#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

[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.

[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."

[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."

[firemama]

Its 5:30am and i have a ragging fever and im tryna sleep and thinkin about dragon age

And u know what!! I dont care WHAT the inquisition party mages start with!! Theres no fuckin WAY Solas specializes in ice magic!

Have u SEEN his classification? Like yeah rift mage, obvious, of course, he is Fade and Veil man. But the literalness of it? HE LITTERALLy! THROWS BIG FUCKIN ROCKS. Punch with fist!

Ice magic is all about defenses and traps and buying time, it is NOT solas' style. What is his style is throwing flaming rocks at people. You know what that IMPLIES? FIRE MAGIC. Especially when you look at fire amd ice magics clinically. Because ice magic, or rather, cold magic, would be removing energy from an enviorment (most easily, sending it to the surronounding Environment) to create a lack of energy, and thus make things colder. where as Fire magic, or Heat magic, would be injecting energy so suddenly that shit COMBUSTS. In the insance of SOLAS, a RIFT mage, how fucking easy would it be to spit out energy from the fade at a target? Its the same violent and straight forward tactic as, you kno, spitting a ROCK outta the fade. And also solas is a self admitted hot head (though he says its his youth in which he was short tempered, he litterally fell the fuck asleep for xyz number of years and then woke the fuck up and said "im wiser now" and continues to make wildly rash decisions like "shit lets give this blight guy my magic orb this will all work put fine" and also "hey almost all my fucking people died but im pretty sure if i tear down this veil thing i made which killed them, the current species of elvhen people that have probably adapted to the world as it is now will just be imortal probably!")

But my theory that elvhen people of current thedas plausably having changes to a point of no return aside:

Solas should totally use fucking fire magic, fuck the ice magic spell he starts with that everyone seems hellbent on taking as his elemental style.

That said, Vivienne is absolutely a fucking ice mage? Unquestionably? I mean its totally her fuckin style? She would totally take pleasure in immobilizing targets and taunting them (she litterally does this exact thing during her introduction sequence). And also shes an indirect, ice cold bitch (tone indiactor: kinda fucking love that about her). She would definitely be the kind of deadly ass mage that uses a style pension for defense and traps, cause thats BASICALLY what the game is but like, with words. And also sucking the energy out of something to freeze it is just the kind of a-emotional tactic you can expect in her calculative nature.

This leaves our last elemental school to Dorian, who should definitely be the fuckin school of storm? Lightning man? Like i know eveyone wants him to be fire because oho flamboyant little flame. But like everything about dorian is ententionally weaponized and volatile, even his flamboyant personality. His sharp tongue is a live wire and he litterally lives his life by the motto, "oh it looks pretty, but if you touch it, zap!" Like hes the embodiment of arching electricity. And it just fucking works more with his chaptic style! He a Necromancer! CHAOS! PANIC! FEAR! SPIRIT BOMBS AND THUNDEROUS CHAIN LIGHTNING = MASS HYSTERIA AND SWEEPING DAMAGE! Dorian comes from a country where the front lines and the battlefields are run by magic rather than armor or sword, his magic should reflect that. Quick, light on the feet, devestating. And dorian, himself: unpredictable but a whole school of science and research, to know the finesse of his craft and its nature, whether its the spirits he forms or the lightning he crafts.

Anyway it seems violently obvious to me

Tldr: Dorian it Storm, Vivienne is Ice, and Solas is Fire. It matches their nature, it matches their fighting styles, it matches their specializations.

Im sure this post is riddled with typos but cut be some slack it is now 6:10am and im exhausted

[emerald-amidst-gold]

WIP Wednesday

Been working on trying to utilize more dialogue lately. Fane’s a character that tends to recede into his mind a lot, even in the middle of conversations, so it’s sometimes hard to think of conversations. My boy just...doesn’t talk very much. XD Thankfully, it’s a bit easier when I place Solas in a snippet. A wolf helps a dragon open up, and vice versa! :3

Thank you @noire-pandora for the tag! <3

Scolding, the dark side of an ivory dragon, and a glimpse into a relationship I’m still working on. >:3

---

A small growl let Fane’s lips. “Solas, I know that look in your eye,” His voice dropped, a snarl wiggling into its depth. “Don’t start. I just told you–”

Too slow.

“Hm,” Solas hummed, completely ignoring his warning in favor of pressing with both a wolfish smirk and poking words. The hand upon Fane’s face slid back a bit, cupping his jaw. “No fever. Perhaps cabin fever, then? We have been sequestered for some time.”

Fane snorted, rolling his eyes a bit and lifting his own hand to grab a hold of the other’s wrist. His fingers wrapped around it easily, but he applied no force nor did he pull it away. Solas’ hand did relent, but sadly, his smirk didn’t. Woe. Was. He.

“We’ve been at Suledin for a week, Solas,” Fane reminded, another exasperated growl lacing his voice to where the elf’s name rumbled on his tongue. He carefully guided the hand upon his face away and back down to the sanctuary of warm velvet. “That’s not nearly enough time to drive me mad. Restless, but not mad.”

Solas continued to smirk, continued to lead with words while Fane led his actions. “Apologies, ma’isenatha, but there is a precedent of which to be concerned over,” he said with a tone that made Fane inwardly sigh and his face go blank as a slab of marble. Why did he love this elf again?

“You’re talking about the last time we were in the Approach?” He grimaced a bit when Solas nodded, the blank canvas of his face unable to ward away emotion as he remembered sand and sun and–and heat. “Of course you are. The last place I want to think about is the one you bring up...” He sighed. “It was only one wall. It was nearly about to fall apart anyways.”

Solas’ smirk vanished, eyes and face holding sheer white–blank and placid. “Fane.”

Fane’s eyes slowly shifted to the side. “...Two walls.” The sky was asserting itself, wasn’t it? Oh, it was…

“Fane.” Sharper, sterner, but holding a slight…chuckle? Fane thought that was what it was, anyways. Wouldn’t make him turn his eyes back yet though. If anything, it made him turn them further to the side.

“...Three walls–” Fane felt the sharpness of eyes on the side of his face, nearly making the scar upon it feel as if it were freshly cut. He took a deep breath, realizing he was quite possibly in danger now. “--and a dwarf.”

“Merely a dwarf?”

Fane tilted his head back, eyes traveling along the path of stars as they formed their constellations. Maybe if he pretended he was up there and not down here he’d be–

Oh, what was the point? Solas knew. He had been there when it occurred, after all...

“...Three walls and Varric.”

A pause, a reprieve in the tension before it snapped back like a Veilstrike, quick and hard. Why did this suddenly feel like a trial?!

“I believe you are forgetting something else, ma’isenatha.” The tension mounted again, nearly suffocating in its embrace. “Or rather, someone else. Someone who had the misfortune of not getting snapped at with just words or a boot.”

Fane felt his mouth draw tight, his eyes utterly fixated on the constellation he recognized as…Draconis? Yeah! That was the one! How…funny…

…Just like the bellow of a Qunari dropping several feet from the battlements into the safety of a dune had been. He could still feel the essence of rage–dark, dark rage, but he could no longer recall the reason behind it. All he could recall was grabbing a hold of a leather harness, gripping it so tightly it nearly snapped, a singular eye watching him, assessing him as it always did before a black sensation invaded him at its widening, and then...nothing. Nothing but several gasps, yells, and a descending scream.

“...He was fine in the end,” Fane said, voice monotone, but somewhere deep inside he felt…satisfaction; vindication. He staved off a snort, knowing it would only worsen his inevitable verdict, but he couldn’t stave off the words that slipped past his lips. “...The scream was amusing, though.”

“Fane!”

Now he remembered why his kin weren’t afforded voices...

---

Fane isn’t what you’d call an ‘Ass-quisitor’, but he has some moments where he’s close to it. Obviously, there’s no prior context, as of yet, as to why he and Bull met with friction, but Fane didn’t just do what he did on a whim. If anything, it was...a long time coming. *smiles* 

Tagging: @oxygenforthewicked @for-the-ninth @varric-tethras-editor @little-lightning-lavellan @dreadfutures @the-dreadful-canine @in-arlathan @dungeons-and-dragon-age @drag-on-age @aymayzing @fiadhaisteach and anyone else that’d like to share something! (no pressure and let me know if you’d rather not be tagged! <3)

[drunken-drengr]

'stop pushing me away!’ - for Karrie and Solas, please?

Hey you! Oh you want an angsty prompt? For Solas and Karrie? While you're at it fucking stab me with a steak knife, too. I'm joking, I'm joking, it's a pleasure to write these two, even if it gives me the feels! @dadrunkwriting

"Hey, Solas," came a gruff voice, almost hesitant sounding. As Karrie entered his rotunda, Solas gave a soft sigh. "We're playing Wicked Grace in the tavern... everyone's gonna be there. I was thinking maybe you would-"

"No." Solas said sharply, not even casting a glance in the dwarf's direction. There was silence in the room as the elf only went back to reading whatever it was he was seemingly so invested in. It had to be so investing for him to just brush her off like that.

Karrie felt a pang of... pain? She didn't quite know what to call it. Sadness? Anger? Bitterness? Maybe all at once, she supposed. Somehow, that one word stung her more than anything else she's ever been told. More than that, it was the way Solas had said it, the way it slipped off his tongue so sharply and cut into her like a templar's lyrium-etched blade. Suddenly, Karrie's heart was racing, and she found herself not able to make a sound, let alone look at the elf expectantly. This definitely wasn't the first time he was sour with her, not at all. But he was never so... cold, with how he brushed her off. Eventually, he always came to forgive her, either with a reluctant laugh at her antics, or a somber sigh as he placed his hand on her shoulder with a faint smile. It didn't matter what she did to upset him, or what put him in a bad mood, he always came around. Always.

But this time, that didn't seem to be the case. And worse yet, Karrie couldn't think of a single reason for his sudden dismissal of her. That time he sarcastically bit into her for a day or so after she and Sera filled his bedroll with lizards was understandable. Or that time she and Sera had stolen his entire elfroot stock and enjoyed it in their rooms for the rest of the week. Also that one time she and Sera had covered him with honey in the middle of the Ferelden woods-

Bah, that was beside the point. The point was, Solas always had a good reason to be mildly upset with her. Though no matter how hard she thought about it, Karrie couldn't come up with a single thing she had done to upset the elf, let alone come up with something Sera could have done. So, why on Thedas was he acting like this?

Finally, Karrie mustered up the courage to attempt conversation with Solas again, clearing her throat and approaching his desk ever so slowly, ever so cautiously. She had never felt this way around the elf before, not this severely. "Well, I mean, you never want to play Wicked Grace, and this might be one of the last times we do," Karrie said softly, almost beckoning the elf as she drew closer. Though he showed no signs of interest to anything she said. "It would really brighten the atmosphere if you could be there. For once."

"I said no, Inquisitor."

There it was again. That pain, that cut, that stab. It felt worse this time, somehow. How he outright denied her, this time more firmly. And how he called her. Inquisitor. He rarely ever called her that, save for in formal cases. Or in cases where he was upset, and passive aggressively wanted to convey that to her. Karrie took the hint, she took it, alright.

At this point, Karrie was upset herself, no longer feeling timid and on edge around Solas. Hell, she was starting to get annoyed by his dismissal of her.

"What's your deal?" She asked, frown manifesting itself on her face as she crossed her arms. "You can at least look at me when declining my polite offer to, oh, I don't know, spend some time with our friends?"

Karrie couldn't help but flinch when he set his book down in one swift motion, letting out a sigh and folding his arms in front of him on his desk. Just as she had asked, his eyes were on her, with a seemingly blank expression. She could see the annoyance in his eyes though, he couldn't hide it from her. "What more do you expect of me, Inquisitor? Am I to just do your bidding?"

"No, I don't want to to do my bidding!" Karrie snarled. "I- Why are you acting like this? What did I do this time, oh superior Solas? How did I upset you?"

"You haven't upset me," Solas responded calmly. "I fail to see what you are getting upset over."

Karrie was taken back for a moment, before grinding her teeth, and slamming her palms on his desk. In that moment, his seemingly calm expression turned grave, his brows furrowed, an almost annoyed look washing over him. "What I'm getting upset over? Me? Stop fucking acting like this is normal! I get it, you're angry with me for whatever the hell I did, yeah? But you don't have to brush me off like that!" She found herself spitting at him. "Talk to me!"

There was a moment of almost pure silence, save for Karrie's heavy breaths from her angry spout of yelling. And it seemed like an eternity that they stared at each other. Solas still had that look on his face, telling he wasn't amused by her tone in the slightest. And yet, he didn't scold her, like he would have.

"Stop acting like a child, Inquisitor," he finally said, picking up his book again, and directing his gaze to its contents. "I do not want to play your games."

Karrie was taken aback by this. Was he really going to act like nothing was going on here? True Solas was exceptionally good at hiding his emotions and inner thoughts, but with how close they were, he couldn't hide his true feelings from her. Hell, she was practically his daughter, and he her...

Shaking her head and taking a step back, Karrie gave a scowl. "You've been like this since the Temple," she said, her voice lowered. "I didn't think much of it, but this is ridiculous, and you know it, Solas. Just tell me what's going on with you. I'm sorry for letting Morrigan drink from the well, I am. But who else would have done it? Not me! Certainly not you! Not Sera, not Blackwall."

"I do not blame you for letting the witch drink from the Well of Sorrows," Solas replied, surprising Karrie with his less harsh tone. "I would be truly upset if you had, given that I would not have allowed you to willingly do it at all."

Karrie was a bit relieved at this. At least he still harbored some care, protectiveness, for her. Enough to not allow her to drink whatever cursed waters and their secrets that had lied dormant in the Well for centuries. But still, he avoided her question like animals had avoided tears in the veil. "Then why act like this? So distant?" She pressed yet again.

Giving a deep sigh, Solas shook his head at her persistent nature. What else had he expected from this dwarf? He knew her better than perhaps anyone. He should have expected she wouldn't take a simple 'no' for an answer, she never did. "I find it pointless, how you avoid the inevitable. You'll have to face Corypheus eventually. Now is the time to do so, and yet you sit here, having drunken parties at near midnight."

"Our forces are still in the Arbor Wilds, you know this, Solas!" Karrie combatted his claim, scowl across her face. "What's wrong with enjoying what little moments of life we have left before the end of the world? Why won't you enjoy it while you can?"

"We both know what must happen, Inquisitor," retorted Solas. "The sooner Corypheus is defeated, the sooner-"

This time, it was Karrie's turn to cut Solas off. "The sooner you can what? Leave?" She snapped at him.

The silence was different, this time around. Solas didn't quite know what to say. He slowly closed his book, and set it down, for real this time. His brows creased, and he grew concerned. Finally, he heard some noise from Karrie. A slight sniffling, a few short breaths.

"You gonna leave me? Like my Father did? Like they all did?" She asked, anger lining her tearful words. When Solas didn't answer her, she turned her head, not bearing to look at the elf. "I know you will, I'm not stupid, Solas. I know I'm prolonging the inevitable, but what do you expect me to do? I have such little time left with them all. Even if we do defeat Coryphy-piss, and live to tell the tale, they'll still leave, eventually. Blackwall will leave to make amends, Sera to resume Red Jenny shit in Orlais, Dorian to fill in his father's shoes, Bull to another mercenary job, Varric to his beloved Kirkwall- should I continue? You'll leave too. I didn't want you to, never, but everyone leaves eventually. I just don't get why you won't spend what little time left we have with me. Stop pushing me away!"

With that last estranged breath, Karrie felt all her strength and composure leave her. She felt she was going to collapse to the ground at any given moment, but suddenly a grip on her shoulder steadied her. She could tell by the way his thumb gently rubbed against her linen shirt, that it was Solas' hand.

"I don't want to push you away, da'len," his voice finally came, in that gentle tone she remembered him having with her. "I don't want to leave you. But some things cannot be helped. It is the way things are."

Gently, he guided her over to the couch by the wall. He sat her down, and in that moment, saw how weak she really was. Karrie's shoulders were slumped, and she almost instinctively leaned into him. Slowly, his hand came to caress the back of the dwarf's head, parting her thick, red locks.

"I know," she eventually muttered, voice dry. "But for the rest of the time we have together, don't treat me like a stranger. Please. Treat me like I'm..." Her voice trailed off, as she found herself unable to complete her sentence.

"My daughter." Solas finished for her, rather simply, almost taking Karrie aback. "I'm... Forgive me for treating you so, Karrie. I told myself I wouldn't get attached to you, so leaving would come easy, but alas, look at where that got us."

Karrie gave a small laugh, which Solas followed up with a chuckle of his own. "I suppose it was unwise of me to think I could simply brush you off, in hopes that it would ease the pain to come. I don't think it would have made it any easier."

"Yeah," Karrie softly nodded. "That was pretty stupid of you. Don't do that again. Near got me seein' red."

"I won't, da'len. I won't." Solas responded, and the two just sat there in each other's embraces. Slowly, he raised his other hand, placing it under her chin and raising her head to look at him. With a thumb, he gently brushed away her tears that stained her cheeks red.

"So how does Wicked Grace work, exactly?" He eventually asked her, although hesitant. At this, Karrie's bittersweet demeanor dropped almost instantaneously and replaced by a much more excited one, if not a bit mischievous.

"Ohoho, look at you! Wanting to learn so quickly? All that time in the Fade and never once have you witnessed a game?" She teased, grinning up at the elf. "You'll have to learn as we go! We don't have time to teach you the whole thing!"

Solas gave a small chuckle in return, tilting his head. "I suppose that's what I get for wanting to play at the very last moment. Luckily, I'm a rather quick learner."

"Oh, Solas, you'll regret agreeing to play this time. I'm gonna beat your ass!"

"I'd certainly like to see you try."

[mogwaei]

“We fight on”

[Solas/Maordrid - The Guardian]

The air warbled and warped as the war raged around them. Spirit blade singing, steel ringing. Any moment now.

Pirouette, parry, press on.

She hummed the hymn under her breath, but never gave form to the final line. No, those were reserved for--

A beam of crackling blue-black energy appeared in her peripheral, and as she braced turning into a blow noticed too late, it stopped inches from her face. Something wet ran down her temple--blood, from a blade kissing her flesh, narrowly stopped in its killing path by the radiant staff.

Her assailant turned into little more than a spray of arcane dust as they returned the favour tenfold.

“This isn’t it,” he said after, as they dashed through fire and fray.

“You don’t know that,” she snapped back. They skidded to a stop before what would have been their escape, if it had not been laying shattered in dull pieces about the uneven ground. She started muttering the stanza under her breath again, throwing her arm up to shield his neck. The shrieking arrow knocked her off kilter and Solas caught her. The enchantments in her bracer took the brunt of the damage and turned it into a decaying barrier around them.

“Stop that,” he insisted irritably.

“You promised.” She started up again, raising singing sword and wooden shield as she glimpsed the glint of a score of bows on a ridge above. Turning to him, she grabbed his elbow, still holding her useless sword. “The last words--”

He braced her arm, eyes intense, alight with magic. “No. We fight on.”

Before she could argue, he pulled her in. Among the desperation and anger, the copper and mana...the years of memories shared that he painted into the kiss...laying beneath a thousand dreams broken, they were there. The final words to the death rite, ash on his tongue.

“There is still hope.”

“You would make your final words a lie?”

The air began to warp again, hot and tight against her skin. Any moment.

The archers let loose with an audible snapping of sizzling bowstrings. As the arrows reached a zenith, the world grew bright, incandescent blue as the sun shone through the volley of deadly magic.

He held tighter to her.

“You promised, Solas.”

He opened his mouth as the air screamed and shattered--

[Their fight is far from over - Ouroboros]

[adeadlysymphony]

A Last Encounter . . .

A/N: A dragon age prompt featuring our favorite egg and my inquisitor. I did a prompt challenge with a friend of mine and my sister. We decided to do it so we could give feedback on each others stories to improve our writing. I figured I would post it here and see what other people think. I hope you enjoy! 8D

Prompt: “Ask me to stay”

A bubble of laughter escaped her lips as she watched the children of skyhold play around in the snow. They insisted she stay and watch a reenacting of one of the many battles she and her companions had fought. Seeing them be so care free without a worry in the world set her at ease. A sense of peace washed over her in the early morning sun and at least, for a time, she could enjoy it. 

Skyhold. 

A place that had become her home, and not just to herself, but to many other ferelden’s as well. It had been a harrowing last few years, but they always endured. However, she has come to learn that things never stay calm for long, especially with a threat looming over Thadas still.  

A frown slowly replaced her once serine expression, brows furrowed in confusion. The cause of her perplexity was a flicker of a mythical green light out of the corner of her eye. Strange. A trick of the light perhaps? Had her mind gotten so used to the anchor that now she was starting to see things? 

Shaking her head at such silly thoughts she refocused her attention back on the children. . . but the only thing that greeted her was a field of snow. The laughter that once filled the courtyard-- gone.  

The once lively Skyhold stood barren as if no living soul had occupied it just moments ago. Panic started to set in, her mind trying to come up with a solution as to what happened. Before she could come to any conclusions a voice wrapped itself around her lungs, it became hard to breathe, a single breath of disbelief escaped her parted lips.

“Vhenan”

As if a fog had been lifted, she understood clearly now. 

The Fade.

A strange fascinating place, and yet frightening all rolled into one. A wise soul taught her the wonders of such a place, how there was nothing to fear unless you allowed it, and he was standing right in front of her.

Her first. Her Vhenan. 

A man who showed her the world and in turn she gifted him her fragile bleeding heart. She remembers that night vividly, how her mind so badly wanted her to forget, but her heart just wouldn’t let her. How he held her softly in his arms, how she latched on to every ounce of truth he spoke, the way he called her beautiful. 

The words sounded so sweet when they parted from his lips. They made her feel safe in the dangerous ever changing world around them. Some days she wonders if they were ever true at all. . . But they had to be, didn’t they? He wouldn’t be here if they weren’t. It felt as if an eternity had passed before she regarded even a modicum of composure. 

“Solas? What am I doing here?”

She had been afraid to speak at first, as if he would disappear the moment she did. Momentary relief washed over when he didn’t move an inch. Instead his blue eyes bore into her own, searching for something. His alabaster lips shaping around words that seem to be trapped on the tip of his tongue. 

“. . .I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

A range of emotions flashed in his tired eyes, what they were she wasn’t quite sure, hesitation, fear, regret?

“My own selfish reasons I suppose.”

He should have never come here, should have never allowed himself to be this close to her again. Every time he looked into those Emerald green eyes he swore he could feel his resolve slowly chipping away. She was his salvation and yet his damnation all at once. This wasn’t fair to her, he already tormented her dreams and now this? 

“Var lath vir suledin”

She had begged him once, not wanting to see him endure the path he walks now. In this sheer moment of bliss he wondered what he hoped to accomplish by bringing her here. A last chance, maybe? To convince her not to interfere with what must happen, or maybe it was to convince himself? His arms itched to hold her, even if this would truly be the last time. 

His Silent wish was granted as she slowly moved forward, each gentle step a thought out calculation until she stood directly in front of him. Her eyes searched his this time, still full of love and longing.

“Why won't you let me help you?” She softly asked, who knew one single question could convey so many emotions. A question that had already been answered before, maybe she was hoping for a different answer this time around.

“You know why.”

The gentle shake of her head made the white coils of her hair fall about her face. “And I will keep reminding you that there is always another way. You know you don’t have to be alone in this. We could find another path if you would just let me back in.”

“There is no other way, my love. As I said before, after all you’ve accomplished I will not have you walk this path of destruction.” Before he realized it, she was standing in his arms both his hands cupping her face of soft earthy colored skin. 

“Is there really nothing I can say?” The sorrow in her voice prominent.

He wanted to believe - No, he had to believe there was nothing she could say or do to back him away from the ledge he was tethering on. Without saying another word, he gently brushed the coils from her face, fingers tips memorizing every inch beneath them. 

Before his conscience could deter him from his actions, a wave of pure euphoria washed over him as he captured her soft full lips with his own. This was beyond rational thinking, it was what his soul craved and longed for. His vehnan, his love, and how he wished she could be his everything; but that would be selfish. He needed to fix the mess he created, even if that meant breaking both their hearts and opting to watch the world burn for the sake of something bigger than them.  

With his forehead resting on hers, eyes closed,  a pained expression eminent on his face. 

“Ask me to stay” 

It came as a whisper, softly spoken words that would be easy to miss had they not been standing so close. A single word carried on the wind, a word full of hope and desperation. 

“Stay”