#Sola has no clue yet what they will be | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lairofsentinel · 3 months ago

Text

Since this user's posts seem to have been deleted in previous opportunities I copy-paste their words here because they express exactly what I feel about this game. Dragon Age has died, unfortunately.

I'm a big time Dragon Age lover and have enjoyed every game in the series. Personally, I think Inquisition is the best in the series. And I was excited for Veilguard right up until I actually began playing it. Now, I want to clear things up at the start as to what I look for and believe makes a good Dragon Age game. To start, I DON'T CARE ABOUT COMBAT. I. Do. Not. Care.

You can make it Origins tactical. DA2 fast tactical. DAI hybrid. God of War action, I don't care. Dragon Age has always had combat that was...fine. A nice distraction and breakup in between the bits I actually care about: narrative ROLEPLAYING, story, characters, and exploration. I don't give a crap how great the combat is if the narrative roleplaying and writing are poor, I'm not playing BioWare titles for amazing gameplay. I am here for the story, the characters, and the roleplaying. Truth is, for a time I considered DATV's combat to be the best in the series.

And this is why I feel the game is a terrible Dragon Age, because it lacks or fails to respect those elements concerned with narrative roleplaying, story, characters, and exploration. Now, in many reviews and online videos you'll hear some reference often to the drop in writing quality. And a lot of time people will incorrectly say that the writing with the characters is to "modern" or "Marvel quippy" or not "dark" enough. I think these people are wrong, they recognize there is a drop in writing quality from previous games but aren't able to articulate why that is.

Dragon Age has never adopted any sort of faux medieval speech and vocabulary (though we'll get into this more later). This is a series that used "epic fail" as a thing someone uttered in the very first game. It's always had anachronistic dialogue and banter. So why is it such a drop then? Why is it considered poor? Simple. This is a game that does not believe in the world it has setup for over a decade. It does not believe in or engage properly with its own world and lore. I mean, look no further than the title "The Veilguard" a phrase that is never uttered by anyone in our group, and further proof it was a last minute marketing change. Compare to Inquisition where the title is apparent from the start in the game and has actual meaning.

You see, characters in DATV do not feel or react to events the way they should based on the lore. Why is no one constantly asking what the hell the Inquisitor is doing? The Inquisitor is kind of a BIG DEAL when it comes to Solas and Elven Gods, my Inquisitor drank from the WELL OF SORROWS! So why are we sitting around thinking at the start, "hmm lemme think who I can contact who might know more." The Herald of Andraste! They know more Rook, the guy that is technically your boss. The Inquisitor! Who else have you been working for this entire time? Who do you think told Varric to recruit you?!

But even removing the Inquisitor, the Elven Gods being real and also near synonymous with the old Tevinter Gods is kind of a BIG DEAL. It was only a theory fans crafted long ago that slowly revealed itself to be true. And it completely upends known religious dogma on all sides. Yet, why aren't people we meet going through a massive existential crisis? For instance, the Veil Jumpers we initially meet were presumably told off-screen about Fen'Harel, and are seemingly cool with this massive knowledge alone. But then we talk about those two other Gods being released and they're like, "well, shit those two aren't good." As if they have any clue if the fables about those Gods are real when we previously just upended everything they thought about the Dreadwolf! Why are you acting like this is another Tuesday?! Your entire religion is wrong. In that same conversation, Strife notes "Solas might be a bastard, but compared to the Evunaris? Let's just say they weren't know for being kind rulers."

My brother in Anduril, what are you talking about! Elven religion teaches that Elgar'nan was so beloved by the Earth that it "the land brought forth great birds and beasts of sky and forest, and all manner of wonderful green things." And that he fought the jealous Sun that tried to burn the land and all beasts away. Custom says that he and Mythal, "created the world as we know it" after defeating the Sun. He is literally described as one of the "good" Gods. WHY ARE YOU ASSUMING HE IS EVIL! It's like finding out Satan is real, but not as evil as have come to believe and then being told Jesus Christ is back and a devout Christian going, "well shit, that can't be good." WHAT?!

The same goes for Andraste and the Chant of Light, it took me 30 hours of playing before ONE character mentioned Andraste and the implications with the Chant and it was never brought up again. Our entire party is seemingly made up of unphased atheists. Now compare to something like Inquisition which explored this aspect HARD and was amazing for it. You'd get into great debates with religious figures and party members about the implications of Corypheus actually being a Tevinter Magister of old. And you'd talk about what it means towards the religious dogma preached and how much is true. And these intense political and religious discussions are present in every previous game, and not confined to a single conversation with one party member where it is seemingly resolved.

These conversations do not happen in DATV because there is no depth to the writing or engagement with the world. The Elven Gods are evil and need to be stopped. That's it. We don't need to think about the implications this has on Dalish customs and religion. Fuck it, all the Dalish are going to still wear their Vallaslin slave brand tattoos. Let's forget about Trespasser implying Solas was removing them from followers coming to join him. Let's even forget they were likely all told at this point that they are slave brands, nope still going to wear them yet speak blasphemy with every sentence against our Gods. No one cares about Andraste or The Maker or the Chant. Big deal if these Elven Gods contradict the overwhelming majority religion in Thedas. Not a single party member has religious or cultural objections to killing the Elven Gods; not a problem. Not one single elf wants to join Solas in tearing down The Veil and getting immortality again?

Again, let's forget about Trespasser setting up Solas gathering MANY Elven followers from Dalish clans who would be super inclined to join him after experiencing CENTURIES of discrimination and slavery by humans. The better question is what Elves wouldn't join Solas at the start? And what Elves wouldn't look at the other two Gods and go, "meh, maybe we should give them a try. They can't be worse than humans, right?" In DA2 you had elves joining The Qun to escape the discrimination of humans, but not ONE ELF wants to join Solas or Elgar'nan? Those Ancient Elves in the Temple of Mythal? I guess they all died, right?

This extends to EVERY single element of Dragon Age that previously had depth to it, it now has been completely removed. Those murdering Antivan Crows? Oh, they're just good Italian Mob Family that protect their city. Tevinter? Yes, it has poor people, but we're trying to do better. Oh, slavery? No, no we don't show that here. The Qun? The what now? No, they are all Antaam now, and so that means they are all generic evil warlords. No, they don't even attempt to follow their own hardcore view of The Qun like when Templars split from the Chantry, they're just warlords now that like plunder. Dwarves and their rigid Caste society? We don't do that here. Elves and racism across Thedas? Elves used to experience racism? News to me, what's a Shemlen? Never heard of that term, we like all humans. Pirates? That is insensitive, we are Lords of Fortune and we are sure to return any cultural artifacts found to their rightful owners; it belongs in a museum after all. The fucking Fade and spirits? Wait, you mean its different than generic fantasy spirit world? I'm sorry, that's too complicated here.

This either intentional disregard of the lore or plain ignorance also extends to environmental design. The asset reuse from Inquisition is particularly hilarious and must speak to the developers not having time after the switch from MP. Why are the same statues found in Val Royeaux in DAI also in Tevinter and Antiva? Why are those stupid Fen'Harel Wolf statues EVERYWHERE? Even in the catacombs of other Elven Gods! There are no statues of Elgar'nan or Ghilan'nain. Nothing for June or Anduril. Dirthamen. Falon'Din. Nothing. No, the only Gods that seem to get statues are coincidentally the ones who already had assets created for DAI or past titles that could be reused. Hmmm.

This continues into character designs too, why do the Veiljumpers and Shadow Dragons all dress richly? They are supposed to be poor as fuck. There's a codex entry about Veiljumpers finding a lost cache of old ancient elven armor and weapons and so boom they all get to dress like High Elven Lords and not the dirty, poor, wandering Dalish clans they are supposed to come from. Why do this? There isn't even an attempt to explaining why the Shadow Dragons, an organization supposed to be secretive, has branded clothing in bright rich colors and fabrics for all members. Naturally, it must be incredibly difficult for Tevinter authorities to not identify them.

This lack of depth and verisimilitude, naturally, affects all the characters. Because in this game you cannot roleplay and you cannot ask questions. In Dragon Age Inquisition, once you started the game, you could immediately interrogate Varric about what happened to every DA2 character despite the Inquisitor never meeting them, you know because it respects its players. You could speak to shop keepers, blacksmiths, your horse master. You could interrogate every single person to learn more about them and the world. The same goes for your player character in DA2 and Origins. You show in Denermin and find yourself knee deep in a quest to help Wade the Blacksmith craft the perfect armor. Here you can't actually speak to a single shopkeeper to ask questions and get some lore bits. You can't ask party members questions about their background, religious beliefs, upbringing, their factions, etc. You can't ask any returning characters any questions either about what they've been doing. Enter a brand new area? Great, you're not asking anyone questions about this never before seen place.

How does a lost Dwarven thaig survive every single blight? How are their immortal lichs in Neverra? How long has that been a thing? Why haven't they told anyone about the Elven gods or any other knowledge they've accumulated in an immortal lifespan? If immortality is so "easy" why can't Solas just do that to restore the Elves? Why are the Venatori, Tevinter Supremacists, following Elven Gods? Wouldn't that be a major identity crisis? Why would Antaam, who still preach the Qun, follow an Elven God that speaks blasphemy with ever breadth? Sshhhh, no questions. You get what is directly told to you and that's it, no follow-up questions.

Party members do not conflict with each other or interrogate each other's beliefs which is why their banter feels inconsequential and meaningless. Lucanis is a assassin, he kills people for money. The same organization that marked Zevran for death for failing a contract. The same one that took him as a kid and trained him to murder, often brutally, for coin. And yet no one really seems to care. He's just a nice Italian assassin from a nice assassin organization. Who cares. Let's instead talk about cooking, at length. Harding, a devout follower of Andraste, has no qualms with Elven Gods wreaking havoc on known religion. We get one conversation you can tell her to believe what she wants, and that's the end of that debate. Bellara also gets about two whole conversations about the conflict concerning her Gods wreaking havoc, both easily resolved. We don't need to think about any larger implications or doubt her loyalty when the Elven pantheon are seeking to restore her people that have been discriminated against since forever. Emmerich, a necromancer of Neverra, apparently has no religious belief. A codex entry even states that those of the Mourn Watch don't know where the soul goes after death. They don't like to think about it. Buddy, Mortalitasi belief is literally that our souls return to the Void alongside The Maker, but to keep balance a exchange must be wrought with The Fade to allow a spirit to house the now empty vessel. How do you not know the religion and customs of your own faction and land? This man has a whole quest line about funerary rights, yet not ONCE mentions religion and what he believes happens after death?! Sshhhh, no questions. No thinking.

Hey, remember The Fade? Remember how mages go to dream there every night. Remember how The Black City is always visible there? No? Well, we don't either. You won't see The Black City in The Fade. You might see it in The Crossroads in a closed off section, even though it is NOT The Fade. Oh, we're going to have you physically enter The Fade in multiple quest lines and no one will think it's a big deal. No, you still can't see The Black City. Now, The Fade is reduced to nothing more than your generic fantasy spirit world. It has none of the previous rules and lore that bound it before. Demons can bind to non-mages and we won't attempt to explain it. Solas fucks with The Veil and not a single mage notices a change in their dreams when they sleep at night. No biggie.

Lastly, let's return at last to the actual minutiae of writing. I stated at the start the writing isn't bad because of Marvel quippiness, which the series has always had. I was partly lying. Yes, the series has always had anachronistic dialogue. It has had meme language in its own previous titles. But, it was just that, a small joke here and there. For the most part the series actually tried to use it's own sort of "older" speech patterns. I think a perfect example has to do with Taash, she eventually finds her own identity and declares she is proudly "non-binary." Literally stating, "so, I'm non-binary." I have no issue with this sort of inclusivity in Dragon Age, it's what the series is known for. Yet, why does that sound wrong? Simple, it's far too anachronistic. It doesn't belong in Dragon Age. In Inquisition, Dorian let's us know he's gay. But he doesn't say, "I'm gay!" or "I'm a homosexual" those terms would not exist in his world. Instead he says, "I prefer the company of men."

And it's these little subtle changes in writing that makes it feel all the more different. We went from "I once ventured in to The Fade to serve the Old Gods of Tevinter in person. I found there only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. Now I shall return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world gone wrong. Pray that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the Gods. And it was empty."

To: "Well, shit. That can't be good."

So, what do we have when all is said and done? Well, we have a decent generic fantasy action game. An intentional attempt by the developers to remove every edge from the world of Dragon Age in place of a very simple, easy to understand world with not much depth beyond what you see. You don't need to think, just play and have fun. This is beyond turning a MP game into a SP game, which so blatantly obvious in this game. DA2 was developed in 16 months, but is carried strong by its writing. You see, nothing prevented them from just acknowledging their own world they created. It costs very little to write around what already exists. Even if you can't make no assets or redesign the world. Writing is cheap and having characters voice these elements is not as costly as a redesign. No, they chose to remove the edge in every element because this was design intentionally for the masses with easy to understand world and zero depth.

But I wanted to play Dragon Age. I wanted to get into intense religious debates with party members as known lore is completely upended. I wanted to debate Elvish clans deciding to join Solas or the other Gods due to their treatment by human society. I wanted to debate the ethics of necromancy with the Mortalitasi of Neverra's Crypts. I wanted to engage in intense debating with Solas on the ethics of his goal. I wanted to see Tevinter react to a real push for anti-slavery and actually see the slavery in the slave capital of the world. I wanted to butt heads with the Antivan Crows and call them out for the murderers they are. I wanted to see the Black Divine and debate the Chant of Light with them. I wanted to speak to the Archon of Tevinter and see how he felt about the Venatori's past efforts in Inquisition. Hey, what happened to Meredith Reborn in Kirkwall and her idol and Red Templar worshipers? Forget about it.

We got none of this. I got a game that is pretty much disrespectful of its own world. I waited 10 years for this? Why even bother if this is the result? They may as well have just killed every previous character we ever knew, including Solas, offscreen and started anew with this game. Because as a Dragon Age game and sequel, it's terrible and no returning character is how they should be.

And when we get to the ending, that's pretty much what they did. Everything you did in all the past games? Well, that was pointless. Everyone is probably dead. King Alistair. Gaspard. Celene. King Bhelen. The Arl of Redcliffe. The Divine. The Circle of Magi. The Templars. The Seekers. Everything, everyone, and every organization that existed in the South is likely dead and destroyed. And now Dragon Age can become what they wanted, a generic fantasy IP.

But I just wanted to play Dragon Age.

#dragon age #dragon age critical #dragon age spoilers #I finished this game... and now just mourn the end of a fantasy world that was so much and now is nothing

94 notes · View notes

ghostwise · 2 months ago

Note

oooh 51 for the touch prompts :)c

51. caressing the other’s cheek, 1k tags: rook x harding, male laidir, act 2 spoilers

Acute lyrium toxicity, reads the header across Emmrich’s handwritten notes. It is not something he is often called upon to treat, so he’s spent the past couple of evenings brushing up on the subject.

He’s read about lyrium’s use in dwarven runecraft, its application in the Circle of Magi as well as the Templar order, and, most intriguing to him, its susceptibility to Blight. He has even reviewed first-hand reports of red lyrium from the Inquisition, courtesy of their very own Inquisition scout, whose interest in the subject has become an all-consuming drive as of late. And for good reason, following her encounter with the Titan’s shadow.

Emmrich has read enough to feel reassured. By all accounts, Rook received a lyrium dosage several times greater than that given to a mage during their Harrowing, and yet, he is still breathing. Whatever Harding did to him down there worked. Usually non-lethal, once the substance is cleared from the blood, so say the texts.

But for Lace Harding, such words hold little weight. She won’t rest until she sees Rook open his eyes.

So Emmrich waits with her. He brings her another cup of tea and Manfred hovers close by, sugar tongs in hand.

“Thank you,” Harding whispers. She smiles weakly as Manfred sweetens her tea. One cube, two cubes, three. Four.

“That’s quite enough, Manfred,” Emmrich murmurs.

“It’s alright. I need all the sweetness I can get,” Harding says, and, for Manfred’s sake, sips at the sugary tea.

The skeleton utters a pleased, gurgling hiss before returning to Laidir’s side, sitting opposite Harding.

“You know, Harding,” Emmrich says carefully, “You should rest. His condition is stable. And I dare say, Manfred has been as constant a caregiver as you and I have.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Harding says evenly. “I’m fine.”

“Lace-” Emmrich sighs.

“Really, Emmrich.” She looks up at him, a puffy and dark quality to the skin under her eyes. “I’m fine. You forget, I’ve spent the last decade… dealing with crisis. Finding solutions.” She shifts and sets her teacup upon the bedside table. “With the Inquisition, I set up new outposts and explored places I’d never dreamed of seeing. Since then, I’ve traveled everywhere—tracking Solas, fighting Venatori, slavers, mercenaries—so, sitting here beside him? It’s easy, Emmrich. Too easy, maybe. This isn’t a problem I can aim an arrow at. It’s…”

Emmrich watches her lapse into silence. She’d done a good job putting things into words, up until she hit a feeling she couldn’t name. He’s a romantic himself; he’s well aware of the tangled paths hearts can take.

“When you first became aware of this… complication, between your emotions and your new-found abilities,” he says slowly, “You mentioned feeling somewhat responsible. And I told you-”

“To be patient,” Harding completes.

On the bed, Lirio lets out a raspy breath. She looks at him for a moment, waiting for his breathing to relax again, before continuing.

“I appreciated that, you know. It was good advice. Everyone else kept saying, don’t worry. But why wouldn’t I worry? I had no clue what was happening to me, and I worse, I was hurting someone I cared about. Or they’d say, it’s not your fault. But it wasn’t about it being my fault, it was about…”

Another pause. Emmrich let his mind wander for a moment, down a hypothetical path: if he had changed, unexpectedly, completely, in such a way that he inadvertently hurt those dearest to him, what would he think?

“It was about understanding yourself,” he guesses. “Making peace with the power.”

“Yeah,” Lace nods. “Yeah, I never felt it was my fault. But I knew it was my responsibility to figure it out. Maybe I never would. And would he be okay with that? Would I?” She glances away, recalling the conversation. “He said he would. I’m inclined to believe him.”

“And now?” Emmrich prompts.

“Now…” Lace shakes her head at the wonder that is her life. “I didn’t ask for this gift, but I have it anyway. The pain the Titans experienced eons upon eons ago… to me, it feels like it happened just yesterday. That’s not my fault. That’s not anyone’s fault. I don’t think it’s something the Titan did to me purposefully, anyway.”

She hesitates, gathering her next words. She still finds it challenging to explain some pieces of what she experienced, but she tries anyway, knowing Emmrich will try to understand.

“Their sense of time is different… a continent could take a lifetime to form, mountains and forests blinking in and out of view. They don’t exist, quick and isolated from others, like we do. And I’m not sure if Titans feel love like we feel love. But they feel connection, through the lyrium. And without connection, there’s just… nothing. The most horrible nothing. A complete inversion of the connection they need to survive.”

“Isatunoll,” Emmrich says with a smile.

“Isatunoll,” Harding echoes softly. “I’m not a Titan. I have to feel like a person feels. Lirio helped me see that.”

“Ah, yes. By exposing himself to the Titan’s lyrium fully!”

Harding glances up at him. Suddenly, she laughs; the clearest sound of laughter he’s heard from her in days.

“You are looking at me with the biggest, cheesiest smile, Emmrich,” she says. “You’re all… mushy and sappy…”

“It’s terribly romantic, Harding,” Emmrich sighs. “I’m happy for you. That’s all.”

“Um. Thank you.” She giggles. “Really, thank you. For all your help. I’m happy too. Or, I will be. Just as soon as I can speak to him. As soon as I know I can…”

Across the bed, Manfred clatters his ribs. A shiver of bones lends way to a happy hiss. Emmrich and Lace look up, conversation forgotten, as Lirio stirs; all stiff muscles and post-lyrium aches.

Lirio cracks open his eyes and blinks as the world around him comes into focus, slowly. All he can see is a bloom of red, the exact shade of which immediately thrills him. “Lace,” he murmurs, though he can’t quite see her yet.

“Lirio,” she breathes. “I’m here.”

She reaches a trembling hand to cup his cheek. She watches for that characteristic blue glow, but it doesn’t come. Then Rook reaches up to cover her hand with his own, leaning into the touch as naturally as rain falls on the windward side of a mountain.

“I’ll fetch more tea,” Emmrich says hurriedly. He pulls Manfred along, away from the two.

As he goes, he thinks to himself again, isatunoll. And wonders whether mountains and people have more in common than Harding had guessed.

#thank youuu <3 this is quite rambly but i wanted to fluff up that act 2 scene bc it wrapped up far too quickly for my liking #rinnywrites #dragon age #datv #lace harding #rook x harding #laidir #oc: lirio laidir

60 notes · View notes

fenharel-babe · 2 months ago

Text

@emmg and @thessaralka

Okay sorry to @ but I have a sad idea I’m gonna turn into a fic and just wanna share before I write it. And this post is a little nonsense bc I’m just typing whatever my brain is thinking at the moment.

So. I just learned that it was WEEKS in the real world before Rook was saved from the fade prison. I genuinely thought they were saved at the end of the ghilly battle but NOPE EKSNSNABW. I guess I missed that part somehow?? Idk but anyways I had a solavellan idea.

I know (or believe anyways) that Solas is on the run since he’s now in the real world and probably runs off to one of his hideouts or whatever. I haven’t played DATV in awhile so forgive me if I’m forgetting something and he said where he went. But I like to imagine him doing his shit and everything………….but he knows the inquisitor/ex-inquusitor is in Tevinter, or at least was and he’s worried about his Vhenan. He’s worried that with all the shit going down, that possibly they could’ve been hurt and Rook hasn’t said much about Lavellan’s mental state (which tbf Lavellan probably wouldn’t tell anyone or at least mine wouldn’t) so he has 0 clue on how she is.

So what does the egg do??? My man does what he did before DATV: stalking and searching for her. I just imagine him in his smaller wolf form, prowling streets in Tevinter and alleyways and sees Lavellan in Dorian’s estate. She’s safe, with a best friend, someone that would do almost whatever it took for her to live, and is okay. Just imagining him watching her through a window while he’s a wolf and his ears are back and his tail is between his legs and he’s DEFINITELY WHINING.

But the moment Dorian or Lavellan turn to look in his direction (for whatever reason) he immediately hides and runs away back to a hideout or whatever to do his plans.

And then everything falls down to where he sees the eclipse start.

OH FUCK NEW IDEA SORRY MID TYPING. IM ON PHONE SO I DONT feel like deleting everything else BUT IMAGINE WHEN HE SEES THE ECLIPSE HIS HEART IS FREAKING OUT EVEN MORE FOR LAVELLAN????

I just like to always imagine pining Solas even when there’s blight everywhere and his plans are literally to the wind yet he still has room in his mind for her. He always does have room in his mind and heart for *her*.

#solavellan #dragon age the veilguard #sorry to @ out of nowhere but I need to share this idea and I don’t really have too many ppl to talk to #about solavellan fic ideas. I have the discord but I also want to share it to some on tumblr LMAO #dragon age #lavellan x solas #solas x lavellan #my writing

23 notes · View notes

vir-tanadahl · 3 months ago

Text

The Wolf's Atonement

Summary: What happens after the events of Veilguard! Occurs after The Burden of the Dread Wolf

Find on Ao3!

If Solas were honest with himself, he would admit he still doesn’t fully understand why Lavellan chose to walk this path of atonement beside him. He hadn’t dared to ask it of her, nor even suggest it; the place he’s heading is dark and terrible, a burden he never wished to share. Yet, voluntarily, she offered to walk it with him, and he found himself unable—perhaps unwilling—to deny her.

And if he allowed himself a deeper honesty, he would acknowledge a quiet, profound gratitude. Her presence steadies him, a warmth against the chill of what lies ahead. He is grateful, more than he ever thought he would be, that she is here.

It’s as if Lavellan can sense the turmoil in his thoughts. “We’ve been on this journey together since the day we met in Haven,” she says softly as they step forward into the Fade, leaving behind the chaos he caused.

Her voice is gentle, yet resolute. “You forbade me to join you at the Exalted Council…” She pauses, her gaze steady and unwavering, before continuing, “…did you truly believe I wouldn’t follow you even now? That I wouldn’t try to show you another path?”

Her words settle around him like a balm, a reminder that, despite everything, she still believes there’s something worth saving—both in him and the world he had sought to mend.

“You left clues for us on purpose…” She laughs softly, the sound warm with fondness laced with sadness. “You wanted us to find you.” Her fingers intertwine with his, grounding him in a moment that still feels dreamlike, as if she is a memory from a life, he thought he would never have because he did not deserve her.

He struggles to absorb everything that has happened: Mythal’s release, her willingness to share in the burden of their ancient mistakes, and the moment he bound his very life force to the Veil. And here—his Vhenan, by his side. She, of all people, had the freedom to stay in her world, to no longer be burden by him.

And yet, she chose to join him. She chose this path of atonement, stepping willingly into the Fade at his side. With her hand entwined in his, for the first time in ages, he feels almost… whole. Her presence easing the weight of solitude he’s carried so long.

But the guilt and shame still cling to him, a heaviness pressing against this fleeting sense of peace. Her touch offers comfort, yet he wonders if he deserves it, if he can ever be redeemed in the face of everything he’s done.

He bows his head, shame settling over him like a heavy shroud. “I didn’t…” he falters, the words catching in his throat, “I didn’t want you to see what I would become…” His voice is low, laced with a deep, aching regret.

Lavellan chuckles softly, though a sadness colors her gaze. “That’s not entirely the truth, is it, vhenan?” She searches his face, but he only shakes his head, unable to meet her eyes.

“I—” His voice breaks, and he swallows hard, unable to find the words.

She sighs, studying him, her expression gentle but knowing. “You didn’t want me to change your mind…” Her voice softens, her words a quiet revelation. “You thought you couldn’t change it yourself, but you still hoped—maybe even needed—someone else to help you.”

His head remains lowered, his eyes fixed on the ground, shadows of pride and regret crossing his face. She watches him, a gentle pause settling between them before she tilts her head, a faint, bittersweet smile touching her lips. “Perhaps you took your name too literally, Solas,” she murmurs.

Solas lets out a quiet, almost self-deprecating chuckle. “Perhaps,” he murmurs. Slowly, he lifts his eyes to meet hers, searching for understanding in her gaze.

Lavellan holds his gaze, her expression softening as a flicker of contemplation crosses her face. After a moment, she looks away, lost in thought. “Or maybe I’m the prideful one,” she says, her voice laced with quiet sorrow. A sad, half-smile curves her lips as she meets his gaze once more, and he catches a glint of something he doesn’t quite understand—uncertainty mingled with affection.

He frowns slightly, confusion flashing in his eyes.

“That I love someone who has made such grave mistakes…” she trails off, the words hanging between them, fragile yet unyielding, her own vulnerability laid bare.

Solas shakes his head, a pained look in his eyes. “Vhenan—” he begins, voice low and unsteady. He wants to reach out, to hold her hand again, to find solace in her touch. But he hesitates, raw and vulnerable, fear threading through him after everything that has happened.

But she doesn’t wait. Gently, she reaches forward, her fingers wrapping around his hands, warm and steady, grounding him as he struggles with the weight of his shame.

“What happened, Solas?” she asks, her voice soft yet firm. “With Varric?”

His gaze drops, shoulders curling inward as he withdraws into himself, searching for words he knows will never fully explain. Silence hangs between them for a moment before he speaks, voice laced with regret. “He… he tried to stop the ritual,” he finally says, a faint defensive edge in his tone that sounds almost pitiful in the stillness. “There’s no excuse,” he finishes quietly, the truth of it settling heavily on his shoulders.

“No, there isn’t,” she replies, her voice neither harsh nor forgiving, rather was in search of understanding. She squeezes his hands gently, pulling him closer, her eyes searching his face. “But tell me… what happened?”

She waits, patient and steady, giving him space to confront the memories and the weight of what he’s done.

Solas sighs, his eyes slipping shut as he gathers the words, bracing himself against the memory. “He attempted to reason with me in the midst of the ritual,” he begins, voice barely above a whisper. “When I didn’t respond, he raised his crossbow…” He hesitates, pain flickering across his face. But he forces himself to go on. “I disabled it, and then Rook and her companions toppled one of the ritual statues.”

He pauses, the weight of what comes next settling heavily over him.

“I…I sought to see the ritual through to completion,” he continues, his voice thick with sorrow. “But Varric… he intervened again.” The image of Varric rushing forward flashes in his mind—the desperate determination, the betrayal etched on his friend’s face. “He attempted to hold me back.”

Solas falls silent, his shoulders slumping further as he remembers the struggle.

Lavellan’s voice is soft, pulling him gently back to the present. “And then?”

A tremor runs through him. “A struggle ensued, but I broke free from his grasp,” he says, his voice barely audible. He doesn’t say more, the words too heavy, the finality of that encounter too painful. He feels her hand squeeze his, steady and waiting, giving him a moment to bear the weight of what he has confessed.

He sighs once more, unable to meet her gaze as he confesses, “I stabbed him with the ritual dagger,” he confesses, the words sharp and bitter on his tongue.

A flicker of defensiveness rises instinctively within him, his mind grasping for reasons, for any justification. But he pushes it away, determined to face the truth without excuse. He knows that this path—this journey of atonement—demands he confront the full weight of his actions and the pain he has caused, unshielded by pride or denial.

He takes a deep, unsteady breath, wrestling with the storm of conflicting emotions that churn within him. Summoning his resolve, he lifts his gaze to meet Lavellan’s. The pain etched into her features is like a blow to his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. Her eyes, darkened by grief and sadness, mirror his own anguish, and her frown holds the weight of all the words left unspoken.

Every instinct urges him to look away, to turn from the hurt he’s inflicted. But he forces himself to stay, anchored in her gaze, refusing the temptation to escape from the pain he has caused. This is part of his penance, he reminds himself—the need to truly witness the consequences of his actions, reflected back in the eyes of the one who still chooses to stand beside him.

“Oh, Solas…” Lavellan sighs, her voice filled with sorrow as she shakes her head, a mix of disappointment and understanding in her eyes.

“I can no longer offer any justification for what I did.” Solas says quickly, his voice raw, as if the words themselves are tearing free from him. “All I can offer now is that I… am sorry.” His gaze doesn’t waver, holding hers, though the weight of his regret presses heavily on him.

“And I know,” he continues softly, his voice barely above a whisper, “that an apology cannot undo the pain or correct the mistakes I have made.” He remains silent then, allowing the inadequacy of his words to settle between them, acknowledging, for the first time, the depth of his own failings in the light of her unwavering gaze.

Lavellan nods slowly, her gaze steady. “You’re right,” she says softly. “An apology isn’t enough.” Yet her hands remain wrapped around his, warm and unwavering.

He tilts his head, a subtle slump in his shoulders, and though his gaze doesn’t waver, a feeling of quiet defeat spreads through him, settling heavily in his chest.

“But,” she continues, a glimmer of hope in her voice, “you’re on a path toward atonement. And that… may, in time…” She pauses, choosing her words carefully, her eyes searching his face. “Be enough.”

Her words linger in the air, offering him a fragile thread to hold onto, a possibility that perhaps, one day, he might begin to mend the damage he’s caused.

A faint, almost fragile glimmer of hope stirs within him, like a lone sailor glimpsing the faint glow of a lighthouse, its beam filtering softly through the heavy mist of a darkened night. “Perhaps…” he whispers, the word filled with tentative wonder, as though he’s still grappling with the possibility of a future he does not know if he deserves. “You may be right.”

Lavellan smiles softly, finally taking in their surroundings with a touch of curiosity. “So, this is the prison you created for Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain?” she asks, her gaze drifting over the gray, fractured landscape of the Fade around them.

Solas releases a hollow, self-deprecating chuckle. “It is,” he admits, glancing around at the desolate expanse. “A prison of regrets…” His voice trails off as he takes in the bleak creation he crafted—strong enough, he thought, to hold the very Gods themselves. “Strong enough to keep the Gods locked away,” he mutters, then looks down at her with a weary sigh. “I did warn you… this place would be terrible.” Guilt floods his expression, his voice catching as he tries to suppress the tears welling in his eyes.

Lavellan hums thoughtfully, her eyes lingering on him before breaking into a wry smile. “Well, it’s clearly not that strong,” she replies with a playful glint. “Rook managed to escape, and last I checked…” She pauses, her smile growing as she meets his gaze. “She wasn’t a god.”

She steps closer, wrapping her hand around his arm, grounding him with her presence. “And you, Solas—you’re not a god either. Which means this prison cannot hold you,” she says, her voice warm and unwavering, a quiet confidence in her words as though she believes in his strength more than he does himself.

Solas gasps softly, as if the very breath has been stolen from him. The fragile glimmer of hope from before brightens, growing steadier as he gazes down into her eyes, almost losing himself in their depth. In her gaze, he sees love and compassion, unwavering and profound. It’s as if, without him even noticing, she’s been quietly chipping away at the walls of his own inner prison, easing the weight he has carried alone for so long.

With her presence, he feels something shift—a slow, dawning realization that perhaps, just perhaps, he might begin to unburden himself, to find a path not only to atonement but to acceptance. While still small, there is a newfound hope within him—a quiet, steady belief that perhaps he can truly achieve his goal of atonement.

A flood of emotions surges through Solas, emotions he has tried so desperately to bury over the last ten years since he last saw her. The dam he’d so carefully constructed—a trickle when he first glimpsed her at the Archon’s Palace—finally shatters, releasing a torrent of feeling that crashes over him. Each emotion is as intense, as overwhelming, as it was the day he left her at the Exalted Council, undiminished by time.

At last, Solas reaches for her, pulling her close, his touch both tender and urgent. He cups her face, bringing her gently toward him, and presses his lips to hers. The kiss begins slowly, a tentative connection, but it deepens quickly, becoming something raw and desperate, as though he’s been drowning for years and has only now come up for air. Each moment feels like a gasp of life, a long-awaited release, as he finally allows himself to feel what he’s kept locked away.

His hands find their way to her waist, drawing her closer, and their tongues meet in a sweet, tender dance. Isera's fingers find their way to the leather of his armor, holding on tight, as if she's holding on to his heart, only drawing him closer.

Solas pulls back for a brief moment, his gaze fixed on her. Lavellan smiles up at him, warmth and understanding in her eyes, as she watches the hardened mask of the Dread Wolf begin to dissolve. In its place, the Solas she once knew—the one from their days in the Inquisition—begins to emerge, free, if only for a moment, from the weight of his burdens.

She can see traces of the gentle spirit he once was breaking through, no longer hidden beneath layers of regret and duty. Before she can fully take in the moment, Solas’s lips find hers again, with a hunger born of years of longing, as though he’s a man starved, and she is the sustenance he’s been denied.

#solas #solavellan #dragon age #dragon age solas #dragon age veilguard #solas x lavellan #solas x inquisitor #veilguard #datv #veilguard spoilers #solavellan hell #vir writes #solasmance #solasmancer #solas x female lavellan #solas romance #dread wolf #fen'harel

37 notes · View notes

nadas-dirthalen · 7 months ago

Text

she, the mender; he, the break (1)

solas/lavellan, rated T.

synopsis: The one unfortunate enough to take in the Mark has, astoundingly, survived it. Whether that is a miracle or a terrible omen remains to be seen.

content warnings: canon-typical violence, depiction of a canonical seizure, canon-typical profanity, canon-typical religious references, canon-typical depictions of depression.

read on ao3!

One Solas

Four hours after a Dalish mage stumbles from a tear in the Veil, a thumb runs across her limp palm. Its wielder furrows his brow.

A pair of eyes seeks to burn a hole between his shoulder blades, judging by the force of the glare behind him.

“I have no answers,” he tells the human without looking over a shoulder, though it’s not what she—or anyone who knows what befell the Conclave—wants to hear. It’s true enough, at least.

He has no answers as to how this Dalish mage survived what he knows, with grim certainty, should have killed her. Would have killed her lessers. He had counted on it: that his focus, pent up with millennia’s worth of neglected, unspent energy, would eliminate the one unfortunate enough to open it.

The first survivor is enough of a loose end. A walking, talking threat of peril upon all Thedas.

The second is a miracle, for she, at least, is mortal.

Probably.

Under his touch, the mark of his magic thrums, rattling up her nerve. Mercifully unconscious, she does not stir—but even through the thick robe covering most of her form, the summer-grass glow brightens her arm enough for the Seeker behind him to audibly wince.

The magic, from what he can tell, forges deeper into her tissue. Whether to twine with the fabric of her being or rip it apart at the seams, he cannot rightly say.

In these early hours, the only clue she gives is the quick rise and fall of her chest, her breaths shallow. Kept on the floor of a cell, robbed of dignity that she cannot fight to keep, much of her pale blonde hair has fallen free of its high braid. Sweat beads on her forehead one minute, only to cool before the hour’s up.

“You have no answers?” the Seeker behind him prods.

He forces his shoulders not to tighten, knelt by the Dalish’s side as he is. Smiles falsely, even where the Seeker cannot see, so his tone stays congenial. “Not yet.”

Would that he were alone, that he could knock on the bounds of this survivor’s dreams and ask.

What would she offer him, if he did? Would she confess to what ails her, or turn her nose up at his unmarked face, as so many of her kin? Or, so far from home, would she turn a kinder eye to the human behind him, paying an elven apostate no heed?

In the Fade, none might delay him much: none left alive can rightly keep the skies of their dreams from darkening with their unspoken fear. And when the realm folds around them, confounding mortal senses, none can truly flee far.

Whatever the truth of her prognosis, one thing is certain. Even under the press of his thumb, summoned by his silent call, the magic of his focus will not uncoil from her bones.

Whatever the Dread Wolf of her people’s legend has unwillingly given her, she is doomed to the consequence.

He could almost call it irony.

As day lapses into night, the Dalish survivor is unaware that every witness within a mile bickers over her fate.

They are calling her a miracle. They are calling her a monster.

It has not dawned on any of them that she could ever be a victim.

He has, in spite of the Seeker’s objections to flame and ammunition, been generously afforded a candle. Its light throws long shadows over the survivor’s drawn expression. Like this, he must lower himself from resting on his heels to squint, inches from her face, in order to track the movement of her eyes behind their lids.

She is dreaming. At least there is that.

His mark has buried itself into her left hand, the green of rifts lighting a slice in her palm despite her skin remaining unbroken. Thus he sits on her left, now, furthest from the cell door. A better vantage for the Seeker, who has left to argue, to scowl at him from all evening.

A poorer vantage to scowl back unseen, but one must accept their occasional losses.

At least like this, his back can rest against the cell’s rear wall, and he can watch the door when he is not watching over the survivor. He keeps it in his periphery while his gaze lowers, half-lidded, as he once again puts two fingers to her wrist to measure her pulse.

Two hours ago, he insisted to the human healer that he could count it perfectly well. The healer looked down at the survivor’s valasslin while he passed over a clipboard, mumbling a request that her pulse be measured and recorded every hour through the night.

That human healer neglected to leave any thanks.

The Dalish’s heartbeat is almost furious against his touch, pounding as though her limp body is sprinting: a pulse that would roar in her ears, if she could hear it. He counts sixty beats in thirty seconds, ignoring the twist of his insides when he releases her to record the finding.

Ten higher than last count. A battle her body has begun to lose.

The healer should be measuring more than her pulse, but his efforts are farcical at best: make a play of trying to keep the survivor alive, keep meticulous record of all the ways this prison has failed her, justify her death was unpreventable because so many watched it unfold. To those yelling over the Dalish’s fate beyond this row of cells, that would be enough to satisfy.

It would assuage their worry, to watch her fade to nothing. To some, it would provide relief. Their Chantry, no longer under threat—nor scrutiny.

They should be measuring her temperature. Whether she perspires. Whether, and how often, she stirs.

It is due diligence—and perhaps atonement—that an elven apostate from nowhere does all three in their stead.

Her brow is warm against his knuckles, but less than it was. Her body adapts to fight the mark. In the harsher chill of night, the cell damp and lightless, her brow is free of sweat, the loose curls once plastered to it hanging free over her temples.

He thinks the barest trace of a frown passes over her at his touch, but it vanishes, her face again serene at rest, too fast for his tired eyes to register.

Once he makes record of all three, writing in the margins of the healer’s notes, he rests his head on the cool stone behind him, allowing his eyes to fall shut until the next hour demands he rise anew.

The survivor screams before the sun can crest the mountains.

He must give her credit: it earns her the attention of all those who’d been content to debate her survival from afar. Within moments, the cell is crowded with everyone endowed with both local renown and an opinion.

The Seeker’s voice is loudest. He supposes he should have expected as much.

“Surely you know what this means, Adan?”

The healer—Adan—is clearly in the Seeker’s good graces enough that his sneer doesn’t earn him retribution. “I don’t understand. Her pulse is normal now. Her fever, gone. And the screaming comes in fits… but why?”

Then, naturally, he turns his puzzled frustration on the nearest apostate.

“You wrote her pulse was high through the night.”

That nearest apostate, still knelt at her side, commendably ignoring the bruising on his tailbone, keeps his voice perfectly level. “I did.”

“And that it didn’t change until the thrashing began.”

“I did, yes.”

“And after administering elfroot to hasten her wakening, it had stopped—”

“Very observant.”

That earns him a scowl from the Seeker and more than a fair few muttered insults from the other half-dozen people inside the cell. More soldiers, someone in Chantry robes convincingly pretending not to tremble behind them.

“Don’t play coy with me, elf,” Adan sneers, pulling the apostate’s attention back.

Before he can brace for some spit curse, the survivor’s hand jerks out from under his. Her spine arches, her ear scraping over the stone when her neck follows suit. His palm lands gently on her shoulder before she can tip herself onto her back, but does nothing to stop the kick of her leg.

“The grey,” she slurs, lips catching the dirt of the cell floor. “The grey…”

“Maker’s fucking breath,” Adan hisses, reeling back. “What is she…?”

“The grey,” the survivor groans again, muscles still tense, unconscious eyes screwed shut.

Every gaze in the room finds his mark on her palm—save for hers. The magic lights stronger, rift-green blazing up the veins of her wrist. Only when it dims do her convulsions ease.

“So it is true,” the Chantry member mutters, soft as prayer. “She is chosen.”

“Chosen?” Adan echoes, whipping back long enough to fire off what is probably a scowl. By the time his attention returns to the Dalish survivor, a more dangerous sort of ire has hardened on his features. “No. This—this mage shit cannot be a sign of anything good.”

“Is that what you call it?” Indignation burns up the apostate’s throat before he can think to smother it. “What you belittle with the profane may well be the only hope you have against the demons amassing beyond these doors.”

“Watch yourself, apostate,” the Seeker warns, a hand on the pommel of her blade.

This time, he meets her glare. “Are you so sure that I am wrong?”

“Enough of this fucking charade,” Adan declares, throwing up his hands in distaste. “Andraste’s ass—there’s not a healer alive who could understand what so possesses her. If she makes it past midday, someone pry me from my drink.”

With that, he shoves through a half-dozen humans, neither sword nor glare leveled against him on the way out. Instead, the prattling Chantry member follows on the healer’s heels, and the Seeker on the Chantry’s, and the soldiers on the Seeker’s.

With them gone, the cell falls silent. Not for the first time, death and the Dread Wolf loom together over the body of a mortal.

The next spasm starts: rigid spine, arching neck. This time, his hand finds not her shoulder, but her wrist. Thumb driven deep into the meat of her palm, he feeds the mark a morsel of his own magic, a beacon sent out over the churning forces inside the survivor’s skin.

A flare of dull green light, and the spasm stops.

Rather than a scream, she surrenders a murmur. “The grey…”

He eases her onto her back, careful not to relinquish her marked palm. Smooths hair from her face with his free hand, another sliver of his magic employed to mend her abraded ear. Dignities the Chantry, the Seeker, and the prison guards, for all their talk of prophecy, still do not afford their Dalish charge.

“I know. I know, lethallan,” he answers, once he is sure no human ears are near enough to question his tongue. “Ir abelas.”

The first attempt on the survivor’s life comes, brazenly, at dusk on the second day.

While the apostate takes a meal a floor above her cell—only at the Seeker’s stubborn insistence—the cell lies guarded by another. When he returns, that other is bent over her motionless body, a dagger unsheathed from their belt.

At his shout, the Seeker barrels down the stairwell past him, shield drawn. She collides with the would-be assailant a second after the noise turns their attention away from the survivor, pinning their body to the floor. Another soldier clamps manacles around the assailant’s wrists, but murmurs assurances that certainly, all was done with the best of intentions.

It is all the apostate can do to quell the urge to send a streak of rift-green sailing past both their faces, goading them to speak their so-called assurances for all the fortress to hear.

As they draw close to move up the stairwell, he meets the assailant’s gaze and mutters, “You know not what you trifle with.”

The Seeker, though she is in earshot, does not listen to the assailant’s bitter retort. Rather, she faces the apostate after several moments, dark circles under her topaz eyes, a hand raking through her short mop of dark hair.

“Do you really think…” she pauses, folding her arms. “Do you really think she could be our only hope?”

She will not look at the survivor, so he does. His mark burns bright even across the room, steadier now. If it hasn’t killed her by now, it won’t.

“I am certain,” he answers. Then, because it is what most everyone here has already decided: “She is a miracle.”

But they have not lived to see millennia wax and wane. They forget a crucial detail.

Miracles, be they borne of flesh or circumstance, have one thing in common.

They should never have been real.

The second attempt on the survivor’s life comes far past nightfall, when the apostate’s eyes are closed.

This time, her would-be killer is the very soldier to have clamped manacles on the first.

When heavy footfalls thunder down the stairwell in answer to the screaming, the apostate watches as they rush toward the soldier—only to reel back when their torchlight glints in the ice pinning their comrade to the wall.

The apostate claims it was self-defense with hardly more than a shrug, failing to flinch in the face of six pointed blades.

Afterward, the Seeker only leaves the cell to sleep.

The dawn of the third day is the last he has the survivor alone.

Bleary-eyed, he parts her lips with the knuckle of his thumb to administer three more drops of elf-root tincture on her tongue, disparaging the common name. When he does, he whispers its name in the language her people have taught her—vhenanalas, heart-root—because it is similar enough to the one he knows.

Once, it was said that all elvhen would wake to their own tongue, like a mother calling children home.

All the Dalish survivor has done, thus far, is frown.

Through the night, the roar of demons from beyond the cell climbed louder. Whiling away the hours, pretending not to hear, he found that the magic of his mark swims through her veins to follow his touch, unless he wills it not to.

Three days, and still he does not know if the mark pains her, or if she’ll do more than knot her brows together or press her lips white-thin when she’s conscious of the new power in her marrow. What he does know is that each hourly administration of elf-root twists her face the same way. When she stirs enough to tilt her jaw, the digits of her right hand curl, but not her left. When the mark of his magic flares brighter, a noise always rises from her throat—one that stops sooner if he makes a single sound, like it had only been seeking an answer. Any answer, he found, once he’d made a series of unintelligible syllables in reply to test the theory.

She fights it on her own, now, even though he no longer risks the press of his thumb over the gash-shaped green. He does not know her name, and yet is powerless to deny her stubborn will.

“Perhaps that is why they have marked you for the Keeper of Secrets,” he mutters to no one, watching the blood-markings beneath her lower lip smooth as she falls motionless once more.

No tip of the jaw, no curled fingers on right hand or left. She slips into relative peace, the ailment of his magic overcome, for now.

He almost laughs, but the sound cuts short. Instead, he whispers, “You will need that stubborn streak, with what lies ahead.”

She never gives him an answer. The next time she frowns, and the next and the next, he speaks in her language until the Seeker wakes.

Vhenanalas. Vhenanalas. Vhenanalas.

Ir abelas. Ir abelas. Ir abelas.

Demons encroach too close to the prison, nearer by the hour. The derisive look the Seeker snaps to him says that where she goes, so, too, will he.

He leaves the survivor because there is more he can do to ensure she lives by holding back the horde outside these walls. He swears she stirs at his hushed goodbye, mouth hanging parted the last time he looks back.

The sun strikes him too brightly, after days without it, worse for its glint on the snow outdoors. The first demon to fall before him collapses with a splinter of ice through its core, and the apology he cannot speak aloud sticks thorns in his chest. There is nothing he can do for it, or anyone, without the focus he’d so callously lost.

By the fifth, a haze settles over his awareness, a guard against the lapping tide of remorse.

The thrum of his magic outside his skin pulls him out of it. Every shriek of these unwilling spirits, painful against his eardrums. Worse, when crossbow bolts find their mark, when the Seeker’s sword sings as it is pulled from her sheath.

He cannot turn with a shade pressing its advantage, instead forced to arc his staff and pull forth the power behind another icy blast. The green of his mark careens into his periphery while he stands rooted, and then the survivor pulls it back—

To shove a lone blade through the demon with her opposite hand, crackling with violet energy.

Then, with his vision still blurred, his ears still ringing… quiet. The last demon of this rift, vanquished. Only his erratic pulse and the remains of his focus thrumming in time with it from the gash-shaped glow in the survivor’s palm.

“Quickly,” he gasps, already moving. Just enough to alert her to what is to come. “Before more come through!”

He has no time to process that she is awake, standing, before his grip curls around her wrist, thumb pressed into the soft of her palm. As with each time before, the magic within—his magic—follows his touch.

In a mockery of his every hope for the Veil, a verdant ray erupts from her skin. Its power plunges into the rift above them both and, under his guidance, sews it shut.

After, only wintry sky remains in its place: no touch of Fade nor lick of its magic. This time there is no great urgency to the quiet that falls. Only the rhythm of the survivor’s ragged breath, as fast it had been the first night.

She slips the mark—her hand—from his grasp. A sliver of warmth leaves his core as it goes.

When he pries his eyes from where the rift once existed, she is already peering up at him. The sight drives another guilty lance through his sternum before any haze can dull the blow.

The green of rifts is threaded around her pupils, tainting even her otherwise stone-grey gaze. His mark—the one that’ll end her life—rooted in her every inch.

Her white-blonde hair is still streaked with the dirt of her cell floor. Her ear’s still red from where he mended scrapes. Dark circles beneath her eyes betray the weakness these days have awarded her.

And under, her panting mouth curves into a disbelieving smile.

“What did you do?”

“I did nothing,” he answers, too fast, avoiding the Seeker’s cutting stare that looms behind the survivor. He neglects to append save for cause the curse that’ll end your life. Instead, amid the stench of slain demons, heedless of the cries of battle still raging on ahead, he summons a pleasing smile. “The credit is all yours.”

The Dalish lowers her eyes, brow furrowing. His world narrows on the way she studies her palm, her own thumb running over the mark, following the curve his had just taken. She concentrates on the motion, repeating it, a thin press to her mouth not unlike the one she makes when heart-root lands on her tongue.

Calculating, now that she is conscious. No longer a simple show of distaste, but an equation she visibly puzzles over.

Her eyes lift to greet his again, something in them hardened now. “You mean this.”

He tries to ignore the way the mark’s thrum strengthens in response to his own dogged pulse. “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand,” he says, just as he’d told the Seeker hours ago. He leaves out and I’m sorry for my role in it. “I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake—and it seems I was correct.”

The Seeker seems just as pleased now as then: barely. “Meaning it could also close the Breach itself.”

“Possibly,” he says, just true enough. Something guaranteed, from millennia of knowing, is indeed also possible.

The survivor, meanwhile, watches him still with open curiosity—the sort that borders dangerously on hope. The expression is a dozen questions in itself.

He scrapes another apology from his tongue, searching for some other answer to her wordless prying. Something that will buy them all a little more peace, a little more time.

He manages, if only just, “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

“Good to know!” the dwarf from the cells near theirs interjects, striding closer to the survivor in spite of how her muscles tense. Bearing a wide grin, he jests, “I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

The survivor flexes her fingers around the hilt of her dagger, a mirror of the way her right hand would curl in discomfort. Deliberate, now. Alive. Alive.

The dwarf goes on, “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

The wink he gives the Seeker is met with a scowl.

“It’s…” Blearily, the survivor manages a nod, a new set to her jaw she hadn’t had the mind to employ before. The line of it is sharper as she forces a smile. “Good to meet you, Varric.”

She hadn’t heard his idle chatter in the cell, then—or anything else, apology or otherwise.

“You may reconsider that stance, in time,” the apostate asserts, suppressing a flinch at the line he knows he’s toed. He affixes that careful smile to his face as three sets of eyes land upon him, though only watches the survivor’s.

He’d assumed something of her. Too much. He looks for disdain in her raised brow, or perhaps for ire in the line of her mouth.

“Awww,” Varric mocks, wrenching him from the study. “I’m sure we’ll become great friends in the valley, Chuckles.”

Chuckles, in truth, can do no else but blink, just once. The survivor weighs the expression, watching in silence—whether a haze like his, simple fatigue, or something else.

“Absolutely not,” the Seeker takes over, voice stern. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but…”

The raven blood-marked in the Dalish’s face shifts as she borders on a smirk. Haughty, irreverent, when it is her braids pulled half-free from days of unconscious tumult, her ill-fitting armor stained with all manner of dirt and damp.

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?” the dwarf goes on a distant two steps away. Neither the apostate or the survivor turn to watch. “Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.”

“Ugh.”

“My name is Solas,” spills from the apostate’s mouth, heedless of his will, near an entire minute too late. “If there are to be introductions.”

Varric and the Seeker stop to raise their brows in unison. The survivor, understandably, fails to mask her confusion.

“I am…” Pinned under three stares, he has no hope of uttering even a false explanation, nor an apology, nor anything to explain away the same dirt and damp staining his coat, three days and nights of foregone hygiene. “Pleased to see you still live.”

Pleased does not touch the bone-deep relief, nor the chill of dread that none of them can hope to grasp, but he still does not know her name. This will have to suffice.

Varric only laughs sharper, grins wider. “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’”

That, too, Solas supposes.

The survivor hums the beginnings of a laugh, low in her throat. Her crooked smile dimples a cheek, undeterred by the biting wind tousling the knotted strands of her hair. The green of his mark blazes in her eyes, crinkled at their corners. “Then I owe you my thanks.”

And her wrath, but that seems inconsequential, with demons in uproar higher on the hill.

Everything does, outside of the fact that she still draws breath. That all this might yet be undone.

“Thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process,” he tells her. And, because three days and nights with her life in his hands is too long not to know: “Tell me your name.”

Ithalia.

One of the many names rippling across Haven on whispering tongues. Ithalia Haleir Lavellan. Herald. Miracle. Divine.

They can afford to whisper, to do anything but run for their lives, because it is she—without his touch—that has sealed the Breach and mended the heavens.

Three more days and nights she sleeps, but this time, no seed of doubt roots in Solas’ core.

He is certain: she will live long enough to mend the very world he aims to break, before it can be made whole again.

#this is my first attempt at dragon age fanfiction #i am doing my best!!#i just had to figure out how these two nerds fall in love ok #solavellan #dragon age inquisition #solas x lavellan #solas dragon age #dragon age #da:i #da:inquisition

21 notes · View notes

dareactions · 8 months ago

Note

for a shorter request: what about pre and post breakup Solas reacting to a warrior inquisitor with the templar spec going through lyrium withdrawals?

Pre: He wishes he could do more, his hands gently rubbing circles on their back. It's not easy kicking an addiction- especially not one that clings so well to the bones like Lyrium does. It's not something you just quit cold turkey either, it's a mixture of careful dosage lessening for months and dealing with episodes of 'needing a fix' as Varric so wonderfully put it. Solas frowns as he feels a shiver pass through them, ripping him from his thoughts. ''Cold?'' He mumbles softly, they're underneath a pretty warm duvet so that's a bit concerning. He gets the most pathetic little noise in response and Solas heart shatters just a little bit. Maybe he should rip the Templar building apart brick by brick at some point, for getting the person he loves to this point? ''You're wearing that expression again.'' The Inquisitor mumbles, a cold hand on his face. ''No clue what you're on about there, I believe you're imagining that one.'' Solas tilts his head slightly, inspecting the way a smile tugs at their lips like he would any artwork. ''Sure, alright. I'll let you off the hook this time.'' They laugh, it's a bit of a shell of it's former sound but Solas loves it all the same. He makes a point to pull up the duvet the slightest bit, adjusting the teacup on the bedside table so it's handle is closer. ''I do think I have a spell that can soothe, even if just momentarily.''

Post: It's one thing to watch someone you love suffer, it's another to watch them suffer from afar. He never takes his eyes off them for too long whenever their health starts to decline. Solas knows it's an uphill battle to betterment and how he wishes he could be there for it. Watching them seek out Cullen for understanding and bonding makes him feel - annoyed? It's not the right word but not even he knows what it is anymore.

He adjusts the book in his hand, forcing his eyes back to the page he has re-read maybe six or seven times at this point. He's not even gotten past the first paragraph.

It's so frustrating because it's his own doing too. He knew they wanted to go on this journey yet he decided to not go on it with them- and it just makes him feel a million times worse.

Solas likes to pretend he isn't the one leaving small notes with tea blends or whatever else he knows helps. It's easier for both of them to pretend its someone else.

#dragon age inquisition #dragon age reactions #solas

29 notes · View notes

himluv · 8 months ago

Text

DA: The Veilguard Predictions/Theories, pt. 3

Okay, last one, I promise. And this one is, uhhhhhh, real strong on the tinfoil. Bear with me.

Read part 1 here :)

Read part 2 here :)

3. DA:D’s Real Big Bad™

Okay, this is probably my most outrageous and unsubstantiated theory - but it’s also the one I’m most excited for. Buckle up, kids, because I think The Architect is back!

So, when Bioware released the Dragon Age Day 2023 Thedas Calls trailer, Mark Darrah mentioned in the corresponding blog post that there was more to the trailer than just location reveals, “for those who listen closely.” Well, lemme tell you, I listened real close over and over again until something struck me.

“All the world will soon share the peace and comfort of my reign.”

That voice… I know that voice, don't I?

“I do not seek to rule my brethren. I only seek to release them from their chains.”

The Architect told the Warden in Dragon Age: Awakening that it intended to use Grey Warden blood to return self-awareness and “freedom” to the Darkspawn, freeing them from their tethers to the Archdemons.

But this was not The Architect’s first plan. No, its first plan was much, much worse. In The Calling, Maric, Duncan, Fiona and the other Grey Warden’s meet The Architect in the Deep Roads and learn that its plan is to spread the Blight over all of Thedas, thus ensuring a “lasting peace”. Nevermind that two-thirds of the population wouldn’t survive the process. **stares in solavellan**

A “lasting peace.”

“The peace and comfort of my reign.”

Now, sure, The Architect has stated that it doesn’t want to rule over its brethren, but that was in 9:31 Dragon. It’s been working on this plan since at least 9:10 Dragon (when The Calling takes place) and Dreadwolf is likely to take place somewhere around 9:52 Dragon. The Architect has had 40 years to scheme and experiment and come to the bitter realization that – if there is to be peace – it may have to rule after all.

And I’m sure Corypheus’s rise and fall did not go unnoticed by The Architect. With Solas’s machinations putting a ticking clock on Thedas’s existence, perhaps The Architect feels the pressure to end the Blights once and for all, and bring its corrupted brand of “peace” to Thedas.

When you need to spread the Darkspawn taint in record time, what do you do? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe awaken two Archdemons simultaneously and unleash them upon the world? (as a treat?) After all, there can be no more Blights once all the Old Gods have been corrupted…

Which would directly pit The Architect against Solas AND the protagonists of DA:D. And, basically everyone, because no one wants a double Blight and/or to suffer a continent-wide Darkspawn plague.

So, yeah. That’s my super-duper tin-foil hat theory for Dreadwolf (now The Veilguard). Obviously, I could be completely wrong about everything. There’s so much lore in Dragon Age, and yet so little of that lore is unequivocally proven true. It’s all in-world texts that can be – and frequently are – wrong. So, even with exhaustive research and codex mining, there’s ALWAYS a chance that some fundamental piece of “evidence” turns out to just be… incorrect.

In my opinion, that’s part of what makes this series so. effing. compelling. The whole world feels like an excavation, one where every interaction holds the potential for yet another clue. So, even if I am wrong, I can’t wait to learn the truth.

#dragon age #da4 meta #dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age: dreadwolf #the architect #the magisters sidereal #dragon age: the calling #dragon age: awakening

31 notes · View notes

darkurgetrash · 14 days ago

Text

WIP whenever tag ✍️

Thank you for the tag… people who have tagged me this past month. 😭 I hardly ever have WIPs to share so I keep missing these, but thought I would today.

Take this tag, @lemonsrosesandlavender @redroomroaving @sorceresssundries @merrypaladin @freesidexjunkie — and sorry if you tagged me first. 😂

Here’s a little something from the next chapter of What Is It That Stays My Hand? In which Rook is justifiably sad. 😊 Under the cut.

The headache persists.

By the next day, it’s as sharp as ever, refusing to yield. Her companions urge her to rest while they scour the Blight-stricken regions for more clues and statuettes.

She spends the day in bed, too drained to eat or move. Once or twice, she peers into the infirmary, hoping for Varric’s steady presence and sage advice, but each time, he is sound asleep, his breaths deep and even.

She can’t bring herself to disturb him. She can’t let him see how much of a fool she’s been.

The pain dulls, if only slightly, over the following week. It’s enough for her to leave the lighthouse, though her steps feel heavier than they ever have.

Fighting dragons and defying gods is beyond her now—and luckily, without need at present—but she throws herself into smaller tasks: aiding restless spirits in Arlathan Forest with Davrin and Assan, or tending to the Grand Necropolis—returning to the routines of her life before the War of the Banners, back when she’d known at least a semblance of peace.

She’d hoped that, by doing so, she would return to some sort of normalcy. But everything only feels warped and wrong. As if she is only playing at being a Watcher.

Odessa Ingellvar—if she had ever truly been that woman—feels like a ghost to her now. She has never felt more estranged from herself, as though the hollow ache in her chest has consumed whatever remained after Solas has taken the rest with the weight of his confession.

And yet, sometimes in the quiet hours of the night, she feels him. A faint pull at the edge of her thoughts, a whisper too soft to be real. It feels like a ghost of an embrace—or the shadow of one, distant but lingering. For a fleeting moment, familiar hope stirs in her chest. But when she reaches for him, the feeling vanishes. Nothing is there.

No messages come. No signs, no words.

And still, she hates herself for wanting one.

#WIP #WIP tag #tag #tagged #WIP whenever #solrook #dreadrook #rooklas #wiitsmh

8 notes · View notes

dragonagedreaming · 3 months ago

Text

this is a thought before da4 comes out and i don't think it's any spoilers but-

to me it makes perfect sense that the political landscape has changed in thedas, not only since origins but since inquisition. 10 years ago, donald trump hadn't even run for president yet in the us.

stuff can change in 10 years.

who knows what dorian has done in tevinter in 10 years? is gay marriage legalized? is it recognized? is it acknowledged?

who knows how much lore has been learned since the dread wolf's reawakening for the veil jumpers? has he left them clues? does he support what they're doing? how does solas feel about the dalish now?

it's going to be hard to come to terms how much has changed, but stuff has changed. it will be jarring for old players i think, but we have to remember that time can heal- and open- all wounds.

#dragon age the veilguard #tevinter #da:tv #dragon age meta #dragon age ramblings

9 notes · View notes

andrewknightley · 3 months ago

Text

da4 BIG spoilers

anyways discovering more things about solas and im like. i need to kill solas this is really the dwarves revenge against solas game. also he fucking killed varric like whats your deal with dwarves man

(i havent gotten to the reveal of varric has been dead the whole time yet but i started to suspect when lucanis went to buy food for Every Single Person but varric and the fact that everyong ignored him and never talked with him ever in the Chatty Friend Group. and with all the clues is basically confirmed so. lmao everytime they talk about varric in the past im like. im gonna murder solas)

#da4 spoilers #alba plays da4 #im liking the lore reveals they are causing me strong emotional responses

7 notes · View notes

kaija-rayne-author · 3 months ago

Text

Review 2 in series for Dragon Age Veilguard

Spoilers for Veilguard

First part of review series is below.

I'm not an asshole disclaimer (same as the first one, if you read that, you can just skip down to the cut.)

Something came to my attention. I need to make it crystal clear that I utterly love the diversity in DAV. It's fantastic. I'm also a heavily left leaning, non-binary, queer as fuck reviewer, editor, and author.

I'm on media blackout while I play this, so I'm only getting second-hand info on how awful it is right now in the DA Fandom. Please be safe and take care of yourselves. Arguing with incels and white supremacists is completely pointless. They sea lion worse than an actual sea lion. Your mental health is important.

Though, every single time the anti-queer brigade comes out for a new DA game, I sit there thinking 'have you bozos ever played any DA game, like, ever?' My guess is nope.

9 hours in, 7 hours playtime.

Negative review

While I'm incredibly grateful that I can play this game, because I really hope the story actually starts soon, (yes, I said it, the pacing on this is terrible, and I'm both an editor and a writer, I have a clue). I hate to say... I am soooo glad I didn't buy it. Or I'd be demanding a refund. I didn’t actually look at the price tag, but it must’ve been around $80 Canadian. Given our cost of living crisis, that's obscene but whatever. Games are expensive.

It's just not worth that much in its current state. Sure. Games on release often have bugs. I kinda hate spending money to be an unpaid beta tester. BG3 had nowhere near as many.

My computer comes down right around the middle of the minimum and recommended specs. DA4 doesn't even make it get hot like BG3 makes it. So I'm really thinking glitchy game vs computer issues. Considering I'm not the only one it's happening to... welp. (I looked the glitch up, it's pretty common.)

5 out of 10 loads, my character glitches back to the stock elf body. And if I continue playing, it corrupts my saves and they won't load. It has also happened mid-battle, too. So I have to figure out which save to go back to before the glitch bit. Which, without pics in the save files is fun /s.

'Balanced' play isn’t. I play on tactician/hard in most games. I'm on balanced, and keep fucking dying. TBH I'm not extremely awesome with the controls and moves yet, but I'm not bad either. I honestly just think the bad guys are too overpowered (way too fast, hit too hard, and it takes too long to break their armour) for beginning levels. And yes, I have my Rook in the best armour I currently have. Maybe if I could carry more than 3 potions, it wouldn't matter as much, but IDEK man.

And you know what isn't actually any fun in games? Dying a lot. Also? Having to drop my difficulty level for regular bad guys less than ten hours into the game. It's still teaching me moves ffs, so is sorta the tutorial. I'm not a 'get gud' type. I think that's ridiculous. Gaming is supposed to be fun. If it makes it more fun to drop the level for a boss fight or whatever, more power to you. But I usually don't have to until end-game material. If I have to at all. It's honestly pretty rare. Load time is ridiculous, so every time an over-powered not-a-fucking-darkspawn slams my rogue (which I swear shouldn't be possible, I know how to fight with rogues, they're my first and favourite class), I get creamed because I'm bloody stuck in a place I shouldn't get stuck in.

I know they had testing on this. Wasn't that why the date was pushed back? My memory isn't great since COVID but I think I might’ve seen that somewhere.

Solavellans will likely be disappointed in the first seven hours. You see Solas twice. He may as well not even be in the game.

And I really hate to say this, but I'm just bored. I wasn’t itching to play it like I usually am with good games. (If a game catches me up, it's about the only thing I want to do.) I still loaded it up tonight, didn’t have anything better to do. (Because I'd probably have done that instead.) I'm mostly playing so I know what happens in the story myself. And I was hoping we'd get some answers to all this lore that lives in my head, rent free. So, whatever, I'm still hoping it will catch me up. I'll keep playing in hopes we actually get something resembling a story at some point soon.

And the number of editorial errors is ridiculous. Both developmental and copy.

'Cause bodies can't decompose in the Anderfels? Because nothing external lives there? Granted, I have specialized knowledge there (former forensic anthropologist) but, that isn't remotely how decomp works.

Does your 3 week old raw hamburger not rot because it was in a cold, dark place without any external decomposers? (My 17 year old knew the correct answer to that, so did my 12 year old.)

The primary forms of humanoid/mammalian decomposition come from inside us. Bugs don't even start showing up for a bit. Why do you think bodies bloat? Our gut bacteria going wild. Why do you think bodies are routinely embalmed? No bugs (usually) in a funeral home or morgue either.

And y'know? I actually outright told Epler on Twitter (before it went to complete hell) that he needed a better editor or 4 after playing DAI. And DAV already has more editorial issues than I noticed in the whole first half of DAI. Way to prove my point.

I'm an exacting editor. I'm pretty good at it. And I don't expect perfection in anything. Perfectionism is a trauma response, after all. But so many errors so soon? Really?

I'm not even getting into the story issues. Because I'm still hoping we actually, y'know, get to a story? And if I'm really lucky? That story will cover some of the glaring errors.

But so far? I'm not impressed. I've never, since I started playing DA games, been fucking bored.

Next one is here:

#Dragon Age Veilguard #DAV #DA4 #Veilguard #Veilguard Critical #Dragon Age Veilguard Critical

15 notes · View notes

jarinodragonage · 1 month ago

Text

For the Future

Rima and Cullen face an unplanned pregnancy in a world on the brink of doom. They must decide if they will risk it all for a chance at happiness.

(Takes place about 2 years post-Trespasser.)

AO3 Link

Rima sat on the edge of the bed, staring ahead vacantly with tears in her eyes.

How had this happened? They had been so careful…

She shoved her face into her hand and let out a regretful sigh. The healer had warned her that the potions weren’t a hundred percent reliable, that there was a small chance of failure, but she had assumed all would be well.

How foolish.

Her cycle was several weeks late at this point, and unfortunately, her visit to the clinic confirmed her suspicions.

She was with child.

What was she supposed to tell Cullen? They had yet to stop Solas and his insane plans to tear down the veil…How could they possibly raise a child knowing the world may end at any time?

Rima had no clue how her husband would react. On the one hand, she knew he was aching to be a father, but on the other, they had both agreed to wait until Solas’ plans were thwarted in order to ensure any future children of theirs would be safe.

Scout slowly padded up to her, laying his head on her lap and giving a soft whine. Absently, she petted the mabari’s head and was rewarded with a sympathetic lick.

As she sat there, wallowing in her fears, the sound of the front door unlocking broke her from her stupor. Shit…Cullen was home early.

She furiously wiped at her tears, hoping to make herself presentable.

“I’m back, love!” he called from the entryway. “And I have a surprise!”

Rima took a deep breath, doing her best to collect herself, before she rose to her feet and met him in the kitchen.

“Welcome home, vhenan,” she said quietly, a tentative smile on her face.

Cullen was facing away from her, pulling groceries from his knapsack and loading them onto the counter. “We’re in luck. The market had your favorite maple syrup in stock. Would you like to have breakfast for dinner to celebrate?”

As he turned to face her, the bright grin on his face slowly faded as he took in her appearance.

“Rima, what’s the matter?”

She clenched her fist at her side, a low sigh escaping her. “It’s nothing…really.”

Setting the bottle down, Cullen wasted no time approaching her, gently cradling her face in his hands. “Love, you look as though you’ve been crying. Please…tell me what has you so worried.”

A warbled exhale left her lips and she closed her eyes. Against her wishes, tears began to pool in her eyes once more.

Cullen instantly pulled her into an embrace, running his hand along her back. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

She clung to him tightly, shoving her face against his shirt. She cried softly, her voice muffled slightly by their close vicinity. Eventually, she pulled back enough so that he could hear her speak.

“It’s…I…I learned something at the healer’s clinic.”

He gently tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, his touch trailing down her cheek. “Whatever it is, we can face it together. I promise.”

Rima let out a quiet sigh, her right hand reaching up to cover the back of his left one.

“Cullen…I’m pregnant.”

He froze instantly, a look of utter shock on his face.

It took a while, but eventually he began to blink in rapid succession, a surprised noise tumbling out of him.

“That’s…Maker…”

“Yeah…”

“I want to say I’m ecstatic, but…Solas…”

Rima nodded sadly, another tear trailing down her cheek. “Yeah.”

Cullen let out a low, heavy sigh. After a few moments, he spoke. “How about we…go sit down?”

Again, Rima nodded, following him silently to the couch.

They sat down beside one another and he gently took her hand in his, intertwining their fingers.

“What are your thoughts on the matter?” he eventually asked, his voice soft and careful.

She chuckled solemnly. “My thoughts are that Solas is a fucking idiot. If it weren’t for him, this would be an easy choice. I want to have a family with you more than anything. But…fuck.”

Cullen remained silent, staring ahead blankly, deep in thought.

“What if we went through with it anyway?”

“Huh?”

“I mean…we’re planning to stop him no matter what, right? We both want to protect this world and everyone in it. So long as we accomplish that, perhaps it would be possible after all?”

“Aren’t you worried about failing? If we can’t find him or figure out how to stop his plans, our child would die along with everyone else. Would you really be willing to risk that?”

Cullen was quiet for a few moments before speaking.

“Perhaps it’s selfish of me, but…I don’t think our happiness should be held ransom by one foolish man.”

Slowly, her gaze panned up to look at him, her brows furrowed intensely.

“If for some reason we can’t stop him…then at least, we’ll have had a chance at happiness. We’ll have been able to live our lives the way we so choose.” He let out a small exhale. “You showed me that life can be worth living, and…at the end of the day, I think we ought to be able to choose how we live our lives without fear of what may come.”

Rima sat in silence, pondering his words. She gently ran her thumb across his fingers, her touch feather light.

Perhaps he was right. Though Solas’ desires were ultimately selfish, he had told Rima to live well while time remained. He would no doubt want her and Cullen to make the most of whatever time they had left.

She let out a half-hearted laugh. “Are we really doing this?”

“Only if you want to.” He pulled her close, planting a delicate kiss on her forehead.

“I do…By the Void, I want to…” She chanced a peek at her husband, taking in his expression of joy and uncertainty. She let out another soft chuckle before throwing her arm around him and tugging him close. “Let’s do it. Let’s have this baby.”

Tears began to form in Cullen’s eyes and he smiled from ear to ear. “Maker…I can’t believe it. We’re going to be parents…”

They both sat there, simultaneously laughing and crying, completely overwhelmed with emotion. The future was still uncertain, but Rima wasn’t afraid. Cullen would be by her side and no matter what came their way, they would protect their family.

#cullavellan #cullen x lavellan #cullen x inquisitor #angst #dragon age #fanfiction #fanfic #drabble #rima x cullen #rima lavellan #cullen rutherford

4 notes · View notes