyes with a sigh.

Lace smiled, as their eyes met. “Is this helping?”

“It is. You’ve got the magic touch, Lace Harding.” A drop of humor and so much warmth she didn’t know what to do with it; that felt normal, felt right, and she chuckled as the archer shook her head with a fond laugh. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Jokes are a good sign, with you. Guess this means no spirit or demon can replicate my abilities in the Fade.”

“Something handy for the future.” Margalit squeezed her hands, now. “I’m—I’m still sorry. The prison, it…” She grimaced, shook her head. “I guess I’m still feeling it.”

“Margalit, literally the first thing I asked you after you came back was if you were real. You don’t need to apologize for needing me to return the favor, it—“ Lace scowled. ���That’s on Solas, not on you.”

Margalit’s lips quirked, despite herself. “Fuck Solas?”

“I’d do worse than that,” Lace muttered darkly. “He’s lucky we still needed him alive to keep the Veil up.”

The elf softened in response to that anger; she gently tugged one hand free from the dwarf’s, tilting her head up just enough to press a light kiss to the scar along her jaw. “My hero,” she murmured, and smiled for real this time as Lace rumbled against her with laughter.

“Come on.” Lace stepped back, giving her a gentle tug; Margalit let her pull her up. “I think you need a walk to clear your head. Help confirm this is all real.”

“Lead the way,” Margalit said, and followed her out of the darkness without looking back.

[rookedcrow]

"Solas? Terrible fashion sense, the occasional rather cruel sarcastic commentary aimed at yours truly that was, of course, entirely uncalled for. And ah yes, a little too hung up on the Fade — if I didn't know any better, I'd say he had a special little friend hidden away in there — otherwise? Harmless. Well, that is until he decided to have a picnic with his... former little special friends. Alright, you may have a point, maybe not as harmless as I once thought." (from Dorian again!)

rook had made a point of asking about va.rric’s time with the inquisition as much as possible in their search for so.las  ---- her requests equal parts general curiosity ( and a good way to pass the time on their travels ) and wanting to get a better feel for possibly the most unique contract she’d ever been charged with.  more often than not, those requests were honored --- var.ric loved few things more than telling a good story, and she certainly loved hearing one, or two, or three — on any topic she could think of; the people, the places — all of it. ( skyh.old, of all things, had always been one of the more difficult things to wrap her head around back then, being that high up in the mountains in the middle of nowhere; her fear of heights assuming something like that would no doubt be her worst case scenario ... of course, that was long before she’d ever heard of the lighthouse. now, that image almost seemed quaint. and grounded. )

va.rric’s take on so.las had always felt ... measured somehow. it wasn’t so much as making excuses for his old friend’s poor behavior ( ro.ok wasn’t sure there were enough words out there to even get a start on that ) as it was reflecting on old times with slightly tinted lenses. maybe there was some guilt there; not knowing then what he knew now; knowing that there were ulterior motives to the help that was being provided. hard.ing had said she hadn’t known s.olas all that well save for polite conversation in passing, so that wasn’t anything really to go on, other than the fact s.olas sometimes knew how to hold his tongue. ( a trait rook didn’t seem to be keen on reciprocating, if her handful of little talks with him were any indication. she was going to run out of fingers soon counting how many times she’d more or less called him an asshole. )

so she had va.rric’s tapestry of recollections, and harding’s impressions from the outside looking in … which of course meant one of the first things she’d wanted to ask do.rian about after his dressing down of the first warden was what had he thought of his former companion. ( va.rric had always spoken highly about the mage from te.vinter; in both his prowess as a mage, and his snark. now how was she supposed to pass up a chance to see one of those two skillsets in action for herself without needing a swarm of vena.tori? )

and just as var.ric would have insisted, dorian certainly exceeded her expectations.  from the critique of his fashion sense ( or more accurately, a lack thereof ) to the series of events that lead up to the situation she currently found herself at the head of in relief of var.ric, there was a keen eye and keener words behind the lot of it. it’s funny, though ------- that va.rric never mentioned seeking out dor.ian outright while they were in minrath.ous.

“so should i pass along some well wishes from you to him the next time i speak with him?” ( or is this just another excuse to call him an ass to his face? who knows. ) “or perhaps some other choice words? i don’t mind, and i’ve got a pretty solid memory when it comes to giving regards.” the jokes a little cheesier than the food and drink laid out on the table, but for a moment it nice to not have to worry about being overly formal.

“i’m sure sola.s would love to hear from you.”

[citrusai]

desire is no light thing.

summary: awakened, solas steels himself and makes plans to fix what he once destroyed and the universe laughs.

warnings: 18+! mentions of male masturbation, unresolved sexual tension and pining. takes place in act 1 of inquisition!

a/n: lavellan is obviously named, cause she's my special girl. crossposted on ao3 if you prefer the format there! fic under the cut

He assumed it would be simpler. A nudge here, a wisely proposed idea there. Solas was not new to the art of spying, infiltration, and betrayal. But the problems began piling up right from the start, with no solution in sight.

The first, was when she fell from the breach. No orb, a dead divine, and the Seeker breathing down his neck about the conspirators health. It was easy enough to dissuade the Seeker from anger, speaking of foreign magic and the green pulse in the woman’s palm.

He sat vigil, and it was easy enough. Wiping the sweat off her brow, monitoring the rhythm of her breathing, the swirl of magic now imbedded in her limb was not as finicky as they all feared it would be.

When she wasn’t twitching, panting or murmuring under her breath as the sweat dripped down her temple, she would lay almost perfectly still. Peacefully, even.

Under the candlelight and the light of the moon shining past the cracks of the deteriorating dungeon, Solas would let himself admit he found her beautiful. But it was a point of pride for him to not get distracted, such thoughts would be dimmed and cast out as soon as they arrived.

The second problem arose when she did. She had awoken, and the blight had spat out more darkspawn than all the soldiers and volunteers combined could handle. And although Cassandra had cast doubt on her story, the moment she saw the woman’s palm glow green and close a fade rift, she resigned to calling it divine intervention.

The Seeker, and the Chantry behind her, scrambled to hoist her up into the role of messiah. The chosen one sent down by their Gods to save Thedas.

Solas bit his tongue, held back his scoffs and opinions. He did not come this far to foil his own plan over what the humans thought of their magic, their orb. And it seemed the elven woman shared the same sentiment. The glint of apprehension and cynicism in her eyes.

They had shared a few sparse words on the battlefield, he’d learned her name. Gan’freya. A peculiar name for a peculiar woman, he reckoned. They had not spoken since their triumphant return to Haven.

Their eyes would meet across the base, and she would greet him cordially, with a nod. No more, no less. Until of course, he’d find her going through his rucksack, no sign of remorse in her features as he confronted her.

“Just curious is all.” She’d said. “I went through Cassandra’s things too, and a few others’. Although, you’re the first one to catch me red-handed.”

She shrugged, and said nothing else before sauntering off.

The third problem arose not soon after, when they marched to scout the Hinterlands.

He had found her beautiful and perplexing. But Solas did not intend to tangle himself into the relationships of these mortals more than he had to, nor did he wish to anyway.

Through their long treks, she’d proven herself to be more than capable in battle, but also sly. Varric and Cassandra bickered more than they cared to babysit their Herald, but it was Solas who would catch the deftness of her palm sliding across a merchant’s stall. Her fingers gently prodding the items, as she talked their ear off. It was obvious she was very adept at this.

At first, he’d written it off as one of her peculiarities. An impulse she did not care to control or curb even whilst wielding a title, and the peoples trust at her beckon call. But when a refugee had stopped them by the side of the road, pleading for food or water, she had murmured something to them and handed over the stolen goods.

It had stirred something within him, a curiosity he could not satiate or curb.

He had resigned himself to be a spectator, a silent manipulator as his own spies gathered the intelligence hidden behind the walls of Haven. It seems the universe, or perhaps Gan’freya herself has chosen to force his hand.

Solas argued with himself, he was an intelligent man, resilient. He would not be easily swayed by a woman who bats her eyelashes at him. He would not waver in his plans because of the warm, long forgotten yet oh so familiar feeling blooming in his chest.

Gan’freya had spun his mind in circles, and she had been none the wiser.

She had felt foreign, alienated even. Cassandra looked at her with the hopeful eyes of someone clinging to their faith, Varric would cast sly glances and write down notes after every sentence spoken, and Solas. Well, Solas avoided looking altogether.

She preferred roaming the Hinterlands. Haven felt suffocating, a person on every corner waiting to grasp her hand, to sing her praises. Yet what she felt was not divinity coursing through her veins, but a dull throb. A looming threat that was eating her body from the inside.

It worried her, this power. For now, the power of the mark responded to her, but how long until it tore through her? No amount of flowy words from the Chantry and the people leading her dissuaded the thoughts of herself as a ticking time grenade.

Gan’freya resigned herself to foraging during their down time, aimlessly wandering the forests and digging her hands into the roots of plants. A reminder of home, almost. Back when she was just the obnoxious rogue of Clan Lavellan. Sent out to collect supplies and speak with merchants just so she wouldn’t lead the young ones astray.

But now, she was not allowed to wander far alone, and she always preferred Varric or Solas to accompany her. Cassandra had been kind to her, but even in the quiet moments she’d corner her about the Maker, Andraste, and what it means to the people joining them.

Solas would keep two feet between them at all times. Partly to keep an eye out for any possible danger, and because he sympathized with her wish to be left alone. He would give her the illusion of privacy, and when they’d return to camp she’d always squeeze his palm in a silent thank you.

And so, the fourth problem was entirely of his own doing.

A battle hard fought on their way to Redcliffe. As the Apostates and Templars tore each other, and everyone around them to shreds.

They’d saved a few refugees, lost a dozen. And earned their own scrapes and bruises in return. The scouts and guards of the camp had looked on in sympathy, offering health poultices and bandages upon their arrival.

Cassandra had waved them off, retiring to her tent. “I do not need to be coddled. I’ve experienced worse.” She spoke.

And Varric, well, he’d taken the poultices graciously, then asked if there was a fine bottle of Fereldan wine to soothe his aches.

But most curious was their leader, who ran off to her tent immediately. They could hear the sounds of rummaging and rustling, but no one dared to intrude. By the time she’d reappeared, everyone had retired to their guard posts or tents. Sat by the fire, Solas had eyed the delicate jar in between her hands.

His gaze met hers, and there was a glimmer of something in the way she looked at him. He felt hot under his collar, quickly turning away as she started moving towards the campfire. His ears perked up at the sound of a jar being unscrewed, but his gaze remained firmly on the crackling embers and flame.

Fingers, gentle but slightly calloused, circled his wrist and turned his palm flat side up. Solas eyed her curiously, as she graciously smeared what he recognized to be a healing salve onto his palm.

“Frostbite.” Her voice gentle, hushed almost. “That’s no good.”

“It’s merely the after effects of a spell. No grievous harm would come from it.”

She’d smacked his palm at that, a hiss escaping his lips. “No grievous harm my ass.”

“I meant that the injury would not kill me.”

The corners of her lips ticked up, “The salve does not prevent death.”

Solas huffed humourlessly as she continued to massage the salve into his palm. In the quiet, he studied her. The sun had begun to set, casting a soft glow behind her. She seemed ethereal in this moment. Her honey blonde hair no longer neatly plaited, stray hairs sticking out of place. Her brows, set in a furrow of concentration, and her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.

Solas wondered when was the last time someone had fretted over him. The last time someone had stopped to soothe his aches, to bandage his wounds. He dared not to daydream of what it would be like for someone like her to look after him, through thick and thin.

“I must admit, I did not come here without ulterior motives.” Her voice reverberated inside his head, and his gaze met hers.

The colour of amber and gold staring back at him.

Absentmindedly he flexed the hand still gripped between her fingers. “How so?”

Gan’freya had turned her body towards the fire slightly, showing the marred flesh of her shoulder. The blood had been cleaned meticulously, but the skin still showed signs of irritation.

“The arrow went clean through.” She remarked. “It’s the back of my shoulder I cannot reach, I’m afraid.”

Solas dipped his fingers into the jar, now sitting neatly between them. Clutching her hand with his injured one as if to steady her through touch alone. He tries to be as gentle as possible as he rubs the salve onto the wound. She hisses and squirms, and there’s the unmistakable sound of a giggle.

“Sorry.” She chuckled. “I’m ticklish.”

Her skin is soft to the touch, despite the jagged wound. Solas wonders what the rest of her feels like.

No. Such thoughts have to be quelled, snuffed out, cast aside. He will not get distracted.

“Would you not have preferred the Seeker helped you?” He questioned curiously. “She seems much eager to be your aid”

Gan’freya hummed, as if she herself did not know why she didn’t approach Cassandra first, or Varric, even.

“Cassandra means well, but she’s overbearing. Besides, she hates when I offer to help her. Did you see how she barked at the scout a few days prior when he inquired about her poultice needs? Nearly bit his head off.”

A beat of silence. “Besides, you’ve been more understanding than everyone else. Even if you did catch me investigating your intimates.”

Solas choked on his own spit at that, and she had burst into laughter.

As her laughter died down, she cast her eyes back onto the fire, and Solas continued to tend to her wound. He gently tapped his fingers against her flesh, signalling that he’d done what she had asked. Neither one was eager to get up first, though.

His eyes trailed over her skin, the freckles covering every inch of her, the scar on her jaw and above her brow, proof of her survival of their first attempt at stopping the breach at the ruins. She smelled faintly of lavender, and verbena.

A rustle by the entrance of the camp had startled them both. A scout returning, message clutched in hand, quick strides made towards them. Gan’freya sighed, whether from fatigue of the day’s events, or because she had grown tired of the role thrust upon her. She stood tentatively, casting one last glance at Solas, a thank you mouthed as she met the scout halfway.

They had grown close at Redcliffe. She had chosen to meet the mages first, claiming their aid would be detrimental in sealing the breach. Of course, her own inner circle chastised her for such a choice, weary of the apostates.

That was when Gan’freya began seeking his opinion before anyone else’s. Whether that was because she genuinely valued what he had to offer in terms of guidance, or if it was an act of rebellion on her part he could not say. But she sat with him for hours, asking about the fade and magic.

She had shared small tid-bits of her own life during those talks. Remarked on how her father was a mage, how he left the Clan in pursuit of knowledge, and vanished. She spoke of her mother, a healer. The very reason for her constant foraging and picking of leaves, the reason for the salve, safely sat in her rucksack.

Solas had exchanged his own secrets in turn, though they were more thinly veiled half-truths than outward ones. He would not outright lie to her, but he would keep his cards close to his chest nonetheless.

There was a mutual understanding between them. And something else blossoming in its cracks. Solas would argue that he is not a man easily led astray by something as trivial as attraction. Lesser men have sacrificed their goals in pursuit of passion, he was not one of them.

Or so he had thought.

Something had shifted that day at the camp, but it was easy enough to cast aside when they were journeying in search for allies. But now, they were back at Haven, laying down plans of their next move, it seemed that Redcliffe was under siege of a Magister, and to infiltrate his stronghold was not as simple as knocking on the doors.

She had begun cropping up in the back of his mind, a constant in his thoughts. Haven offered the safety of distance, when they returned she was swept right up into the shuffle of politics. He had admired the way she would not waver in her choice to help the mages, even when Cullen tried to argue that perhaps they’re a lost cause for the time being.

All of Haven had heard that argument.

“You ask me to lead, yet you try and undermine me at every corner.” Gan’freya had exclaimed.

Cullen had pinched his nose bridge between his fingers. “I am not undermining, I am simply trying to offer you alternatives.”

“I did not ask for them.” She was furious, fists clenched, brows furrowed. “You cannot possibly believe we may end the blight through steel? Our men are not Grey Wardens.”

“You must understand, although the mages offer an advantage, it is who we choose to align ourselves with which will be detrimental to how the rest of Thedas sees us.”

“There will be nothing to see if all of Thedas is dead.” She seethed.

Cullen had tried to reply, but she merely waved him off and stormed off towards her makeshift home. Solas had followed her, kept a safe distance if she had slammed the door shut it’d be a signal not to bother her. But it remained ajar.

He peeked through the crack, watching as she shuffled around her items before sitting down in her cot.

“You’re not sly, you know.”

Solas cleared his throat, pushing the door gently to step into the home, he closed it behind him. “I was not trying to be, my apologies.”

Gan’freya made a noncommittal hum. “I didn’t ask for this, you know.” She clenched and unclenched her fists, a frown on her features. “They all depend on me, yet it seems no matter my choice they’re all wrong.”

“You cannot please everyone. The situation we are in is fickle enough without delving into the politics.” He stepped further into her room, shoulder slumped against the door frame. “Do not let your council sway you into making choices you would regret.”

“My choices are my own.” She affirmed. “But I do not think of them as choices of a Herald, I do not wish to be one. I wish they’d understood that.”

Solas stepped closer to where she was sat, motioning to ask if he may sit. Gan’freya nodded, sliding a bit to give him some room. Once he sat next to her, he reached for her hand, grasping it firmly in his own.

“It is merely a title. You needn’t twist your very own nature to fit it. With time perhaps, they will see different. If not, their faith is their own, their beliefs of who you are do not make it truth.”

He felt his body shudder at the touch of her cheek against his shoulder. If she noticed, she made no comment, sitting there silently hand in hand.

“You are wise beyond both our years, Solas” She spoke with a smile. “I just hope you’re not being kind to me to try and acquire my mother’s secret balm recipe.”

Solas huffed out a breath in amusement, offering nothing in reply other than his thumb drawing circles on her hand.

It became more difficult to argue that he had not grown attached to her. He sought her out just as much as she him, if not more. After the mess at Redcliffe, and her stories of the future that should not come to pass, he had made himself a permanent fixture by her side.

She had told him every sordid detail of her and Dorian’s travel through time, had spoken with such anger and conviction towards the Magister and Corypheus’ followers, it seemed that the incident had reinvigorated her.

They had made travels through the Hinterlands once more, searching for a Grey Warden that Leliana had spoken of. The man seemed harder to track than expected. They made camp by a nearby village, the people had offered their homes for shelter as thanks for everything the Inquisition has been doing, but she had made it clear she would not abuse their kindness.

Although, she did ask them if she could use the empty stables for sparring practice, the people spared no thought before agreeing. Solas watched on as she sparred with Cassandra, soon they would march on to close the blight, hopefully for good.

“Be careful there, Chuckles, or your jaw will break off.” Varric joked.

“I do not know what you mean, Varric. I am merely keeping an eye out, we are after all in unguarded territory.” Solas would not look at the man, gaze shifting between Gan’freya and the horizon.

Varric chuckled. “You think no one noticed the way you two are attached at the hip? The glances anytime someone proposes an insane idea, the constant hovering in her space after a fight, and who can forget the nights by the campfire talking on and on about the fade.”

Solas had tried to interject, argue, but Varric continued on.

“And I mean, that weird balm she slathers you in, asked her about it and she got all cagey, said it was an elven thing but when I asked around other elves at Haven, it became very clear it was a you and her thing.”

“You know not of what you speak, Varric. Have you grown tired of writing your romance novels you’ve decided to project them onto your reality?” There was humour in Solas’ voice, but he could not deny he had felt like a child caught doing something they shouldn’t have.

The dwarf crossed his arms, looking from Solas towards Gan’freya. “Knew a guy like you once, he was all mysterious, reserved. Trailed around Hawke with puppy dog eyes even when he swore he didn’t want to be with them.” He raised his arms as if in defense. “I’m just saying, I know things.”

Solas hummed, arms crossed behind his back, casting one last glance and moving towards his tent. Perhaps Varric was right, he was too obvious, too close. But pulling away now would send alarm bells ringing not just to her, but to their fellow companions.

He slinked back into his tent silently, drawing it closed.

He reasoned with himself, there was nothing wrong with their friendship, were she the one to pull away he would gladly let her. But then a pinprick of something else swirled in his brain. Was it friendship? Or perhaps was it something more.

He would not deny it to himself that perhaps his glances, lingering touches were not just rooted in cordial intent. At first he had been un-phased by her, but the behaviour she has shown those past few weeks have planted something inside his mind he could not uproot. She had shown grace, and courage, and most importantly wisdom and kindness, when the people surrounding her had clamoured for power and good political standing above the wellbeing of the people.

It was her who divulged to him that she had no intention of lying to the people, of seizing power under her new moniker. She had given all this up freely, and she had in turn cherished every piece of information, every form of advice he had given to her.

But then his thoughts started to drift. Past the emotional, past the budding sweetness of admiration, into something more physical, more carnal, desire.

Solas thought back to the first time she had held and bandaged his hand by that campfire, her fingers calloused from wielding dual blades, yet her palms remained soft. He thought of the skin of her bare shoulder, the hitch of her breath when he had bandaged her wound in return.

And then he thought of her today, the way her toned arms were moving with swiftness, blades piercing through targets. Her firm midriff slightly exposed during her sparring session. Even drenched in sweat and gore she was the vision of fairness.

In that moment he wondered what it would feel like to have her pressed against him, her mouth on his, to have her clutching onto him, writhing, grinding.

It seemed that he had lost all sense of control over himself, as his hands drifted down to palm himself through his breeches, searching for friction. It was no use, he had thought to himself, hand dipping inside the waistband. He could not, would not deny himself any longer.

As he stroked himself, it felt as though the air in the tent became too stuffy. He had bit down on his free hand to keep himself from making too much noise.

Solas tried to reason with himself to finish this up quick, he did not have the privacy of four walls and a lock on the door. Anyone could just barge in and catch him in such an indecent position.

At that, his mind drifted further. How would Gan’freya react if she had caught him like this? Would she chastise him? Or would she move towards him with a helping hand? Perhaps she would make the first move, smack his hand away from himself to finish what he had started.

Too lost in his own ministrations, he could not hear her voice echoing throughout their camp, questioning where her friend had disappeared off to.

As he was getting closer to his peak, he’d heard the familiar rustling of his tent flaps, hand quickly moving from inside of his breeches, as if he’d been burnt. He heard her voice before he cast a glance behind his shoulder, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Are you alright?” Gan’freya inquired, hand clutching the fabric of the tent, not daring to invade without an invitation. “You look… flushed.”

Solas’ voice felt caught in his throat, yet he managed to cough out, “I’m fine.”

Her brows furrowed in worry, sucking her lip between her teeth. “You don’t look fine, should I inquire about a medic in the village?”

He turned towards her hastily, wiping his hand down on the fabric of his pants before reaching for her. “No, I’m quite alright, honest.”

Gan’freya studied him for a moment, inspecting him as if she herself were a medic. She observed the pinkness of his cheeks, the slight quiver in his hands, shallow intake of breaths, and most obvious was the remains of a tent in his pants. Her worrisome gaze shifted, a twinkle of mischief replacing it.

“Oh you’re naughty.” She exclaimed under her breath. She knew he’d heard her, his gaze deciding to look anywhere but her.

“I do not know what you speak of.” Was his hushed reply.

A hum, followed by a snort. “I’m sure you don’t. Although, I would recommend next time to do your dirty business when everyone’s asleep.”

Solas jumped to defend himself. “It’s not- It wasn’t- It is perfectly normal.”

“Of course it is. I wasn’t saying it wasn’t.” She spoke, tone getting louder. “I’m just saying, you don’t want there to be rumours flying about that the Herald spends her time with an apostate who can’t keep his hands out of his own pants in broad daylight!”

His hand smacked over her mouth, trying to contain the words she just spoke. She made no noise of discontent, simply biting down on the flesh of his palm to provoke him.

As Solas’ hand fell away, she wiped her mouth. “I didn’t think that one through. I sincerely hope that wasn’t the hand you were making yourself happy with.”

He had a retort locked and loaded, but it died on his tongue as he looked at her. No malice or disgust in her gaze, the corners of her mouth ticked up in a wry smile. Their eyes met and neither one moved. She had made a tentative step forward, hand grazing his stomach, her mouth opening and closing as if she were looking for a way to speak the words.

In the distance, a sound of a horn being blown. A signal of a scout’s arrival. Gan’freya smacked her head on his chest, exhaling deeply. She toyed with the fabric of his tunic, gazing behind her before she detached herself.

“Well, carry on as you were.” She snorted. “Hang up a banner while you’re at it.”

Solas groaned, muttering a for goodness sakes, under his breath. But as he watched her go, a twinge of regret echoed through his heart. Solas wondered to himself if perhaps the path he was on wasn’t the only path worth walking, and if it would truly be so bad to enjoy this new world.

[tired-truffle]

Something’s Gotta Give

A CullenxLavellan fic

Chapter Word Count: 3.3k

Part 2 - Off To A Great Start

"I wanted to tell her that I loved her, and not in the complicated way I loved our parents, but in a simple way I never had to think about. I loved her like breathing." - Brenna Yovanoff

Masterlist

Ash’s heart had soared when she’d spotted another elf among the throngs of humans, she had been relieved. However, her relief quickly turned to disappointment as she realized that this particular elf was a condescending prick. If she’d known that, she would have chosen a different opener, and not: “So, what’s a knife ear like you doing in a place like this?” 

His lip had practically curled as he scanned her Dalish robes and Dalish markings, his face bare of any vallaslin. Perhaps if she’d seen anything but the shiny back of his bald head she would have thought twice about being so casual with him. It became quickly apparent that he did not appreciate her sense of humour. 

That was where Rae found her some time later, trading snide comments outside the alchemist’s hut with the stuck-up elf whose disdain for her was blatantly obvious. 

“Ash, there you are!” Rae called as she approached, halting in her tracks when she saw the daggers Ash and the bald elf were staring at each other. She sighed heavily. “Is it too much to ask that my sister be kind to my friends?”

The other elf’s eyebrows raised, glancing quickly between Ash and Rae, the resemblance slowly dawning on him. 

Ash sniffed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Maybe you should have added it to your list of demands.” 

Rae wiped a tired hand across her face. “What did you do?”

The elf narrowed his eyes at Ash and she resisted the very childish urge to stick her tongue out at him. “Knife-ear is not typically a term one uses for those they do not wish to irritate.” 

“Ash!” Rae hissed at her and Ash coughed uncomfortably. 

“In hindsight maybe it wasn’t the best greeting.”

“Solas,” Rae addressed the elf, “I apologize for my sister’s behaviour, I’ll ensure she doesn’t bother you anymore.” Rae shot a sharp, pointed look at Ash that she didn’t think that she deserved. Ash scoffed and rolled her eyes, but didn’t miss the way Solas’s eyes softened at Rae’s light blush. She didn’t like that at all.

“It’s quite alright,” he said, suddenly and suspiciously amenable. “I am happy to put our misunderstandings aside.”

“Thank you for your maturity and understanding. It’s refreshing after spending time with Ash again.” Ash resented that accusation, she was plenty mature, more so than Rae was pretending to be. Since when had she gotten so serious? 

“Anytime.” Solas’s gaze darted to where Ash stood silently fuming at having been one-upped, victory shimmering in his eyes. Rae bid him goodbye and linked her arm with Ash’s, pulling her forcefully away from the other elf, though not before Ash shot him one more glare, to which he simply waved. Irritating.

“I thought I told you not to undermine me.” Rae hissed out the side of her mouth, a smile plastered across her face as she waved to passersby, their heads instinctively bowing in respect. It was an odd sight to see so many humans paying homage to an elf. Ash had to hand it to her, that was a feat few elves had achieved. 

“I had no intentions of causing a fight, I simply picked the wrong person to talk to.” Ash wrinkled her nose. “But you two seem…close.” 

“Solas has been instrumental in supporting the Inquisition. He’s risked much as both an apostate and an elf without a clan to be here. You should be more thankful, he was the one who was able to stabilize the mark.” Rae held out her hand, and for the first time, Ash saw the glowing green mark embedded in her palm. “Without him, I would have died.”

Ash released her sister’s arm in favour of grabbing her hand and examining it closely, turning it over as the light disappeared. “What in the Void is that?” 

Rae pulled her hand back with a disgruntled grunt. “I’m still trying to figure that out. But it lets me close the rifts, it’s one of the reasons they chose me as their ‘Herald of Andraste’.” The title dripped with sarcasm, and Ash couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. While Rae may take her responsibilities seriously, the title seemed to hold little significance to her.

“Tell me everything.” Ash curled Rae’s hand into her own, her eyes wide and pleading. “Let me help you.” 

Rae sighed, studying Ash’s face with a hefty dose of wariness. A small pang of hurt ran through her like a finely sharpened knife. Why was Rae so suspicious of Ash’s intentions? She never had before. They still hadn’t addressed the heated argument they’d had before Rae had left on her mission, but surely she knew that Ash was here to support her, not to usurp her and harm her anyway. 

Rae’s suspicion seeped from her eyes upon seeing the sincerity in her sister’s. “Fine,” she said, “but you’re going to shut the fuck up until I’m done, got it?” 

Ash gave Rae a lopsided grin. “As you command, Herald.” 

They’d ended up in Rae’s tent for some privacy, but the quiet did little to help with Ash’s racing thoughts as Rae spent the next hour divesting all that had happened to her. Questions and comments pressed at her lips, trying to pry open her teeth to get out, but Ash sat quietly, dutifully even, listening with intent focus as she was told all the many different ways Rae had almost gotten herself killed. Love throbbed in her chest, the spirit had been right - this was more than Ash would have been able to protect Rae from using her own power. Bigger forces were at play than what the Keeper had trained her for, Rae would need every asset she could get. 

Like a cresting wave, when Rae finished her story, lapsing them both into silence, a surge of warm energy travelled down Ash’s arms, propelling her forward until she’d wrapped a startled Rae in a tight hug. They were sitting on the floor, their knees bent awkwardly as Ash crushed them together. 

Love may have promised that she would only observe, but as Ash had found over the last few weeks, the spirit���s instincts were difficult to ignore. 

Rae patted her back, stiff and unsure. They were not huggers, ever since Ash had grown curves and become hyper-aware of the way her large breasts pressed against the chest of whoever she hugged. She had given up the act save for rare, special occasions - and it had already happened twice in one day.

She shifted her weight, trying to appear nonchalant as she purposely rocked back. She sent a quiet reprimand to the spirit residing within her. As per usual, Love remained unresponsive save for a muted throbbing of heat in her chest.

Ash was rarely cold, but since she’d re-affirmed her deal with Love, the heat never seemed to leave her skin.

Rae cleared her throat in the silence that followed. “I’ll introduce you to everyone soon, though you already met Josephine and Solas. From what I hear you met the Commander as well.” 

Ash frowned, unable to place the title with a face. “Who?” 

“Commander Cullen Rutherford, the one who walked you to meet me and gave you specific instructions to wait until after my meeting with Josephine was done.” 

Ah, yes, she remembered him, the man with the neatly styled hair and large, ugly cloak. “I have to say, being judged by a Templar upon my arrival was certainly unexpected.”

“He’s no longer a Templar, they made that very clear when I encountered their Seeker in Val Royeaux.” Rae seemed to hold the man in high regard, strange for someone who so often despised authority even more than Ash. 

“He may not be a Templar any longer, but that training doesn’t just go away overnight. He was immediately suspicious of me.” Ash insisted. 

“He’s suspicious of everyone until they’re vetted, that’s his job,” Rae said like Ash was a child who did not understand how the world worked. She felt herself bristle and quickly tamped it down, now was not the time to argue further. 

“Didn’t you say he wants to side with the Templars instead of the mages in Redcliffe?” Ash had phrased it as a question, but she was sure that Rae had explained it in her rundown.

“Fine,” Rae huffed, “dislike him for all I care, but you need to be cordial at least. Do I have to worry about you calling him names too or is that only limited to other elvhen mages?”

“I think I’ve learned my lesson there,” Ash said in a clipped tone. “Though you have a distinct lack of mage representation on your advisory council.”

“Just don’t start anything,” Rae spoke like she’d aged fifty years in their time apart. 

“I’m following your commands, don’t you fear.” Ash held up her hands in a display of innocence. “But you’ll hear my opinions on everything anyway.”

“Lucky me,” Rae grumbled, fiddling with the handle of her dagger. 

“So who are you siding with in this civil war?”

Rae fixed Ash with a deadpan stare. “Do you really have to ask? The Templars punched a Holy Sister in the face in front of an entire crowd of people without a single giving a single shit. Why would I want to ally with those assholes?” 

Ash smiled brightly, proud of her sister’s level-headed decisions. Rae continued, “I still have to meet with their representative in Redcliffe before I make my final decision, but I doubt that is going to change.” 

“Well I, for one, am pleased to hear that.” Ash looked around the tent, a frown on her face as she noted the distinct lack of grey fur and demanding glares. “Have you seen Sweetpea by any chance? She disappeared when I got here and I haven’t seen her since.”

Rae snorted, brushing off her pants as she stood. “I wouldn’t worry about that cat, knowing her she’s probably out terrorizing the local wildlife.” She held out her hand to help Ash stand up. “Why don’t I introduce you to the rest of the team before you make more of a fool of yourself and we can look for her on the way.”

Ash smiled, accepting the proffered hand. “Lead the way.”

Rae kept a wide variety of companions, some were unavailable when Rae brought Ash around, off doing only the Gods know what. On the way to the War Room for a formal introduction with her advisors, Ash met both Varric Tethras, a dwarven author and chest hair enthusiast, as well as Vivienne, a striking human mage whose ideas on the Circle Ash feeling uneasy. Varric's warm personality and quick wit immediately drew Ash in, and she found herself looking forward to more conversations with him. Vivienne…well, Ash would have been perfectly happy if they never interacted again. Clearly, she knew her stuff, she was strong and clever and Ash would never hold that against her, yet their parting had sent a chill down Ash’s spine that she had been unable to shake. 

“Your magic is something else, my dear,” Vivienne had said with an appraising look up and down her body. 

From the corner of her eye, Ash saw Rae turn towards her, her eyebrow raised expectantly. She expected Ash to say something diplomatic and Ash had plenty of practice with being modest and sucking up to their elders.

“I can thank Ghilan’nain for her guidance, it was no small task to become the First to our Clan’s Keeper.” She attempted to brush it off, relying on Vivienne being an ignorant Shem who knew nothing of Dalish culture - but she should have realized the mage was too clever to be fooled like that. 

She simply smiled - a dangerous smile, the promise of follow-up lingering in her eyes. “Gods have nothing to do with your power, my dear. You may as well own it.” 

Creators, this place was more dangerous than she’d imagined. If any of them discovered that she was harbouring a spirit, she feared exactly what they’d do. She hadn’t even entertained the thought of telling Rae, her wrath would be far too great after Ash had kept it from her for so long. But Ash had done it to keep Rae safe - the elders of their clan already disliked Rae, if they found out that Rae knew about Ash’s possession, the consequences would be dire. For now, it must remain a secret, Rae had other bigger things to worry about. 

Blessedly, Rae’s advisors were all already gathered in the War Room, leaving little space for idle small talk. 

With a forceful push, Rae swung open the heavy oak door, its hinges creaking in protest. She strode into the small room with the confidence of someone who owned the place. Her chin was tilted up, her posture straight. Inside, a large wooden table dominated the space, its surface etched with a detailed map of Thedas.

On the far side of the table stood the three advisors, two she recognized as Commander Cullen - his golden hair and stern expression unmistakable and Ambassador Montilyet, quill poised over her writing board as she offered a welcoming smile.

“Good afternoon, Herald,” the third advisor greeted, her Orlesian accent thick. “And you must be her sister, Ashvalla, yes?” 

Ash's skin prickled with unease as she couldn't shake the feeling that this woman knew everything about her - from her name to his deepest secrets - minus the deepest one or she doubted she would be allowed within miles of Haven. It was unsettling, to say the least.

Ash nodded. “And you must be Sister Nightingale. Rae tell me you’ve been instrumental in her cause.” Best to keep the woman on her good side.

“Please, call me Leliana.” The Spymaster smiled at her. “And you flatter me, Herald, I did not know you thought so highly of me.”

Rae grunted noncommittally and the other woman laughed. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you again,” Josephine spoke up, shifting her weight. “I hope your stay so far has been hospitable.” 

She opted out of telling them of her encounter with Solas. “It has, thank you.” Polite small talk was most appropriate here. 

“Though I believe you may be missing something, Miss Lavellan,” the Commander spoke, his lips twitching as though he was trying to suppress a smile. Before Ash had a moment to ponder this strange statement, gestured towards the ground, and as Ash followed his gaze, her eyes landed on the diminutive form of one formerly missing cat. Said cat meowed questioningly up at the Commander, head tilted as though she didn’t understand why he had exposed her hiding spot behind his heavy boots. 

“Sweetpea!” Ash hissed at her ridiculous cat who paid her no mind. Ash leaned over to tap her thighs, trying to coax the stubborn feline over to her. Sweetpea didn’t bother to give her a passing glance. Ash shot an apologetic smile at the Commander, a light blush tinting her cheeks before aiming another glare at the beast who trotted back over the Cullen, rubbing herself on his legs once more. “Traitor.”

“Now that we’ve solved the case of the missing Sweetpea,” Rae interrupted the staring contest she was having with her good-for-nothing cat who’d chosen a Templar - former Templar, whatever - to rub against and make her grovel in front of. “Perhaps we can get back to the problem at hand?”

Ash straightened, she’d have to deal with Sweetpea’s insolence later. “Please, by all means, don’t let me stop you.” 

Rae's earlier explanation barely scratched the surface of the issue at hand. As Ash struggled to keep her attention on the conversation, Sweetpea sauntered through Cullen's legs, her tail flicking in a taunting manner. Despite Cullen's obvious annoyance, he never once asked the feline to move and even let her curl up on his boot as she drifted off to sleep. Instead, he reached and pointed to places on the map he needed to speak about so as not to disturb her. It was strangely heartwarming, but not enough for Ash to deem him safe. She knew better than to like a Templar, that was a dangerous game for a mage. 

“I still believe our best bet is to contact the Templars.” His point was mildly undermined by the cat asleep on his foot. Ash wondered briefly if Sweetpea, with her keen intelligence and cunning ways, had purposely placed herself there to undermine him and nudge the conversation towards supporting the mages. As much as Ash doubted it, she had learned never to underestimate Sweetpea's cleverness.

“I appreciate your point, Commander, however, the Grand Enchantress seemed rather distressed when she confronted me in Val Royeaux, and I will need to ensure their safety before we proceed.” Since when did Rae talk like that? “I will be taking Cassandra along with me so your point of view will be represented, if that helps ease your mind.”

Cullen inclined his head. “Of course, your Grace. I appreciate your consideration.” 

“Solas and Sera will accompany me as well.” Ash narrowed her eyes at Rae who steadfastly ignored her. There would be an amendment to that lineup if Ash had anything to say about it. “If that is all, I will depart at first light and return as soon as I can with news on my decision.” 

Murmurs of agreement rose from her advisors and the meeting was adjourned. They slowly filled out of the room, giving Ash time to nab Sweetpea as the Commander passed her, much to the cat’s dismay. 

“You can see him again later,” Ash whispered too quietly for him to hear, and he smirked as he watched her struggle to hold the wild animal. 

“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Lavellan,” Leliana addressed her, a sparkle of mirth in her eyes as Sweetpea refused to stay still. 

“I hope our next meeting involves a few less grouchy cats.” Ash shot a pointed look at Sweetpea who returned it with an equally as irritated glare. 

The door shut behind the small family, leaving them alone once more. Ash released Sweetpea and she immediately leaped onto the wooden table, gracefully stepping over the tiny tokens scattered across its surface. With a contented purr, she curled up in the center of the table, her fluffy fur softly rising and falling with each breath.

“What is wrong with you?” Ash huffed, placing her hands on her hips. 

“She’s got your attitude.” Rae leaned against the table, arms crossed over her chest, a challenge her stance. 

Not one to waste time, Ash let her displeasure be known. “You can’t seriously tell me you plan on leaving without me.”

“I can, and I will.” Rae’s smug face looked eerily similar to the one Sweetpea had worn only minutes ago. “How does it feel to be told what you can and cannot do all the time?” 

Ash narrowed her eyes. “Is this all some petty revenge for, what, me bossing you around sometimes? I’m your older sister in case you’ve forgotten, that’s my job.”

Rae scoffed. “Sometimes? I think you mean every single chance you get. You may be my older sister, but I’m a full-grown adult. I make my own decisions, and now, I make yours too. Unless you’d rather forgo our deal and head back to our Clan.”

Love fluttered anxiously in her chest, unwilling to part from Ash’s sister. “I resent those accusations, but in an effort to be the bigger person I am willing to let them slide.” 

Rae’s expression turned sour. “Must you always be like this?” 

“Must I always be right? Well, it does happen frequently so I suppose so.” 

Rae groaned and threw her hands up in the air. “This is why you aren’t coming with me. You’re the worst and I hate you.”

Ash smirked, reaching out to scoop Sweetpea off the table, it was time for them to make their exit before Rae blew up. “Love you, too. I’ll see you tomorrow morning to wish you safe travels.”

And if she barely managed to duck a small token thrown at her head as she left the War Room, she decided it didn’t need mentioning.

Next Chapter

A/N: Will Solas and Ash ever get along? Keep reading to find out.

If anyone is reading this I'd love to hear what you think! 

[1800i-dont-write-fanfiction]

(6) consummate blowhard

My hair clung to my neck, a small relief weighed against the oppressive heat. Sitting stiffly at the oversized dining table, every ounce of my resolve was attuned to the presence before me. Elgar'nan—or whatever remained of him—watched me like a predator, and I fought the urge to shift under his gaze. Rather, I focused on the table and the ridiculous opulence of it all.

Nothing says “divine authority” like an excessive fruit bowl. Truly, your power humbles me.

“I trust the meal is to your liking,” he said, his voice a velvet mockery of hospitality. I ignored him, though not in defiance—not entirely. If he wanted to talk, I’d let him fill the silence. I'd already gathered he got off on the sound of his own voice. 

I plucked an apple from the table, relenting to my hunger. It felt too heavy.

“Do you regret it?” His voice cut through the quiet, sharp, and probing. I nearly choked. 

Regret what? Leaving my clan? Not dying at the conclave? Falling in love with a walking red flag who happened to be one of my gods? Or perhaps then chasing the aforementioned god across the continent for the last decade? 

Someone should write a ballad—preferably one with fewer public humiliations.

“Regret what, exactly?” I asked, careful to keep my tone neutral. There were too many answers, and none would satisfy him.

He seemed distracted anyway, probably lost in the labyrinth of his own self-importance. Frowning, I repeated myself. Clearly, I’m not thrilling enough to hold his attention.

Should I swoon for effect, or would a tearful monologue suffice?

"Excuse me?" He stumbled, his focus shattering like glass dropped from a great height. His mask faltered, replaced by a flicker of something almost vulnerable—embarrassment, perhaps, or the sudden discomfort of being caught unprepared. 

I kept my tone even as I met his gaze. "I sought only to clarify your inquiry," I said, narrowing my eyes just enough to make him question his grip on the conversation.

He smirked as though he were amused. “Your involvement with the great deceiver,” he said, the title laced with venom. “The betrayer of your gods. You are not the first of my People to be led astray by Fen'Harel’s clever tongue.”

Clever isn't the first word I’d use for his tongue. Adequate, maybe—if verbosity counts as a skill. But as for practical applications? Let it suffice to say his tongue is exceedingly proficient.

“You are not my god,” I replied, my voice steady despite the flare of anger. The truth of that statement was a comfort I would not allow him to take from me.

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he studied me. “Perhaps you thought to change him. How tragically naive. And now he’s abandoned you to the mercy of his enemies, cloaked in the pretense of righteousness while you bear the weight of his failures.”

Every word was a needle poking at wounds I'd tried to bury. “You know nothing about him,” I replied, quiet but firm. I didn’t need to defend Solas to him, not truly. It isn't as if I were there to salvage his stalwart reputation.

He chuckled. The sound grated against my ears, and I fought the urge to ask if he’d kindly cackle somewhere else—preferably in a deep, dark hole.

“Don’t I?” he said, leaning back with a lazy ease that belied the menace in his words. “I have known his treachery for millennia. And you? You are but another casualty of his ambition. Pretty, perhaps, but disposable all the same.” My grip tightened on the apple.

"Pretty and disposable?" Perhaps I'll carve it into my tombstone after all this is over.

He continued, his tone shifting to something almost pitying. “You could have been so much more.”

Meeting his gaze, I forced a calm facade. “You’re wrong about my People,” I said. “You think we are weak, but you fail to see the strength in our survival.” The words felt hollow even as I spoke them, but they were at least a distraction from the vulnerability he sought to exploit.

“Tell me, if you had known from the start what this path would demand, would you still defend him, knowing the ruin he leaves in his wake?” His voice was cool, and silence stretched between us as I scrambled for something—anything, really—that would turn the tide in my favor. Perhaps a cutting remark. Where was Varric when I needed him? 

Oh, that's right. Dead.

And then, like all great ideas, it came upon me without ceremony. A whisper in the night; a spark in the shadows that begged to be fanned into flame. A lie, but an audacious one, spun from desperation and gilded with just enough plausibility to be true. If he planned to kill me, as I suspected he would upon realizing Solas would not be coming for me, what harm would a single lie do in the face of certain doom? One that, if successful, would no doubt cascade into increasingly preposterous fabrications, but—

And yet, that was a burden my future self could bear should she live to see it, and I had no time to spare her pity. Thus I steeled myself, shaping every flicker of fear and tremor in my voice. If he wanted conviction, I would give him something so compelling that even the stars might weep for me. 

I forced my gaze downward, letting a pained expression settle over my face. Sniffling, I pinched my hand under the table hard enough to draw tears. "You know," I began, trembling, "I wouldn’t have any regrets..." I hesitated, letting the pause linger just long enough to plant doubt, "If it weren’t for the baby."

The silence that followed was deafening. His gaze sharpened, and I felt the full force of his attention bearing down on me. “The baby?” he repeated, his tone deadly calm.  He leaned forward, closing the distance between us. “You dare claim such a thing?”

Drawing on every ounce of courage that remained, “You accuse me of devotion,” I replied, my voice stronger now. “Do you think I would forsake my own people so easily? That I would turn my back on them without cause? Or perhaps there is more at play than you are privy to.”

Obviously, he didn’t believe me. The faint curl of his lip and the shadow in his gaze made that clear enough. But disbelief was the only first step—I needed to nudge him from skepticism to consideration. 

"You cling to the Dread Wolf out of obligation to your child? Or is this another futile display of loyalty to a man who would sacrifice you without hesitation?" He demanded.

“I am protecting my child,” I pressed on, my voice rising with feigned anger. “You think he wouldn’t use this against me? You said it yourself—he would cast me aside if it served his purpose. If he knew…” I faltered, letting my voice break. “I fear what he might do. What he is capable of.”

Elgar’nan rose from his seat, his towering form casting a shadow over me. I forced myself not to flinch and swallowed hard, my hands gripping the edge of the table for grounding. The lie had bought me time, at least. I may yet be promoted to "tragic footnote."

“Perhaps I should extract this power from you directly. That would settle the matter quickly,” his threat hung in the air like thick smoke. My gaze did not waver.

I tilted my head ever so slightly to meet his eyes. “You wouldn’t risk destroying something so valuable,” I said, letting a faint smirk tug at the corner of my lips. “You’re smarter than that.”

“If such a child exists,” he replied coldly, “you may be of use to me yet.”

I frowned, keeping the lines of my face drawn tight as if his words had shaken me. Predictabily, he digressed into what could only be described as a glorified sales pitch. I waited patienly for his theatrics to exhaust themselves.

“Align yourself with me, and I will spare them all. Your people will flourish under my care, free from the destruction your lover’s vision invites.”

I nearly choked at "lover's vision," mind you.

“Consider my words carefully, Inquisitor. I doubt you will receive a better offer.” He let it linger, his voice almost tender.

And so the All-Father turned out to be a consummate blowhard. Never meet your heroes, I suppose.

[andrastesacredknickers]

At Fault

Summary: The Dread Wolf guides me... I must find a way to shake his influence...

Eden Lavellan’s temper often got the better of them, harsh words rolling off their tongue entirely too easily. They always regretted it immediately after, seeing how their words hurt others. The nasty things they would say just spilled out of them, poisoning the people they loved. The rage that festered inside Eden scared them. They found it hard to control the inferno once it started burning.

While writing this I was listening to: Eyes on Fire - Blue Foundation

Hello my friends! Here is a fic I’ve written giving my archer Eden Lavellan (they/them) some angsty backstory. They’re a Solas romancer and I’ve got a lot of angst and hurt in store for them.

Word count: 1.9K

Tags: angst, hurt/no comfort, mourning, grief, death, sibling death

Find me on Ao3 here

“Fenedhis, Maggie!” Eden shouted, letting out a loud huff. “You always do this. I’m gone for a few days and you’ve let everything go to shit,”

“Creators, Eden... I just forgot to bring your sword inside, I didn’t know it was going to rain,” Maggie said quietly, eyes trained on the ground. In their hands Eden held a sword they had been working on, the leather on the hilt discolored and molding from being rained on, rust forming on the blade. They sighed, looking up at their sister.

“I have worked on this sword for weeks. It’s ruined now,” they said, their voice growing quiet. Maggie shifted uncomfortably, she knew that once Eden grew quiet like this, they were really angry.

“I know, Eden. I know. I- I’m sorry,” she said, looking back up at the archer before her. Eden felt themselves grow hot, a burning in their chest as they looked down at their creation, ruined from the rain.

“I should know better by now. It’s my mistake for trusting you wouldn’t fuck something up,” Eden spat, shaking their head at the mage. They took a deep breath, immediately regretting the words as soon as they fell from their lips. “Maggie, I-”

“That sharp tongue of yours will be the reason Elgaris leaves you,” Maggie responded, snatching her staff which had been leaning against the twin’s tent. Eden huffed, hands resting on their hips.

“Come on, Maggie,” Eden said, more softly now.

“Don’t. Just leave me alone for a while, Eden,” Maggie said dejectedly, shaking her head as she turned on her heel, heading towards the forest.

“Shit,” Eden muttered, pinching the bridge of their nose.

Eden’s temper often got the better of them, harsh words rolling off their tongue entirely too easily. They always regretted it immediately after, seeing how their words hurt others. The nasty things they would say just spilled out of them, poisoning the people they loved. The rage that festered inside Eden scared them. They found it hard to control the inferno once it started burning.

“What was that about?”

Eden turned to see their partner, Elgaris, approaching them from behind, a puzzled expression on his face. Elgaris was a warrior for Clan Lavellan, found as an infant by Keeper Istimaethoriel among some elven ruins. They had grown up together, childhood friends turned something more. Eden cared for Elgaris a great deal. He was strong, a talented warrior, and a good friend. He helped take care of Eden and Maggie after their mother had disappeared, always ensuring they had everything they needed. Eden admired his strength and tenacity, and his ability to put up with their temper.

“Maggie is angry with me. Again,” Eden said, messing with the sword still in their hands.

“What did you say to her?” Elgaris asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Why would you assume it was my fault?” Eden asked, feeling the anger burn in their chest once again. Elgaris raised an eyebrow at them knowingly.

“It doesn’t matter what I said. I’ve upset her,” Eden said, leaning the now ruined sword against their tent.

“What’s that?” Elgaris asked, looking over to the sword. It was a beautiful weapon, crafted with Dalish design. The blade was engraved with intricate patterns, the leather around the hilt a dark blue, though most of it was discolored now from the rain.

“It was a gift. I was making it for you,” Eden said, crossing their arms. Elgaris took a step closer, leaning down to inspect the weapon. The patterns engraved in the hilt were vines, hand engraved into the steel. Along the side read: ‘Dareth shiral, ma vhenan,’

Safe journey, my heart.

“It’s… it’s beautiful, Eden,” Elgaris said, his expression growing somber.

“Then why do you look sad?” Eden asked, cocking their head to the side. Elgaris froze for a moment, clearly thinking about something.

“Don’t worry about it, vhenan,” he said, pressing a kiss to their cheek. Eden nodded, letting out a huff.

“Maybe I should go after Maggie. I owe her an apology, if nothing else,” the archer said, reaching for their bow and quiver. Elgaris nodded, his eyes still trained on the sword Eden had made.

“Dareth shiral,” Elgaris replied, turning away from Eden. Eden could feel in the pit of their stomach that something was wrong, Elgaris wasn’t usually this... quiet. Eden steeled themselves, they couldn’t focus on that right now, though. Eden slung their quiver over their back, heading out towards the forest.

“Ar tu na'lin emma mi!” Eden hissed, the string of their bow pulled taut as they aimed an arrow at the man approaching them. Their hand was steady, ready to let the arrow fly at this perceived threat.

“Eden, it’s me!” he said, palms raised in defense. Eden narrowed their gaze, their body tense, adrenaline rushing through them. That voice was familiar, why did they know that voice? Eden concentrated on the face before them, struggling to recognize any features. A man. An elven man. Slowly, he became more recognizable. Dark brown hair tied back in a bun, a sword slung over his back. His vallaslin was dark blue, the mark of Mythal. Eden had gotten their own vallaslin the same day, theirs representative of Ghilan'nain.

After a moment, Eden’s eyes grew wide, realizing the man before them was their lover, not an enemy.

“Elgaris,” they breathed, lowering the arrow. “Ir abelas, I-” Eden began, feeling a well of emotions bubbling to the surface as the adrenaline began to wear off. Had Elgaris taken one more step, Eden would have killed him. Just as they had killed the men now lying at their feet. The men that had slaughtered their sister right before their eyes.

“Eden, what happened?” Elgaris asked, his voice shaking as he looked around at the carnage before him. Several bodies lay scattered around Eden, all but one riddled with arrows. As he looked closer at the body before Eden, his breath hitched. Red, shoulder length hair, long pointed ears, just like Eden’s. He recognized the mage's staff immediately. Redwood with intricate carvings, a wolf's head at the top. He had made that staff.

“I found Maggie,” Eden whispered, dropping to their knees. They rolled over the body before them, revealing to Elgaris that it was indeed Magdalene, Eden’s twin sister. Elgaris gasped, his knees weakening as he looked at her, lying in the dirt, a gash across her throat.

A tear streamed down Eden’s cheek as they looked down at their sister, her eyes still open, the blood on her neck now dark and dry. Eden’s hands were shaking as they held Maggie, an ache in their chest. They gently closed their sister’s eyes, letting out a sob as they cradled her body.

“This is your fault. You know that, right?” Elgaris said after a moment, watching Eden stroke Maggie’s cheek. Eden froze, their gaze slowly traveling up to meet the other elf’s, the shock on his face replaced with anger.

“What did you say?” Eden hissed, slowly moving to stand. Elgaris’ eyes grew wide, dropping his gaze to the ground. Eden cracked their neck to the side, feeling that all too familiar burning in their chest, breathing growing more ragged. They took a step towards the warrior, their jaw clenched. Elgaris took a step back, clearing his throat as he eyed Eden’s fists, now balled up at their side.

“She wouldn’t have come here if it wasn’t for you,” he spat, reaching for the sword slung over his back. He held it out in front of him, his grip on the hilt shaky as Eden slowly approached him. The archer’s knuckles were white from digging their nails into their palms, the muscles in their forearms flexed tight. The anger within felt white hot and blinding, consuming them like a forest fire.

Elgaris scrambled backwards as Eden reached him, gripping on to his sword. Eden reached out for the sword’s guards, wrenching it from the man’s hands. They tossed it to the side, grabbing the front of his armor and pulling him towards them.

“Go on, seth’lin, say it again,” Eden said, lifting the man off of the ground. Despite being the same height, Eden was much stronger than Elgaris, a vice grip on his clothing. He struggled to free himself of the archer’s grasp, gasping for breath. Elgaris clawed at their hands, sputtering for air as Eden lifted him up. He could see the all consuming, seething rage in their eyes, all semblance of anything but anger gone.

“Eden, don't do this,” he squeaked out, pleading to be released from the elf’s grip. Eden took a deep breath, the urge to snap Elgaris' neck almost consuming them. They let out a breath, tossing him to the ground.

“Get out of my sight, Elgaris. Before you end up like them,” Eden hissed, gesturing to the bodies on the ground. Elgaris huffed, standing up and dusting himself off.

“You’re going to end up miserable and alone, Eden. You couldn’t even keep it together for her,” he said, watching the archer carefully. “I hope you know it was always Maggie. I loved her. You I merely tolerated,” he spat, kneeling down to pick up his sword. A sharp whistle pierced the air, an arrow flying right over the top of the warrior’s head. He looked up, fear overtaking his expression.

“You have 10 seconds to run,” Eden growled, another arrow ready to fly. Elgaris’ eyes grew wide, scrambling backwards. Eden watched him take off, running as fast as he could in the opposite direction of the archer. They turned back towards Maggie’s lifeless body, stumbling over to her. Eden knelt down next to her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“I am so sorry, Maggie. This is all my fault,” they whispered, tears forming in their eyes. As they gazed upon the body of their sister, they felt a different kind of pain in their chest. Unlike the rage that festered deep inside, this didn’t burn. This was a gaping, chilling, all consuming kind of ache.

Eden stayed by Maggie’s body for what felt like forever. Stroking her cheek, her hair. Telling her all of the things they never had. How much they loved her, how they’d miss the way she talked in her sleep, her laugh. How they were sorry for all of the awful things they had said, for the fights they started. Things would never be the same. Now Eden had no one.

“The Dread Wolf guides you, lethallan,”

Eden looked over their shoulder, seeing Keeper Istimaethorial approaching them from behind, her staff in her hand. Eden looked down at Maggie, lying lifeless before them.

“You must stray from these ways, Eden. Your rage will consume you,” she said, lying a hand on Eden’s shoulder. Eden knew she was right. The rage that festered within would overtake them one day if they couldn't calm it.

“This is my fault,” Eden whispered, closing their eyes. The Keeper shushed Eden, kneeling down beside them.

“Yes, it is. And now you must endure,” Keeper Istimaethoriel replied, patting Eden’s shoulder. The mage stroked Eden's cheek, standing and turning on her heel. "I will have Elgaris and his men come and get her, she deserves a proper ceremony,"

“I suppose I must,” Eden whispered, a hand on Maggie's shoulder.

The Dread Wolf guides me... I must find a way to shake his influence...

[mogwaei]

I would like the director's cut of Yin's funky little sidetrip in the Fade during HTLA. Please and thank? 💕

Oooo an olde chapter!! "Chapter 60: Oath to Order" That's a weird one. Okay I shall break it down below a cut! 💚

Let's seeee....well, as you well know, the Nightmare's realm/lair was meant to expose everyone's fears. Yin has a lot of fears lol

So kind of a recap: the poor boyo comes to in the very same dungeon as he woke up at the beginning of Inquisition. But there's someone with him - deep of voice and speaking Antivan, though it becomes clear to Yin that it is not the stranger's native tongue. This is intentionally meant to confuse you - who is speaking? Nightmare...or the other entity from the beginning? Regardless of its identity, there is a very meticulous exchange between the Inquisitor and the Presence. It's trying to get something from Yin, but as it goes with spirits and mortals, both parties must be consenting. For an ancient entity deceiving mortals, this should be no issue.

And it isn't. It gets what it wants almost right away, throwing a red herring later in the conversation. It's so stupid and so simple,

"Allow me to pay you a small kindness. May I help you?"

I liked the idea of it latching onto Yin like this, a seemingly harmless gesture to literally help him sit up. The rest of what follows is just...this entity playing with him because it has already gotten its in.

“I could help you.” < now it's just mocking Yin. Lol gotcha silly elf.

❗[[SPOILERS(?)]]❗: Very quickly it begins to exert its influence on Yin's spirit, searching for seeds of weakness within where it can begin nurturing them. This would be Yin's anger, his fear, and other strong emotions. It's not the strongest influence, it's subtle because this creature is clever and ancient, and it's enough to set Yin on the deteriorating path seen thereafter.

You might wonder why this thing acts like it wants to help him but then proceeds to torment him. Stay tuned 😂

I won't spoil too much more yet, because we're actually going to dissect an aspect of Yin's nightmare in a future chapter (I stg it's mostly all connected, I just take forever to post stuff).

Anyway, whatever this thing is, Nightmare or other, I hope it's becoming a little clearer that this thing is/was searching for something.

But back to Yin's "nightmare":

This scene was a patchwork of timelines, so it's a bit all over the place. Yin slips into thinking that it has already been many years since the defeat of Corypheus. Since he has no reason to suspect a certain ancient rebel to appear, Fen'Harel's return is lacking in this vision. In this world, things got better briefly in the world....and then I tried to imply that Yin got power hungry and fell into a deep delusion that everything he did was for the betterment of the world. A classic tyrant take, really. Yin became the monster, failed everyone he loved, etc. The most important part was really just the beginning of this chapter with Yin vs the Presence :3

Useless sidenotes:

Originally, this scene had nothing to do with a dungeon or Yin being tried as a corrupt leader. In the first scene (draft?) I wrote, it starts out from Yin's pov. He is riding a hart toward a lush forest beside Dorian who is dressed in beautiful robes that are a fusion of Tevinter and Dalish. Yin is nervous, but happier than he's ever been. It changes shortly to Maordrid's pov as she and Solas pursue to save him.

In the next scene, they are walking through a forest, slowly forgetting their present and gaining memories of a much brighter world. They were just coming off of an expedition (can't remember what they were doing) but Solas carries a filthy bottle. Filthy, but it turns out it's actually a rare and expensive wine. He offhandedly laments that this is a paltry gift for their dear friend while Maordrid said something about having lost the other gifts in a cave-in or...robbed? and that Yin will simply be happy they made it for once.

Anyway, turns out they're going to celebrate Yin and Dorian's wedding with the Lavellan clan! 🌸🌼🏵 The illusion over Maordrid's mind is only disturbed when Solas expresses affection (this is prior to the romance) and she's like...wait. And goes through this whole conflict of realising feelings, fighting them, etc. Solas is just so pretty when he's happy. But lol this is the Nightmare realm! I can't remember all the details, except that the clan comes under attack and it's a horrendous bloodbath. There would have been a pov switch back to Yin during this where he still encounters the Presence in the woods (during the slaughter) and probably a Green Knight type of exchange between the two. D:

The reason this didn't stick is because I was writing in Scrivener at the time and the bitche crashed on me, corrupted the file, and I lost the whole thing. What was initially a very long (I think 10k) chapter about a wedding with some t e n s i o n between Mao and Solas was then cut down to the 2,500 words that it is now because I lost the motivation 💀

Thank you so much for asking me about this my dear! Sorry you happened to pick a long-winded one 😂 I figured since you'll probably be one of the only (if the only) people to ask, I'd give you a big director's cut lol💚🍄🌻

[mythaldwir]

» 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒. // accepting!! @sacrificialarrow said: "I have seen more bloodshed in my lifetime than you can even imagine."

It is just Muirwen and Solas, her wolf remaining back at the camp by her command as the pair make their way to some ruins that he insists can lead them to more relics like the nadas dirthalen that Bellara is always going on about. The forest is starting to really come alive with magic, in a chaotic and dangerous way that makes it difficult for the newer recruits to learn the ropes. However there is something about Solas that feels off to her... that he's not as young as he tries to make himself out to be. Especially when he goes into his lectures like a hahren, like the one he's on about right now. The arcane ranger presses her lips together, no longer able to still her tongue. "I never said that you didn't... in fact I haven't said anything at all as you've been going on and on, but I've reached my limit for what I can stand," she says, before she turns to face him and furrows her brows with annoyance. "I don't really know anything about you or how you know half the things that you do. Strife seems to think your help will be valuable and I'm only joining you because I was told to, so if you don't mind I could do without whatever it is that you're doing right now. If you just like to hear yourself talk, then save it. If you're trying to prove yourself to me, then you can do so through your actions finding this relic."

[scvcnofswords]

Ah, he's set down his book. No quick in-and-out conversation then, to spare her anxiety. But she'd known that. No conversation with Solas has ever been quickly in-and-out.

It's why he's her favorite person to talk to. Other than Dorian.

But he rises, and his expression draws a helpless huff of weak laughter as he approaches. Almost unconsciously, she draws back some, fingers twisting one of her rings (a carved wooden thing, pine trees stained dark, with a set moonstone overhead; she's worn it since unconscious in the dungeons, on her thumb) round and round on her finger, a manifestation of her nerves. She grimaces, and glances up, to the library above them, and then back to Solas, those golden-green eyes wide, something twisting viciously in her chest.

She feels more than half a fool but- she has to be sure.

'There are things to consider', he'd said, and she'd be content to give him all the time in the world. Or as long as they have, anyways. Beneath her glove, she feels the Anchor flutter, responding to her own emotions, and Regin heaves in a slow breath- and then just starts... Pacing. Back-and-forth, back-and-forth.

Regin speaks best when she's moving. Her tongue trips when she's still. She's never known why.

"- I have- When I was just the Herald," she begins, carefully, quietly, so her voice doesn't carry too far. "The 'title' of that really only affected- me. Some measure of protection, I suppose, although you know well my thoughts on being- Andraste's chosen." She wasn't. She was just terribly unlucky, and frightfully competent. "I didn't have any sort of authority, but I had- a shield. From it. For myself, a bit. For-"

'I won't let them use that against you.'

'How would you stop them?'

'Ahnsal ar emem.' However I had to.

"And that-," she pushes forward- she's speaking quickly; this has been eating her, a tornado in her chest, tearing and tangling. It had been- both frightfully easy and frightfully painful to avoid him. "Now. I'm I'm head of a- human-made, Chantry-branched organization. I'm their Inquisitor," her voice curves with a helpless disgust, but she doesn't stop herself. She'd sworn to lead them to help all those who needed protecting. "And that- I judged a Tevinter Magister last week, Solas. I sentenced him to serve the Inquisition." A Dalish First had condemned a Tevinter Magister of renown to serve her. She cannot entirely wrap her mind about it. "Cassandra wanted- me to make him Tranquil. That was an actual option. Did you know?" She feels ill saying the words. He needs to know. She spins the ring again, not looking at him.

She would never. Never, never, never.

"There's. Actual, genuine power, there. And I don't- I've been flirting with you since Haven. And- debating with you, and just- gravitating towards you. We both know this. But you don't- you can tell me to stop, you know? You don't have to- appease me, or placate me, I'm not- I'm not going to turn on you or ask anyone to lock you up, or-" She sucks in a lungful of frantic air.

The appearance of being idle has become his most practiced facade. The others trickle in from time to time, finding him to be nose deep in a book, hands splattered with paint, or in the rare occasion he is not there at all.

Some visit with questions worthy of answers but many not, especially when Sera is intending only to make the vein in his forehead dance with a migraine.

The facade works, but it only masks the unease he feels anytime Regin does not travel with him at her side. It's foolish, she is more than capable of handling anything that goes her way. He understands that there will be instances where his presence would be of no benefit, especially outings that were to benefit their companions.

Once again, her cleaning up the messes of others.

But when a kitchen elf had stopped at his door with a quiet, ' They've returned. ' Solas found himself hoping she'd appear on her own. Best to not run around Skyhold attempting to locate her. Lest he appear overeager.

And as his luck would have it, she appears not long after, but he could see something gnaws at her the moment he set his eyes upon her. Long digits close the book in his grasp as she hastens to set expectations of his answer to her question which tells him that she's been shouldering this burden for some time.

Yet when the questions arrives, he's puzzled.

" I shall indeed be brutally honest, in my confusion. " He answers with a quirked brow, the book forgotten to the arm of his chair as he slowly rises from it. His steps are measured as he tracks to the center of the room, gaze fixed on Regin as he cants his head. " Perhaps context would assist my answer. "

[rickylafleurs]

SOLAS USED TONGUE

[inquisimer]

Dalish Week: Arlathvhen

Very excited to kick off Dalish Week and a big thank you to the mods who put this event together!! You’re awesome, lovely people and I’ve had a lot of fun musing about the prompts and exploring rabbit holes about the clans in my stories🥰🥰

For day one, I submit a snippet of reunion between Merrill and Neria, post-Trespasser, discussing some logistics and anxieties about the upcoming Arlathvhen.

@dalish-appreciation-week

~~~

A gentle breeze drifted through the Inquisitor’s bay window, warmed by Skyhold’s weather enchantments and carrying the faint smell of new blooms. It stirred Neria’s hair across her eyes and her frustration spiked. The leather straps she was trying to fasten gave her enough trouble when she could see them—now they inevitably slipped her grasp and fluttered loose. Again.

Across the room, Merrill’s oblivious chatter continued uninterrupted. Neatly organized stacks of parchment filled Neria’s desk and a quill occupied her friend’s hand, tracing out a campsite guide for the upcoming Arlathvhen. Neria caught only snippets of Merrill’s dialogue in her peripheral—something about making sure Clan Ghilain stayed at least two sites apart from Clan Oranavra and establishing civility between the Firsts from the start. She clenched her jaw and fumbled for the straps again, to no avail. It simply wasn’t a task meant to be done one-handed and her stump of a left arm stubbornly refused her efforts at control.

To her shame and embarrassment, a frustrated huff slipped out between her teeth.

Lithe hands replaced hers at once—she hadn’t even noticed Merrill cross to the bed, but her friend tucked the loose strands of Neria’s hair behind her pointed ears and set to braiding the straps. Her fingers wove a far more intricate plait than the basic knot Neria failed to achieve. Defeated, she wilted like a parched lotus.

“Time and patience make the elfroot a silk gown, falon,” Merrill chirped lightly. She let the newly fastened straps dangle at Neria’s side and tugged her braid playfully.

Neria frowned. “I’ve given it time, salgehsa. Time, and rest, and healing—but the world will not wait for my brain to figure out it’s missing an arm. Turmoil in the Wardens, fallout from the Breach everywhere, and Solas—“

She tripped over her friend’s name and bit her tongue, hard, to push back the hot lump of tears in her throat. “Solas could decide that this world’s time ends at any moment. How long is this” —she clumsily jerked her left shoulder forward— “going to take?”

“As long as it takes,” said Merrill firmly. She returned to the desk, flipping through a stack of half-sheets. “How long did it take you to learn how to use two arms?”

“What?”

“Well that’s your only point of comparison, unless you plan on hunting down another amputee and asking them. So however long it took you to learn how to use two arms, expect this to take that long. Longer, if you count that you have to unlearn the two-handed way and replace it with the one-handed way in your head.”

She paused and tilted her head, glancing back over her shoulder. “Does that make sense?”

“I think so?” Neria rubbed her remaining hand over her eyes and when she opened them once more an apologetic smile curled her lips. “Ir abelas, Merrill. You were saying something, before?”

“Oh yes, the campsites—the trouble is, Ghilain and Oranavra have both written that they’re bringing more aravels than anyone else and the hunters who scouted the site say we’d have to put them next to each other…”

Neria half-listened, nodding and humming in the right places even as her attention drifted. She needed a meeting with Leliana, perhaps once Josephine’s latest fleet run returned. Cassandra wanted to discuss the new Seekers’ progress. And she owed Cullen’s clinic a proper check-in—he assured her the mages there thrived, wholly empowered and respected, but she’d be restless until she saw for herself.

At some point, Merrill’s train of thought switched from logistics to something more interesting, but Neria’s half-focused mind didn’t catch it. Merrill eventually cottoned on to the neutrality of her responses and she cocked her head, brow furrowed as she trailed off. In the ensuing silence, Neria’s attention finally snapped back to her friend, an apology already on her lips.

“Aren’t you excited for the Arlathvhen, lethallan?” Merrill asked.

“Oh, I—.” Neria caught her lip between her teeth. Exasperation hovered on the tip of her tongue, but Merrill looked so genuinely puzzled, Neria couldn’t doubt her. It seemed obvious to her and she’d rather thought Merrill, of all her friends, wouldn’t need an explanation. “I’m thrilled for you, salgehsa. And the clans. It’s overdue and sorely needed. But…I won’t be going. You know that, right?”

“No, I don’t know that. And neither do you. Why on earth wouldn’t you be going?”

“Do you want the short list or the long one?”

“You have lists? Oh, Mythal.” Merrill pursed her lips. “Wait just one moment.”

She neatly straightened the paper she’d been shuffling and returned it to the desk. A snap of her fingers stoked the dying fire and she dragged a few soft furs from the basket at the foot of the bed to form a comfortable nest before the hearth. She sat cross-legged and looked pointedly at the space in front of her until Neria joined her.

“Now,” Merrill tilted her head, looking quite like an expectant puppy. “Tell me these reasons you have and we’ll see if they have any merit.”

“Right,” muttered Neria, sliding her fingers through the silky fur and picking at a matted patch. She tucked her bare feet under her legs and bit the inside of her cheek.

“Well start with the obvious—just a handful of years ago I wouldn’t even be invited to the Arlathvhen. I’m not fundamentally different than I was then and yet somehow a few scant years with Clan Lavellan and ink on my face qualifies me? It feels like obligatory pandering, at best.”

“And even when I was with the clan I never adopted their beliefs, or any form of Dalish religion at all. I don’t think I can even properly be called Dalish without that? And especially now, with everything that we learned at the Exalted Council, from Solas? How can I look all those people in the eye and tell them their last hope for their culture is built on a lie?”

“I’ve lived most of my life among humans—how will the more isolated clans see that? And—“ Neria tried to swallow, but her throat had dried in an instant. She coughed against closed lips. “And I’m married, but my husband and our relationship would be a blacklisted topic, because I know there are clans who frown on relations with shems. Even though Cullen loves all of me—because of, not despite the pointed ears and tattoos.”

“At best, I’m going as some half-hearted representative of an organization that doesn’t exist anymore,” she finished, sagging like a deflated balloon. “So I might as well just stay away.”

Merrill considered her for a moment, then nodded. For half a beat, a shocked Neria almost believed that this wouldn’t be any kind of debate. Then—

“Right, well. If those are your reasons for not going, then I suppose I won’t be going either.”

“What?” Neria nearly choked on the word. Her ears twitched forward in disbelief. “How do you figure that?”

Merrill held up a hand, lifting a finger with each reason she ticked off. “I haven’t lived with my clan full-time in over a decade—I’ve been in Kirkwall or off with Hawke or traveling through shem cities. And even the last time I was seeing my clan on a semi-regular basis, those aren’t good memories on either side and we definitely didn’t part on a speaking basis. Nearly getting them killed is probably worse than not having a clan—which you do, by the way, but I’ll get to that.”

“If we want to talk about relationships—I might not be married, but Carver is about as shem as they come, lethallin.” A wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes sparkled with fondness. “And you know I’ll be talking about him, not in the least because I’m sure they’ve all read Varric’s books and are dying to know what’s true. You’re right, some clans are isolationist and strict—but the Arlathvhen isn’t dictated by them. It’s a notorious gossip mill and our relationships far outweigh their opinions in that regard, unfortunately.”

That brought a strained chuckle to Neria’s lips.

“And you—“ Merrill jabbed a finger toward Neria’s chest— “better hope I don’t send a letter off to Mahanon. You know how well he’d take this self-flagellation you have going on—and discounting your time with the clan? Oh, he’d have a field day with that. On second thought, maybe I should—“

“Don’t you dare. I’ll tell Harding not to let you use any of the ravens, if I have to.”

“I won’t, I won’t.” The mischief in Merrill’s eyes melted into something more serious. “But—if it would ease your worries—“

“No.” Neria shook her head firmly. “The clan…I don’t want to put them in an awkward position. They have their actual First back and I don’t want them to feel some sort of unfounded obligation to send an affirmation they don’t mean.”

“It’s hardly unfounded, lethallin,” Merrill pointed out. “Even before you found your clan—you did a Long Walk of your own, in a fashion. Escaping the Circle, surviving Kirkwall, it’s different than our history of course, but most Dalish don’t get closer than words and tales”

“And of course you spent two years and change as their First proper. That’s not a short time, falon, and they won’t discount it. Plus all the work you did to help in Wycome—you saved their lives—“

“—which wouldn’t have been in danger if not for me—“

“And you saved Ellana,” Merrill continued as if Neria hadn’t spoken. “Your Seeker found the Cure and you helped her develop and test it safely and you brought Ellana truly back to all of us.”

“Anyone would have done the same,” Neria said quietly. The remnants of guilt surrounding Ellana’s ordeal still coiled like a snake ready to strike in her gut. Even now—saved, Merrill said, but there were outbursts and the occasional lack of control and she would never be the same.

“Anyone didn’t. You did. But that makes it sound like you’re earning a place and that wasn’t my point. You’ve always had a place.”

Something like shame shadowed Merrill’s face and she frowned. “It’s different when you’re raised in a clan, because everyone believes the same things and you feed agreement off each other. We tell our children: ‘they forgot Andraste called Shartan brother.’ But most Dalish have forgotten that Shartan called her sister in return.”

“When I moved to the alienage, and with all our rebuilding efforts across Ferelden and the Marches, I realized something I never would have if I stayed with my clan—if the Dalish want to preserve the People’s culture, maybe we should start with remembering who the People are.”

“Even with the Dread Wolf’s recruitment, there are so many elves left in cities or with the College, many with human lovers. But it will be harder for them to walk up and say ‘let me in’ than it will be for you to walk in, invited, and set a new precedent.”

Merrill encased Neria’s hand in both of hers and squeezed sympathetically. “You are right, lethallin, but you are also wrong. There will be people who spurn you for your history and your choices—but if they never face their hypocrisy, they will never learn. It is not a reason to stay away altogether.”

Her reassurance didn’t ease the knot of anxiety in Neria’s chest, not really. But it hollowed out the worries creeping up her throat and gave her concern room to breathe. She ran her tongue over her teeth and one of her ears twitched flat against her head.

“But what about…y’know. I’m not even sure—should we even tell them? How could we possibly? But how could we not? Maker next time I see Solas I’m going to wring his stupid neck.”

“I’ll help,” Merrill agreed. “Your hands are too small to do it alone, anyhow.”

This time, Neria’s laugh was genuine. Some of the stress melted from her shoulders in the way only Merrill could make it and she rolled onto her side, laying her head in her friend’s lap.

Calloused fingertips pressed against the shaved hair around Neria’s ears and cool healing magic seeped into her temple, easing a headache she hadn’t even registered yet.

“Ma serannas,” she murmured. Her eyes drifted shut as Merrill continued to rub soft circles against her skin.

“It will be…difficult, of course. But the Arlathvhen is for sharing information and lore—to keep it alive. To compare what one clan has found with the others and find the cross-section of truth. That’s what they’ve always taught.”

She paused. “Well, that, and reconnecting and switching mages and celebrating. Oh, and so much delicious food, the hand pies and soups and—“

Neria coughed.

“—and that’s not relevant here.” Merrill grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I was going to say, we should hold them to that claim. If we’re going to share and preserve our history, we can’t sanitize it to our liking. We have to take the bad truth and reclaim it for a better future.”

“You make it sound so simple.” Neria reluctantly opened her eyes, feeling very much like a cat as she curled her toes in the fire-warmed fur and blinked blearily up at Merrill. “But I don’t even know how we would start that conversation.”

“‘Oh dhea, lethallen, your entire religion and history is built on a lie?’”

“If that’s your plan, definitely count me out.” Neria snorted. “I’d rather tell Josie and Cullen we’re at war with the Qun again.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Merrill declared, clapping her hands firmly about Neria’s shoulders. “But we’ll never even get to that discussion if they can’t park their aravels.”

She pushed Neria back to sitting and shoved her lightly toward the desk. “I’ll make tea—you look over those seating charts and either find a different arrangement or come up with a plan to make Ghilain and Oranavra play nice.”

“Yes, serrah.” Neria snapped a lazy salute and set to a familiar pattern of scouring for common ground—the starting point of all compromise.

Compromise.

Maybe Merrill was right, she mused, cautiously cupping metaphorical hands about the timid spark of hope in her chest. Maybe the insurmountable was more approachable than she’d thought.

[darethshirl]

got bit by the mermay bug and wrote a little something 👀 if all goes well this MAY get more chapters but for now here’s a taste:

(solavellan mermaid au, 1k words)

                                                        — 

“That lock is rusted, you know.”

Solas huffed, taking a beat to wipe the sweat off his brow. “I’m well aware, thank you,” he said testily.

And really, who could blame him for his short temper? His current position was a truly ignoble one: with his ass in the sand, his trousers getting progressively wetter from the ocean, and an ancient, seaweed-crusted chest between his legs. The key that used to hang on a chain around his neck was tossed to the side, forlorn and forgotten, and Solas had his hands wrapped around that thrice-damned padlock and pulling as hard as he could. This was what he had been reduced to, apparently: resorting to brute, dumb force.

And failing.

A chuckle floated his way, and Solas cast another disgruntled glance at his impromptu visitor. His noisy flailings had attracted the curiosity of a mermaid, and the creature was observing him with entirely too much amusement for his tastes. She was sprawled on the shallows of the beach, her chin resting on one palm, her sea-green tail glittering in the sunny water. The brown skin of her humanoid side looked smooth and salt-kissed at the same time, dotted with tiny iridescent scales that clustered like freckles on her collarbone and shoulders. When she smiled her incisors showed, just sharp enough to cause a dangerous thrill in Solas’ belly whenever he noticed.

“Poor mortals,” she cooed, and to her slight credit she sounded empathetic rather than disdainful. “Your limbs must be so weak.”

Solas pressed his lips together, swallowing down his reply to that comment. Instead he fished out a suitably large rock from the muddy sand, tested his grip, then started to bang it against the padlock. His palms had already been nicked from his earlier struggles, the small cuts stinging from the salt and grit, but he ignored it all. There was something mightily satisfying about hitting an inanimate object with all his strength right now.

At least it was until he misjudged the distance and hit his own finger. Solas hissed in pain, a litany of curses rising to his tongue. He addressed most of them to his past self, and some to Felassan for good measure.

The mermaid was utterly unruffled by the profanity. “There’s no shame in asking for help, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

Solas leaned back with a sigh, his aching back protesting. “And what would the price of that help be? My eternal soul?”

Her chuckle was throatier this time, her green eyes twinkling. “That’s harpies you’re thinking of.” She gave him another one of her sharp smiles, clever and coy. “I’ll only capture your soul if you want me to.”

Despite everything Solas huffed a laugh, his mouth forming a sly smile of its own accord. He looked at her more carefully, studying her closely. “Can you actually open this lock?”

“I think the question you really want to ask me is, will I open this lock?”

“Will you?” Solas scrambled upright, suddenly alert. “I mean, would you be willing to help me? I’m sorry I was so ill-mannered before. It’s been a… trying day.”

The woman—could she truly be called a woman?—hummed thoughtfully, her eyelashes fluttering as she slowly blinked. “Well,” she finally said, still smiling, “since you asked so nicely.”

She moved towards him on top of a small wave, then when she got close turned gracefully around and planted her rump on the sand. It was an unexpectedly mundane position, and sitting next to him like this she really did seem like a normal woman. Except her body emanated cold rather than warmth, her scent bringing to mind the open ocean. Not entirely unpleasant, as it were. From this close her skin looked enticingly soft, her arm subtly-muscled and dewy with seawater, and her breasts—

Solas averted his gaze, clearing his throat. He moved slightly to the side and gestured politely to the chest. “Are you going to use a spell? Do you need to prepare—” he cut himself off when her hand reached out and broke the padlock with one firm tug. “...Ah.”

“I’m sure you loosened it for me,” she teased. 

But Solas wasn’t paying attention anymore. He impatiently lifted the chest’s lid, his eyes trained on its opening as the darkened insides flooded slowly with light…

It was there. Solas breathed out in relief, looking at his orb nestled safely among the protective runes. It shone with a brilliant green light, suffusing its surroundings with luminescent colour. Its whorled carvings were as intricate as he remembered, calling out to his touch. He reached in and cradled it carefully in his palms. 

The moment he did his stomach dropped in disappointment. The orb may have looked healthy on the outside but its magic was clearly diminished, still, its power dormant and deaf to his calls. It had been so long. Was he supposed to wait even longer? He was running out of options.

“What is this?” the woman—the mermaid—asked, staring at the orb with wide, entranced eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Is it magical?”

“Yes. Or at least, it was.” Solas peered at her again, observing her under his lashes. Ideas and possibilities started to flash through his mind, a plan slowly falling into place. “May I impose on you for another favour?”

“You’re asking a lot from someone whose name you don’t even know.”

“Of course, my apologies.” He shifted to face her fully, adopting a courteous tone. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.”

“Lyanna.” Her eyes crinkled charmingly when she grinned, the golden specks in her irises glinting in the light. “Lyanna vir Lavellan.”

“Lyanna,” he repeated, tasting the world. He theatrically presented his hand, an offering and an invitation both. Despite himself he felt excitement flood his heart, his smile easy and unbidden. “Will you help me save the world?”

She laughed, her incisors gleaming. “Smooth-talker. How can a girl say no to that?” she said.

And she accepted his handshake, her skin smooth and cool against his palm. 

[rosella-writes]

Happy Friiiiday! I'm excited to find out more about Pride x Valor for the prompt "I held my breath on the way down / Your tangled hair became my gown / I'll never tell you what I found / Now look who's finally got the crown" (from 'They Fear Us' by Ithaca)

You're very sweet, thank you!! I've got the rest of the ramblings about them in no refuge so sure as valor. Not sure how well this matches the prompt but it definitely started something! Thank you.

Valor is Virelan Lavellan, repurposed for an Arlathan AU, and Pride is an agender femme Solas in a once-upon-a-time, a-long-long-time-ago kind of way.

For @dadrunkwriting

~~~

It was while departing a village under the jurisdiction of Mythal's youngest daughter that Pride slipped her hand into her dress's pocket, then held out its bounty — an orange, whose skin was dimpled and perfect.

Valor took it from her outstretched hand, then bit it to create a notch from which to peel. The fruit's oil and juice were bitterly sweet on her tongue. "Where did you get these?"

Pride shrugged, grinning wickedly as she bit into her own. She gestured for Valor to follow in her bare footsteps as she descended the steep, almost clifflike hill. Her gauzy hem caught on each seedhead of grass as she went.

"What next, ma'falon?" Pride asked, setting her sleeve aflutter as she waved at the land before them. She ate the last of her orange with gusto. "There is the world at our feet, with only our inclinations to direct us. I am in no hurry to return to my patron's side, are you?"

Valor thought of Falon'Din as she placed an entire orange segment in her mouth. Its juice burst against the roof of her mouth as she bit down. "Nuh uh. Just tell me we're not walking the entire way to kill time."

"Don't be silly," Pride scoffed. She cast a look at Valor over her shoulder — promise-light eyes, long-lashed eyes, eluvian eyes — and smiled. "Mythal gave me a key. Now come on."

And she cast herself, arms outstretched, down the hill.

Valor's breath caught — with fear? with disbelief? — and her gaze dropped to the orange she held near her mouth.

"You've got to be kidding me," she cursed, then quickly finished it, upset at the lost opportunity to savour it.

When she cast herself likewise down the hill, it was with a high-pitched screech and little grace. She tumbled, rolling like a pin and holding her elbows desperately to her sides, and kept her lips pressed shut against another scream. The world spun in a dizzying mess of colours and sunlight.

Valor gasped when the air changed, and she crashed to a halt against a warm body. She opened the eyes she'd clenched shut, gasping and gulping at the air, and turned to see Pride at her side... laughing.

"I never said you had to roll!" she hooted, clutching at her sides. Her sleeves were muddy and torn, and Valor lay tangled in her long, loose hair. "I just did because I wanted to!"

"You didn't say anything!" Valor gasped, too relieved to be angry. "Just... there she goes! Gone again."

Pride caught her breath, still giggling to herself, and turned until she was flush against Valor's side. Her hair enveloped Valor as if it were a cape, soft and waving and deep auburn. Pride propped her chin up on one hand and looked entirely too smug for her own good.

"We are across the world," she snarked, "or, rather, as far as the eluvian at the bottom of the hill saw fit to take us. I thought the orange key would take us someplace pleasant but... this is dark."

"Orange key," Valor repeated grumpily. "What will Mythal think of next?"

Pride snorted. "I shall never tell. How else will I surprise you next time?"

Valor scoffed, then lunged for her, knocking her back against the stone floor and peppering her face with kisses. "I cannot stand you," she told her. "I'm never travelling with you again."

"Absolutely not," Pride laughed. "You shall have too much fun if you do, and we cannot have that."

"Hate," Valor emphasised, kissing her mouth soundly again and again. "Loathe. Detest."

"Love," Pride said. "Love, love, love."