#a solavellan heart beats in my chest

[evanhereonearth]

The Insidious Cycle of the Abuser Who Says They Love You: Mythal and Solas

Likely goes without saying, but Veilguard spoilers all under the jump.

I have been absolutely wrecked by the end scenes in Veilguard for weeks now, and I want to do a deep dive into Solas's relationship with Mythal and how it absolutely reeks of abuse. Long post incoming!

CW for heavy discussion of cycles of abuse, trauma response, and abuse tactics.

When I finished my first playthrough, this moment hit me like an absolute freight train. His visceral response to her presence and the way he instinctively retreats and flinches back/puts out a hand to protect himself is a full-blown trauma response.

And then she starts talking and moving towards him, and it gets worse.

Solas curls in on himself; his body goes even further into self-protection mode. His face is downcast, not the way he bowed to his vhenan moments before with a straight back and open posture, but shrinking.

And then as she advances, he cowers.

He completely folds inward. He crumples; he shakes, he hyperventilates, and the moment she reaches for him, he fumblingly offers her the lyrium dagger to kill him with.

Is this shame? Yes, of course, but it's far, far more than that.

For the sake of brevity, I'm going to limit this list to the four most widely recognised trauma responses:

Fight

Flight

Freeze

Fawn

As someone whose primary trauma response is fawn (wooo CPTSD), which is intensely common among people who experience complex trauma, especially through emotional and prolonged physical/mental abuse where their needs are discarded, pushed aside, or otherwise steamrolled, I felt this right alongside Solas. My own body responded to seeing it. This is, quite frankly, one of the most visceral and realistic (and extreme) fawn responses I've seen depicted in media.

Mythal in this scene is...phew, something else.

"She was the best of them," Solas tells us in Trespasser.

But she was not good, everything tells us in Veilguard.

Let's look at his regrets in chronological order.

Through Solas's memories of regret, we see this germinate in his foundational regret: leaving the Fade to take a physical form.

He does not want to do this. He tells her he does not want to do this. From the conversation, it's clear it's not the first time she's asked.

And the way she asks? Outright coercion.

"You have so long observed the world. Why not consider joining it?" [I want you to do this thing, so I will frame it as logical for you to make the choice I want you to make.]

"But I have no desire to live as humans. Besides, this talk of taking on a solid form. I think you underestimate the danger." [I don't want to do that. It does not feel safe to me.] "When you took the glowing stone to build your body, did the earth not shake?" [This is dangerous and selfish.]

"The lyrium gives us the strength we had when we were of the Fade; we are the best of both physical and Fade." [It makes us powerful, so I don't care about the risks.] "I need your wisdom, Solas, to withstand the louder voices like Elgar'nan's who would go too far." [If you do not come with me, a tyrant you abhor will make others suffer.] "I need you."

"This is madness. You must know that." [I don't want to do this at all. This will hurt me. I don't want this.] "I will always follow where you go." [Because I love you and trust you.]

Mythal's words in this part are classic abusive framing. When appealing to his natural curiosity does not work and he expresses strong rejection of her logical thought process (just because I have observed this place does not mean I want to go there, echoing his comments to the Inquisitor in DAI: "Many Orlesian peasants dream of travelling to exotic Rivain. But not everyone wants to go to Rivain!") and expresses that there is significant danger to continue to build bodies out of lyrium, she changes tactics.

Her second tactic is that it gives them power--she implies that he is limited and not enough for being only of the Fade. If he follows her, he will be the best of both, like she is. She clearly already sees herself as above him.

Her third tactic is pure emotional blackmail: "I need you. I will give in to the tyrants without your wisdom, and having your counsel in the Fade is not enough. If you don't go against your own nature and desires, people will suffer...and it will be your fault for not being by my side."

She doesn't say those things outright, but they are implied by everything she is saying. He says again he doesn't want it--that it is madness and that she must be aware of that despite her ignoring any suggestion that she actually is. All she is seeing is power and her desires: for Solas to do what she wants him to do.

So he agrees. Because she is his friend, and she says she needs him.

As far as core wounds go, this one is a doozy. It's absolutely brutal, because it's irrevocable. It's a point of no return. It's the first in what will become millennia of regret, of her ignoring the Wisdom she coerced out of the Fade to do what she wants regardless, to continue to push him to twist his nature under the guise of the greater good, to continue to cede to Elgar'nan and enable the very tyrants she promised him to balance.

This regret was deeply painful for me to watch. The nuance here is easily lost if people don't understand abuse tactics and how this sort of manipulation is used. It also serves to bind Solas to Mythal, an enormous sunk cost fallacy in the making--once he has made this choice, there is no going back.

And you see Solas curled in on himself in anguish and regret from the trauma of taking a physical form. It is in deep, painful contrast to his open, free wingspan as a spirit of Wisdom; he will never be the same.

"Have you created what we need?" From the outset Mythal is framing this as his idea as much as hers, when from everything he says, that is not true.

"With this, the proper ritual will sunder every Titan from its spirit. But you must know, those severed dreams will certainly be driven mad, a disembodied blight of pain and anger. It--is--awful what we are doing."

"And the only way to end this war."

Again, Solas offers the wisdom she claimed she took him from the Fade to listen to. He warns her, again, of the danger. He does not want to do this. Just like he warned her of the earth quaking when they made their bodies--they, the Evanuris, started this war by taking what they wanted regardless of who it hurt. He never wanted to participate in it, but now he is in the middle of that war. Mythal was one of the initial perpetrators of this war; she brought Solas into it against his will because he loved her, and now he's stuck. He is past his point of no return. And she is still using his heart against him. She has isolated him from everyone he knew in the Fade; he has no one to support him. He. Only. Has. Her.

This is another classic abuse tactic; if the person being abused has no one else, they will continue to enable that abuse even if it harms others, because they cannot see a way out. If you don't do what I say, it will destroy our children, our family. If you don't do what I say, this war will consume all you have, and you no longer have a home to return to. If you don't do what I say and hurt yourself and the Other, more will suffer, and it will be your fault.

Again, his posture, curled up and broken, appearing to cradle a now-tranquil Titan beneath him--and be embraced in return. This is an interesting artistic choice here, one that aches. It speaks to the depth of his own wound and how much it rent his own spirit to follow through with Mythal's wants here; that it sundered him from his spirit as much as it did the Titans.

"You cannot do this, Elgar'nan! You swore we would give up our commands when this war was over!"

"Our people need our leadership. If you are unwilling, leave."

From Elgar'nan, this is expected. From Mythal?

"Our people must rebuild. And we must help unite them."

Solas, once again, betrayed. He put his trust in Mythal and in the other Evanuris to follow through with their promise. Everything he has done thus far is poisoned in this moment; had the Evanuris indeed stepped back rather than stepped on necks, perhaps Solas could have healed, found a way to live with what he had done, maybe even to make amends. But this starts his war anew--and Mythal is standing with his enemy despite her promises, despite every wheedling word she's used to get what she wants from him over the centuries and longer, despite him turning from everything, everything, he loved to love her. This is the moment where he understands that he has only been a tool to her all along.

"So we did not fight for freedom, but to conquer this land and our own."

Let's pick apart Solas's words.

So we did not fight for freedom: He truly believed that he was fighting for freedom, that no matter how bad it got, that he could bear it for freedom.

But to conquer this land: Literally the land, I think, because of the Titans. To subdue them at all costs. This was not what he came for, but he believed Mythal.

And our own: Our own, our people, more spirits we gave bodies for this war, more who may not have wanted to leave the Fade. Our own, our people. To Solas, he is one of them. In this moment, he realises how much Mythal holds herself above all of them.

Elgar'nan's words are all too telling: "We fought to win. And now the Evanuris are as gods. I do not answer to Mythal's annoying lapdog."

They all--all--see him thus. As her pet.

Because he is. She has, until now, controlled him utterly with her manipulation and "need" for him.

"The people are afraid. They must believe in something." Mythal does not even stand up for Solas here; she does not reject Elgar'nan's perception of him. All she does is further distance herself.

The people are afraid: The Evanuris made them. They are as controlled as Solas and more.

Elgar'nan asserts, "They need strength."

"And wisdom." Mythal has the absolute gall to attribute this to herself, when Solas is the source of the wisdom she "needed" for so long. (Belated addition: And another level here: she may also be saying again that she needs him, but doing so in a way that doesn't require her to stand up for him directly. Honestly, fucking gross.)

"They need gods who can protect them," Elgar'nan continues.

"We are not gods. You will learn that." Solas's voice here is pure defeat. The scales are falling from his eyes.

"Every lapdog holds a wolf inside," says Elgar'nan.

Solas knows that Elgar'nan's "protection" is hollow, based on subjugation. And I think in this moment, he learns that Mythal's is based only in her belief that she is better than those beneath her, who cannot possibly handle themselves.

So her lapdog becomes the Wolf.

"I was not certain you would come."

Solas's opening words in this regret show the distance between them already and how much he has realised he does not know this woman who called herself his friend.

And her response is to instantly blame him.

"You are the one who walked away. I never turn my back when my friend needs me."

In putting this post together, this line absolutely sucker punched me. I've watched these several times already, but the absolute audacity to blame him for standing up for his principles for the first time against all her manipulation? Hoo.

She blames him for doing just that, "turning his back when his friend needed him." She needed her enabler, and when he stopped, she turned bitter. Just like any abuser.

That he goes straight into "The Evanuris seek the magic of the Blight" instead of engaging, honestly shows that he's still Wisdom. That is one battle that is unwinnable, trying to stand up against an abuser's bullshit like that.

"Impossible," she says. "The Blight is safely sealed away forever."

Gaslight, girl boss, gatekeep.

"Though I wish I could believe you." [You have lied to me so many times.] "I have sensed the breaking of the wards."

And her answer is patronising. "I will investigate your claims." [I don't believe you.] "If they forget the danger of the Blight, I will endeavour to remind them."

Solas knows this is futile. "What if, instead, you left the Evanuris and remained with me? Do you not wish for freedom from this struggle?"

He asks her, again, to veer from the dangerous path. He desperately wants to believe he was not completely wrong about her, I think. If she were to leave, he could heal somewhat, for not having so thoroughly misjudged her character.

Am I enough for you? Was I ever enough? is the unspoken question here when he asks if she will remain with him.

And in return, he gets back even more patronising bullshit and hubris. "Be at peace, love. I will stop them."

(Can you tell Mythal pisses me off?)

She calls him love. What an unbearable insult after everything, to go on telling him she cares for him whilst ignoring his wisdom--the very wisdom she coerced him into leaving the Fade so she would have by her side--and consolidating her own power at the expense of his people.

"As you must," he says. "The Blight is our mistake."

Might be unpopular, but I do not think Solas bears a split fifty-fifty custody for whose fault the Blight is. Could he have said no about the dagger? Could he have pushed then? Maybe. But by this point, he'd already had probable millennia of complex trauma and a deeply abusive codependent relationship, probably also a level of magical bond. Like, sorry, Trick and BioWare, if you want to retcon everything you shared with us in Inquisition about being in service to the Evanuris ("You have given yourself into the service of an ancient elven god! You are Mythal's creature now. Everything you do, whether you know it or not, will be for her.") AND Mythal casually overriding her servants' will and Solas burning her vallaslin off his face and leaving a scar and devoting himself to freeing the elven people from the Evanuris's domination, fine, but I don't buy it. Even if there was no magical compulsion on him all this time, that is immaterial.

Complex trauma literally rewires the brain to survive. She spent lifetimes programming him, isolating him, stripping from him every bit of agency he had. This man did not have the capacity to say no.

When our no is trampled even for a few months or years, we stop trying to use it. We comply. We, as mortal humans, cannot begin to comprehend the compounded trauma of millennia of this happening with the stakes of worlds in the balance. Solas, quite simply, has lost the entire ability to consent. No one of us can even imagine.

Yet he managed to walk away from her somehow, when she chose Elgar'nan. This man is stronger than anyone gives him credit for.

The dagger was clearly Mythal's idea. The plan to sever the Titans from their dreams, clearly her idea. To end the war. For there to be "peace". For there to be "freedom". Except that never came.

His loyalty was to her and to their people; hers was only ever to herself.

And again, she walks away and lets Solas suffer.

What a good friend.

[screaming from the general direction of Scotland]

She put her trust in monsters instead of her oldest friend, and the monsters ate her face.

Anyone surprised? I'm surprised. (I'm not surprised.)

And on top of this, Mythal finally, finally giving Solas one tiny breadcrumb that she had any principles remaining? I think that cemented his bindings to her forever. Not just that the Evanuris killed her, but why they killed her: because after millennia, she listened to him.

For someone that deep into trauma and abuse? Well. We know what happened.

It cannot be overstated that with his imprisonment of the Evanuris and the Blight, Solas saved the entire world. The entire world. Every living being in Thedas had a chance at life because of him. Only because of him.

Morrigan says it early on in the game, that for all the consequences of the veil (which, it also must be said, was not supposed to be global!), "his imprisonment of the Evanuris was just. Had he not done so, all of Thedas would have fallen to the Blight."

And the world has hated him for it.

He woke after sleeping for millennia, exhausted by this immense act of magic, to discover that not only had it gone horribly wrong, but that it had cost his people everything. That Tevinter had come in and enslaved them, released a trickle of the Blight after breaking into the Black City, used so much blood magic that the veil itself all over Thedas has been in tatters--not least because in releasing the Blight, the survivors had had to face down and kill the dragon thralls (archdemons) of the Evanuris, rendering five out of seven of them mortal, and with their deaths over the intervening centuries, the veil had grown threadbare with only two Evanuris sustaining it.

The risks were catastrophic, the price unbearable.

Everything he'd ever done to protect the world could still come crashing down...and in a sick twist of fate, he would be alive to see it.

And, shockingly, so would Mythal.

Mythal, whose fragment has just been chilling in a swamp for centuries in human form. Mythal, whose abuse of him lasted through the entirety of the world's history. Mythal, who, due to the Evanuris's betrayal and her abusee's abandonment, has become little more than retribution.

Mythal, who could have set him free at any point in all this time and didn't, because he was hers.

Mythal, who is the only remaining person with the power to do what he feels must be done.

I find it interesting that they chose not to use the post-Inquisition dialogue at all. Interesting also that they used Mythal's voice actor and not Flemeth's. This feels like a retcon, but we'll go with it. Whatevs.

"I knew that you would find me soon enough. You need the power of a god, the strength that I alone still carry."

She's still asserting her own godhood.

He's not having it. "The blighted Evanuris will soon break free from their prison. I must make a stronger one that can contain them."

He's not wrong. Not even a little bit wrong. And he's also right that she won't help him. Why would she? She never has.

"While the prison is important, it is not the only goal you seek."

"Why should I not tear down the veil? And bring back immortality to all the elven people? They deserve it."

And this is where I get even more raging, because Mythal's answer is this: "The elven people of today do not deserve to see the world they love torn apart to salve your conscience."

I'm sorry, what?

The world they love? The world that has offered them nowt but literal genocide for thousands of years? The world where in Tevinter, they're chattel slaves and worse, fuel for blood magic without a thought? The world where in the "civilised", slaveless nations to the south, they're either confined to alienages and subjected to repeated genocide (that's what a "purge" is, if anyone isn't clear on that) or the remnants of the Dales, who are the descendents of another enormous genocide? The world where elven magic has been pillaged but elven mages in human settlements are confined to Circles and abused or made tranquil or also genocided by Templars invoking the Rite of Annulment? The world where they're called "elf savage" and "rabbit" and "knife ear" and cannot participate in Thedosian religious life because the Chantry erases every instance of elves from even the Chant of Light? The world where it took the Inquisitor installing a perpetrator of genocide on the Orlesian throne (both Celene AND Gaspard fit this bill) and either having Celene reconcile with Briala (Briala and Celene's relationship could be a whole other post. Boak.) and blackmailing them to give a single elf lands and a title? That world????

What the fuck, Mythal, die faster.

I got real mad there for a second. I'm fine. I'm fine!

Solas, once more, simply says, "I must fix what I have broken. I am sorry."

More than she deserves, frankly. Man's a mess, but at least he tries. She's been chilling in a swamp and pulling puppet strings for ages and abusing her kids. Nudging history like it's some sort of hobby, because it has always just been pieces on a board to her. They have never been people in her eyes like they are in his.

"As am I, old friend."

Aye, get tae fuck. Friends don't treat friends the way you treated Solas. The closest thing to an apology Solas will ever get from her is that she pretty much just lies down and dies when he comes to kill her. And she still won't set him free before he does. Has to continue to twist her own knife.

This scene has me riled.

And this takes us back to the beginning of this post.

To her essence showing up to release him from her service.

In what is, to me, the least accountable, bare minimum non-apology (she never actually says she's sorry) I've had the displeasure to witness in a videogame, with Solas literally cowering before her and offering her a knife to kill him with since this is the first time he's seen her actual, non-Flemythal face since she died.

This was never a friendship of equals. Ever.

She got one thing right. She did break him. But she knew it all this time, and she never took a single step to put it right until pushed. Her corner of the Crossroads, which he built for her in the desperate hope that she would show a glimmer of the friend he believed she was, notably has a pair of wolf statues. Both beheaded.

She's spent all this time punishing him further.

He never went to visit her? I wouldn't either. I could not blame him.

This has gone to an angry place. So let's conclude with what is, I think, the entire point.

Grace.

"I lied. I betrayed you."

"I forgive you."

Has anyone--anyone--in all his long life, ever said those words to him?

I'll say that again: has anyone--ANYONE--in all his millennia of existence, EVER said those words to him?

I forgive you.

Mythal certainly didn't.

The world certainly didn't.

He has shouldered all the blame of an entire pantheon, a war that broke the world, a blight, everything, always, and while people have come alongside him to help him, I am not sure anyone (certainly not anyone he cares about) has given him the grace of forgiveness.

The beauty of this final scene for me wasn't just Ilaana, wasn't just Ilaana reuniting with the man she has loved for a decade who has spent all that time pushing her away so he couldn't--in his mind--inevitably poison the love of the only person who has seen his spirit and cherished it without twisting him.

It was the slow realisation that Rook trusted his love enough to try.

It was Morrigan, who carries all Mythal's memories and her own of Flemythal's abuse and machinations, who responds to Rook's question about her views of Solas with: "Or do you mean to discover if I would stand directly against the Dread Wolf, were there a need? I shall aid you in any way but that. What has passed between Solas and Mythal...I beg you: do not ask this of me again."

Morrigan knows. She will not raise a hand against him. She will not try to stop him. She will let the veil fall. She will not fight with Rook. Because she knows this being whose memories she holds has harmed him enough.

Solas, in these final moments, even before Mythal shows up to gut punch him, realises all these people have somehow, somehow, banded together to help him.

Not work for him.

Not be his agents.

Not worship him.

Not follow him blindly.

To help him. To help Solas. To help him, after all this time, take the first steps towards himself. Towards his own essence, so long twisted into something he never sought or wanted.

The Inquisitor and Morrigan certainly understand what it's like to be seen only as the symbol others raise in your image. Rook will learn that someday, but is still naive.

But even with that naivete, willing. Present. Able to put aside being a chess piece on his board. Able to see that they would never have succeeded without his help. Able to trust two people who know him better than they ever will.

Able to offer him grace.

And when they produce Mythal's essence, how that must brutalise him; to think that perhaps all this has been to let his abuser kill him back. He clearly thinks that's what's happening. He breaks. He fawns. He offers her the blade that has caused so much pain.

Her release of him is the bare minimum she owes him. I've already railed about that.

What is transcendent here, transformative--it is the mortals.

The mortals offering grace to a god who never wanted to be a god.

It's them together showing him a way out of an endless cycle of trauma and abuse. No one of them alone is enough. Without Rook, they wouldn't have Mythal's essence; Morrigan can't go get it, and she can't do what is needed because she's not actually Mythal, only has her memories. Without Morrigan, who can stand there with those memories but from the compassionate perspective of someone who has watched them in horror from the outside. She's far from objective, but she can do this one thing to help.

Without the Inquisitor (romanced or not, still someone he let know him as he most desperately wanted to be known--the Fade-walker, the Dreamer, the humble mage who desperately needed a friend). The Inquisitor, who kneels before him to comfort him. Who sees his hurt and responds.

If romanced, without Lavellan, who kneels to repeat back words he once shouted at the Nightmare in the Fade after Adamant.

"Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ema mar din." (Speak, traitor. Your victory was fruitless. Your pride gives way only to your death.)

To which Solas replied, "Banal nadas."

On the surface, nothing is inevitable, but can also be taken to mean that nothingness is inevitable, entropy, the final void. (Thanks to Dumped, Drunk, and Dalish for this excellent long post on this scene.)

And here is Lavellan, kneeling beside him with those words. "Banal nadas ar lath, ma vhenan."

Nothing is inevitable but the love we share, my heart.

I see everything you are, all you have done, and I love you. I forgive you for the pain you have caused me. I understand, see, and forgive.

No one has ever shown him grace like this.

Ever.

And Solas, this shattered man, sobs.

He sobs.

Someone has taken the trouble to isolate his voice in the video. This man has nothing left. And, after millennia of this trauma cycle repeating over and over, he is finally free to make the choice he wants to make. It's not the outcome he wants; that has to be said. He doesn't want to leave the veil up. He doesn't want to be bound into prison forever with no hope of seeing the world he fought for ever return.

But he is done.

In the Fade after Adamant, there is a cemetery with the worst fears of every companion scriven on shrines and stones. Solas's is dying alone.

After all of this, he is willing to face just that--and would, if not for her.

She knows his deepest fears. She has faced the demon Mythal made of the man she loves. She has given unwitting comfort to the spirit of Wisdom still within. She has seen his sweetest self. Nurtured him, cherished him, and has been nurtured and cherished in return.

Does she want to leave the world behind and spend eternity in a Fade prison? Probably not her first choice. It's not my Ilaana's; she has been on his side all this time, dreaming of a world where the spirits she loves can be reunited with the world in peace and ready to make that happen.

But it was not supposed to happen this way. It did happen this way anyway.

He has sacrificed everything--everything--including his own spirit self, his soul, his life. How could she not offer him what no one ever has? A friend forever, a lover willing to walk the din'an shiral by his side, a companion to ward off the forever alone.

Together, the two of them can begin to heal, with their counterpart who has always seen through the burdens of the world to the soul within.

This is the only thing I've ever had any faith in. Grace I know you carry us Grace And it was such a mess Grace I don't say it enough Grace You are so loved

[snowpetrichor]

Reunited at Last

I’ve written my own fanfics over the years, but I’ve never had the guts to post anything… I’ve finally decided to change that! This is a snippet from a DAV rewrite I'm working on. The scene is supposed to be in act 3 so I wouldn't have written it for a while, but I found myself daydreaming about it and I had to get it out of my system with a drabble.

I figured I’d take a chance and share it with my fellow solavellans. :)

Word count: 754

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Ellana reached out a hand to wipe away the tears that had already begun to fall down his cheeks. The caress was feather-light, but waves of emotion shone in her eyes, and Solas felt something in him snap. He surged forward to catch her waist and held onto her like a drowning man might grasp a buoy. The strength of his love for her always seemed to send him reeling. Ellana stiffened, a surprised noise escaping her, but soon enough her hand came to rest on the back of his head.

Even in their years apart, whenever he caught a hint of lavender on the wind or tasted honey on his tongue, he was reminded of the fragrance she wore – spring flowers distilled to a sugar-sweet perfume. The Dalish had to make do with the tidings that nature offered them, so Ellana had learned to craft the scent herself. It was soft and fresh and so unique to her. Now, that sweetness seemed as if it would overtake him. His world narrowed to her touch, her warmth, and her heartbeat. Solas twined his fingers with hers and quietly wept for all that they had endured.

From the outside, the whole thing would have looked rather awkward – even sitting on the bed, Solas was still much taller than his heart, and he bowed to hold her in his arms. But there was nobody there to judge, and he wouldn’t have cared much anyway. He whispered her name over and over, uttering endearments like a prayer.

Vhenan, my heart, my love.

Ellana, Ellana, Ellana.

Oh. He almost never used her given name. She had first been Inquisitor, later vhenan, but never Ellana. Its soft syllables had only fallen from his lips once, and that thought brought a rush of unbidden memories. On her knees in front of a mirror, his desperate eyes searching hers before that final goodbye. One last kiss to give her strength for the years to come. She strongly suspected that he lost himself to grief in those moments after he went through the eluvian, and it tortured her to know that he shouldered such a burden alone for so long. Ellana lowered herself to sit by his side, wrapping her arms around him as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. A moment passed in gentle silence.

“Ir abelas, vhenan,” he sighed. “Despite everything, that you still stand by my side is…” Solas trailed off, seemingly lost for words as his gaze grew downcast. Ellana pulled back to study him. She cupped his cheek in her palm, turning his face back towards her.

“Emma lath, you remember my promise, don’t you? Var lath vir suledin.” She tried for a smile even as her voice wobbled; she tasted the salt of her own tears on her lips and realized absently that she had started to cry.

“You are my home, Solas. You have been since the very first moment I met you.” Ellana guided his hand to her breast, holding it softly against her heart. “So long as my heart beats, I will stand by your side.”

His chest was tight with emotion. There was pain – the pain of realizing that he could have spent the last decade in her arms if he so chose, the pain of living with a lifetime of sins, and the pain that came as he acknowledged how alone he had truly been. But there was also love. So, so much love. He was finally free to live as himself – as Solas – and there were no words to express the torrent of feelings that danced within him. He wanted to weave stories in her ears and share the wisdom that he knew would enrapture her. He wanted to take her in his arms, tangling their forms together until time fell away. He wanted to bare himself to her, to show her his soul, his spirit, and witness hers in turn.

He wanted to give her the world, but the world was no longer his to give.

So instead, Solas pulled her down to lie by his side. They breathed together and wiped away each other’s tears. Ellana pressed her forehead to his and he weaved a hand into her hair, cradling each other as they let the tides of the Fade take them. There would be plenty of time for more passionate embraces down the line, but for now, it was enough for two tired souls to exist as one, reunited at last.

[arcandoria]

I listen to Howl by Florence + The Machine and am promptly punted right into Solavellan hell because—

If you could only see the beast you've made of me I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free Screaming in the dark, I howl when we're apart Drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart My fingers claw your skin, try to tear my way in You are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to howl My fingers claw your skin, try to tear my way in You are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to Howl, howl Howl, howl

—is the most fucking Serilyel x Solas bunch of words to ever fucking exist and it makes me feeeeeeeeeeeraaaaaaaaal

[ly-art]

My newest Solavellan chapter (no smut, lol)

I present to you chapter 21 of my solavellan fanfic! A little sneak peak will be under the link of it!

One look into her eyes made him shudder. They were golden, emanating power—and death. She looked like an ancient goddess, ready to reap the souls of those she had killed, who had incurred her divine wrath. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Amatisha seemed like an entirely different being and yet... something familiar tugged at his memory. As if he knew this feeling, but... it had been so long ago. But his thought of a goddess remained. A goddess. Yes, there. It was so faint, no normal person would have noticed, but Solas did. A thread of... Mythal. If Mythal had her hands in this... *What have you done to that child?* He took a step towards her, the urge to heal her, to relieve some of her pain and suffering, but he hissed when the sensation of death gleamed in her eyes again, turning the gold dark, foggy. Her lips curled into a cruel smile, forming words without voicing them. She seemed to say that he was next. It was the same expression she had when they had saved her in Val Royeaux. The same darkness lingered in her eyes now, the same hate directed at *him*. But Solas didn’t recoil. This wasn’t her. Something was controlling her, something that deemed him a threat. Time was of the essence. He wouldn’t disappoint her. Not again. Solas had to do something, *now*. This *thing* was trying to overtake her, ready to unleash even more havoc if no one intervened. Solas couldn’t let that happen. Knowing what he was about to do was dangerous, risking everything to reveal his true identity, every instinct screamed that he couldn’t just *leave* her like this. He locked eyes with the mad creature behind those cruel, twisted eyes and summoned all the power he had managed to replenish. He felt it roar beneath his skin, and he focused it all on her. He recoiled at the wildness of it. It felt like a cornered animal, lashing out at everything that came too close. No control. Nothing but chaos. Amatisha was losing. Solas zeroed in on that wildness, baring his own teeth at it until it retreated, slowly. He calmed it, steadying her magic, step by painstaking step, giving her back some of that much-needed control. The shadow fought, clawing and kicking to stay, but then it finally vanished, and the golden color drained from her eyes. Her usual fade-like eyes returned—unfocused, empty, exhausted.

And just because I love this part I will put it in here!!

But seeing her sitting there—broken, hurt, and trembling—his heart had stopped beating. She couldn’t die. He wouldn’t let that happen. His arms and legs wobbled visibly as he had used up almost every bit of ancient magic left in him to help her. And still, he willed every bit of stubbornness into his body to keep his voice steady so he could scold her, ask her what the hell she was doing. And in his rage, in his terror, he called her vhenan. His heart. *I must be going mad.* Shock froze him in place as Amatisha’s eyes widened before fluttering closed. Exhaustion had taken its toll, and she sank toward his chest. Solas’s arms hung limply at his sides, realizing what he didn’t want to acknowledge for quite some time. It seemed his exhaustion had loosened the lock he kept around his heart and his tongue, releasing feelings and words he shouldn’t, couldn’t utter. This wasn’t just fondness. He... loved her. *Loved her.* *Him.* The person who had been called ruthless, cruel, *heartless*. A monster. The Dreadwolf, the frightening commander you didn’t want to meet on the battlefield. He had never fallen in love, with no one. What he had with Viera had been special, yes, but not like this. Never like this. His ears were ringing, the realization too much to bear, his heart too much to bear. Slowly, he looked down at the amazing and foolish woman who had been sobbing, telling him she was broken. The hollowness, the trauma simmering in her eyes. Yet, all he had seen was someone who desperately sought healing and was trying to hold herself together. Trying to do something worthy. And in the process, she had captivated his heart. A smile bloomed on his face, warm and loving. He couldn’t stop it. How could he not love her?

[teamdilf]

Writing Solavellan tonight in the BG3/Dragon Age crossover and apparently I’ve chosen violence.

Iris cries herself out and thinks, distantly, that it’s been a very long time since she’s allowed herself to cry like this. Not even when he was splayed open and near-death did she cry like this. How long has she needed the release? Months? A year? Longer?

Her hand slips from his back to the front of his chest, where she splays it flat over the centre of his chest, feeling for the steady beating of his heart, and it occurs to her that she doesn’t know if vampires have a heartbeat or not. Astarion told her Petra had broken down much like this before; is the comfort of a heartbeat denied to her?

“I’m such a broken little thing,” she mumbles and Solas kisses her temple once more.

“You need not always wear a brave face, my heart. You may feel better if you allowed yourself to hurt.”

“The world has no use for my tears.”

“Your tears are a rallying cry for aid and a much-needed release so I would argue that it does.”

“You’re in pain,” she counters weakly.

“So are you, albeit of a different variety.”

How much does it hurt him to hold her as he does right now, especially after exerting himself so hard today? He’s sacrificing his own wellbeing to tend to her.

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

Like Teeth Against His Heart

Solavellan prose-poem, originally written for the Solamancy charity zine @solamancyzine

Summary: After Solas wakes up, he has many conversations with a variety of spirits. Sometimes they tell him what he wants to hear, and sometimes they don't. Mood: Contemplative/angsty. 1800 words

On AO3 here

NOTE: The formatting cannot be input as intended into tumblr (no right-align option). For optimal viewing please read on AO3 or in the Solamancy zine.  

_________________________________________________________

              Pride drags him from the quiescent depths of Uthenera.

                     Awaken, pretender.                                 Your seeking to prevent one future                                 annihilated the civilization you aimed to save.                                 Any left now know you as you are:                                 Disgrace inherent in the falsehood of your name.           

                     Restore the world, or it will all have been for naught.                                 Right this, or your legacy ends at genocide.           

i.

Solas is dreaming. He is dreaming because the world he awoke within cannot be real, cannot be the finality of a lifetime of suffering and rebellion and desperation. He is dreaming because the cold sensation of dread that sinks like teeth into his heart would paralyze him otherwise, with the knowledge of what he has done. What he has destroyed. So he sleepwalks his way across the land, searching for a way out he is becoming increasingly sure does not exist.

              Regret comes to him, and says:

                   The ache within you sings a hole into the world.                               We can only brush against the edges of your grief.                               Lie still. Tell us of the past. Let yourself weep.           

        Solas says: Forgive me.         All of this is my doing.         Forgive me.

 ii.

The Fade-scorched prisoner lies frail and pallid beneath Solas’ hands, the stillness of the crypt settling over her like a shroud. He steadies her spirit from both sides of the Veil as it tries to flee the battered ruin her body has become, while the shards of his Orb — the shameful remnants of his last desperate grasp for power — work to shred her being from within her flesh.

The humans allow him, an apparent apostate nobody — an elf — to heal their only living witness to this disaster because they are too desperate to ask the questions they should. Their eyes slide off him with the vague dismissal they default to for his people, in this fractured timeline. The ignominy of their disregard is necessary. It fills him with sorrow. It fills him with rage. He forces the anchor into stillness the same way he forces down the hammering of his heart, beating like a war-drum against his breast.

                   What will you do now?           

             Curiosity asks,              as they both watch the faint rise of her chest;              the way her breath stutters with each exhale. 

                   What will you do when the world ends again?           

       I will wait, he says.        I will wait and see.

iii.

He didn’t expect to like them, this stumbling crowd claiming itself an Inquisition. He didn’t think the easy camaraderie would ache so sharply, the smiles and conversations blurring together in this fragment of a future he must condemn. The Inquisitor is lively and vibrant against the severity of the spring snow, a magnetic hum that is more than the flicker of the anchor. A Dalish elf who listens so intently to the skeletons of his stories, the half-lies he shares of the world that once was. Listens — and asks for more.

Wisdom’s friendship is older than he deserves, and its hands take his, almost, in the only space left they can share.

                  You make ghosts of your past.                              So much less than memory,                              these echoes you fear to feel.                              You tell yourself distance is better,                              a focus beyond the great swelling of grief                              that rises like a tide beneath your skin.           

                  Yet — I can feel the thrum inside your chest,                              reverberation of heartstrings taut as a bow.                              She holds the last shreds of hope beneath her skin;                              you think of her as the jaws of a wolf                              waiting to close around you.             

        I cannot forget what I have done.         I cannot let this path continue.  

                   Is it such agony, to become a part of their reality?                               To learn the pyre you built                               could be for warmth, instead of sacrifice?                               You did shape this world.                               Choose to live in it.           

 iv.

He thought in dreams he would be stronger, but here in the domain of his shaping, self-restraint fails even faster. The cloak-shimmers of memory that disguise his careful constructed shell of a self are in tatters, his conviction abandoned from something so simple as her caress, as soft as sunlight. He stands in the Fade-ruins of Haven far longer than he should after Lavellan tumbles back to the waking world.

                    I can feel it, Hunger says.                                I feel the way you want it to swallow you whole,                                this longing. You could drown in it.           

       It is more complicated than that.

                    How long, how long,                                since someone touched you without malice?                                I could feel when it broke you. Not the kiss,                                but the tenderness behind it.                                You did not lose control, you                                abandoned it willingly. And why should you not?                                It is a delicious thing, to yearn so keenly.                                You remember her warmth. You remember                                the soft, sharp gasp when you held her,                                pulling her closer, not ending, not yet.             

                    Is it such a terrible burden — to want?           

             Solas says nothing, knowing Hunger can be just another name for Desire, in places such as these.

                 We are a reflection, Trickster,                             in this distorted mirror of a world.                             How could I resist such desperation?           

                 The cavern of your chest cannot be filled                             with the mourning you have chained there.                             You gorge yourself on sorrow,                  pouring the endless years                             into the cracks of your heart while the world yet turns,                             as though anything so far gone could offer                   absolution.           

                 The worst thing in the world is to be empty, after all.           

He opens his eyes to stone and plaster, and the shame that demands he hold himself separate from the shattered era he hovers at the edges of. Almost, he can still feel the press of her lips. Almost, the solemn gravity of this world releases its grasp.

 v.

The next time he meets Wisdom, it is too late. There is no time for debate; barely time to say goodbye. He sits for a long time, in the place he and the spirit used to share, watching the slow revolutions of the fog, the remnants of essence that will never be enough.

                    someday, something new,           

       Endure, he tells them.        Endure, so we may meet again.        Endure, so the next world I build holds you softly.

 vi.

Each time he goes to her he hesitates, despite the catch of his breath, the tidal wave of longing that surges through him at her touch. Despite how each time Lavellan reaches back he has failed to pull away. She has cracked his whole to pieces; rent the purpose from his being and embraced the jagged, broken thing she found inside as though it somehow brings her warmth, as though she doesn’t deserve more.

He could be happy. He could be safe. He could tell her, or not. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a century; maybe somehow he was wrong, and she isn’t cursed to fade to mist, and he could spend a thousand years by her side and finally be free of the weeping grasp of the past.

Maybe he could become someone else long enough to believe he could ever be forgiven for what he cost them.

                    I can hear it, Hope says,           

              as his heart thrums inside his chest.                                                        

       It is a distraction, Solas says.        It is more than I deserve.

                  There is no deliverance                              in the denial of self. Each moment passes                              and passes again, and again, and again.                              Tell me, fair wolf,                              have you not suffered enough?           

                 Let yourself be gentle.                             Let this world be your atonement, not your sin.                           The earth holds warmth through winter, however deep,                            and spring’s green shoots turn over the decayed past                            to reach the radiance of day.           

                We bury the dead not for their sake, but our own.           

 vii.

They are a tangled thing, this knot of hearts and chance intersections. His universe narrows to the circle of her embrace, and he pretends she could live within the future he must build. The leisurely lethality of the past falls closer and closer, and he closes his eyes against it.

              Solas kisses her, and Desire says:

                    Taste it, the deliciousness of the inevitable.           

His fingers twist into her hair and the morning light gleams against the starkness of the snow, his lungs crackling with each frigid breath as he lets the vividness of the now sweep everything else clear.

              Sloth says:

                    The easiest thing is to do nothing at all.           

Vhenan, he calls her, and that this oldest word has outlived so many forgotten is, perhaps, a testament to the world she insists to save. He follows her through brambles and battlefields, across the stained-parchment land he would forsake.

              Compassion says:

                    You seem happier this way.                                Brighter, both of you.           

His heart quivers and Lavellan is almost, almost enough to fill the chasm of it.

              In the Fade, Purpose follows him, its words sharp and mocking.

                  Have you truly forgotten all that you promised?                              You claim your cause righteousness yet cast it aside.                              You forsake your goal. You forget your people.           

       “Forgive me,” Solas breathes against her skin.        “For what?” she asks him, and he cannot reply, so he kisses her again instead, wrapping himself in her belief and the bittersweet haven of dreams.

              When they plummet through the rend in reality itself, each word Nightmare speaks is a maw opening wide to devour him:

                    Pride will be your doom.           

In the dark silences of her absence — when, despite how he attempts to ignore it, the fate of the world turns his heart to grief — he knows:

       No matter the decision,        the choosing costs everything.

 viii.

It ends in disaster, as all things do, the slow arrow of his mistakes finally plunging through him. Lavellan deserves more; her birthright is the future he unwittingly stole. So he holds her as his heart outside his chest and builds a wall between them, closing himself so that this time she cannot reach into the abyss within and call him back. He cannot accept the desolation of the world he would consign her to — a slaughter of the present as well as the past.

He is cold and still as winter, as the frost that chokes the last green life from the world.

       This is what it means to be alone, he thinks,

              and Despair whispers back:

                    Here is where the dread will overwhelm you.                                Here is where you build the end of the world.           

 ix.

When he leaves, he sheds the self he has built like a second skin. He has failed through subtlety and subterfuge, too long he has faltered at the edge of the things that must be done. He told himself for years he was simply a person: not a symbol, no longer a revolution. His hesitation has made him now into something harsher: a reckoning.

He re-shoulders the burden of the world, and begins the work.

       Endure, Fen’Harel tells himself:        This is what it means to be a god. _________________________________________________________ Thank you for reading! This work can also be found on AO3.

[spicywarl0ck]

happy friday!! for dadwc: “Come on. I’ll show you how to dance”, perhaps with some solavellan?

I think I had this one multiple times in my ask's, and I finally got into the right mood to write something small for @dadrunkwriting This one is featuring Adhlea Lavellan, who is the Lavellan of my fiancee <3

“You look concerned, Lethallan.” Solas had watched her standing up from the small sofa to pace in front of his murals for the third time by now. As he finished the sentence, his eyes were not moving from the old parchment in front of him. 

“What is the matter?” he added in question as he put the quill back into its holder. 

Adhlea paused mid-pacing, brown eyes searching for him swiftly while she chewed on her lower lip nervously. Her cheeks flushed slightly in embarrassment as hands kneaded. It was the first time he saw her so concerned since she was declared Inquisitor.

“It’s nothing.” The lie was weak, her twitching lips indicating she knew as much before a defeated sigh left her lips. 

“It’s about the Winterball,” she admitted after taking a breath to calm herself. “Josephine… well, she told me that I might have to meet some expectations, and I’m… I’m not sure if I can meet her demands.”

“Ah.” he nodded in acknowledgement as he folded his hands together, leaning his chin on them while watching her calmly. “I am certain there is no reason to worry about the politics. With Josephine and Leliana accompanying us, I doubt you have to delve too deep into the game of politics.” Solas answered in a try to reassure her.

“It’s not about the politics…” Her voice was quiet as she spoke, the tips of her ears flushed in a reddish hue. Just like they always did when she was deeply embarrassed.

“What else is it that concern you then, Da’len?” 

“Well, Josephine told me that there was dancing involved and I…” she paused mid-sentence before she chuckled at her own behaviour. “I know some traditional Dalish dances, but… I don’t think they will do a Dalish Harvest Dance in Halamshiral.” Adhlea added, lips twitching as she tried to ease up a little.

“No, I doubt that they even know about that one.” Solas chuckled, a glint in his blueish eyes. He didn’t know that his expression and carefree chuckle made her heart beat just a tad faster in her chest. 

Yet, he did notice her cheeks darkening a bit more.

“There is no need to worry about that. I am certain the ambassador is already looking for a dance instructor for you. She would not throw you into such a situation without diligent preparation.” he answered her in earnest, fingers unclasping before he used his hands to push himself up to stand at the table.

“As for now… I might be able to show you some of the basics. I have… seen court dance in the fade, and you would find me surprisingly proficient when it comes down to the steps.” Solas added with a quirk of his lips as he extended his hand to her.

“Come. I’ll show you how to dance.

[kittynomsdeplume]

I'm not normally one to shout from the rooftops about my own fics, but I happened to re-read this one last night and it was just the perfect dose of Solavellan anguish for me.

Which perhaps seems obvious, I know, since I did write it. I think, being that I wrote it for @noire-pandora, I was a little disconnected from it, but reading it now all these months later I'm able to appreciate it more (probably also because I did listen to Lost Elf non-stop while writing this piece and I needed time to recover 😅).

So yeah dammit, I like it and I'm really proud of it! If you enjoy weeping over the tragedy that is Solavellan, if you have unresolved anger toward Solas, but love him regardless - if you are burdened with the unbearable weight of hope and fear for their love, then I offer this to you.

In The Dark

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 4281 Pairing: Solas/Elluin Lavellan Summary: Twelve months after Corypheus’ defeat, as darkness falls across Skyhold, Inquisitor Elluin Lavellan receives an unexpected visitor in her chambers. Entering her room might have been a simple feat — gaining access to her bed is a more complicated matter.

Preview: Book resting on her lap, Elluin burrows more deeply into the plush pillows propped behind her back. Eyes tracking across the text, she slides her finger behind the page, turning it over with the absent-minded habit of a practiced reader.

Despite being deeply engrossed in the tome, she nevertheless hears the whisper of feet, slinking up the stairs leading to her chambers. Only one person in Skyhold can prowl that quietly, and usually when the mischievous rogue is intending to play some sort of prank.

“I can hear you, Sera!” she calls out, expecting to hear a foiled curse in reply. When the silence persists, she looks up from her book and near jumps from her bed in fright.

“S-solas?” she stammers. Elluin blinks her eyes in disbelief, convinced she must be imagining his figure, half cast in shadow at the top of the stairs.

“Vhenan,” he murmurs and an ache blooms in her chest at the sound of his beloved, long absent voice. She purses her lips, attempting to quell the buried feelings that threaten to burgeon anew within her.

She closes her book, pulling the covers more tightly around her frame — feeling unexpectedly vulnerable with him staring at her, silent and unmoving. He shouldn’t have been able to catch her off-guard like this. Someone should have informed her the moment he set foot in Skyhold again. 

“How…?” she trails off, her brow knitting with confusion.

“Morrigan ought to change the key to her Eluvian,” he wryly states as he approaches, striding to the centre of the room. Her heart begins to beat a frenzied tempo in her chest. Not excitement so much as fear. She has never been afraid of Solas before, but he seems changed. Harder — more imposing. It’s in his bearing, etched upon his features as much as it is conveyed in the lines of his armour.

Continue reading at AO3

[noire-pandora]

Wildflowers for @14daysdalovers​  Also on my AO3

Words:  2410

Warnings: None

Pairing: Solavellan. 

Elluin shivered, goosebumps blooming on her skin as the chilly air of the morning found a way to sneak under her leather armour and kissed her skin. She encouraged the fire in front of her to burn brighter, her magic fueling the flames. 

The morning watch found her yawning as she waited for her companions to wake up and resume their trip back to Skyhold. No matter how exciting the Emerald Graves was, she missed the castle, its corridors and the bedroom it came with. And the double bed. Sleeping in a tent, on the cool, rocky ground, with twigs stabbing her back and neck might have been fun at twenty years old, but now, at thirty-six, she appreciated a good, fluffy bed.

She learned how to enjoy the privacy of her room provided, especially when she shared the tent with Solas. His presence, his body so close to her, kept her up at night, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. The thought of waking up too close to him brought butterflies in her belly.

She huffed, yanking a stick in the fire. The feelings for Solas baffled and thrilled her. She’d be a liar to say she didn’t love the subtle flirting games going on between them or his pleased look when she didn’t back out from their little verbal teasings. 

She found the words dance exhilarating, a welcome break from all the pious and polite words the rest of the people threw at her. The people who saw her as the Herald, as the Inquisitor; a being above them, a being who inspired fear and respect. And while Solas showed her nothing but respect, she noticed the thrilling spark of something else in his eyes when his gaze lingered on her face or when his fingers touched her skin, a second too long as he healed her wounds. As the days passed, she waited, convinced those subtle touches would turn into heated caressing. 

Until Wisdom died and Solas disappeared for two weeks. In those weeks, doubt gnawed at her mind. Did she imagine it? Did she invent those signs? Will he leave her with the bitter longing in her heart? Those fourteen days felt like an eternity.

When he returned, she felt the sting of the tears in the corners of her eyes. As she ran towards him, her heart smashed against her ribs, pushing her to hurry, to abandon any restraint and press her lips against his. To admonish him for leaving her alone, for forgetting to visit her in the Fade at night. But Solas’ pained expression stopped her in her tracks. His suffering reflected on his face made her understand the deepness of his sadness. The games stopped, and a distant politeness fell between them.

And now, a week after his return, the loss still affected him, the sadness tugging at the corner of his eyes.  He spoke rarely and only when absolutely necessary. He searched for solitude, and no matter how much kindness and understanding she offered, his polite but cold smile pushed her away. 

She had no idea what to do, and every time she opened her mouth to speak with him, she stumbled on her words. A nagging thought added conflict to that: jealousy. Jealousy on a spirit. She believed the connection between Solas and Wisdom might have been more than a simple friendship. 

The noise of the tent flap opening broke her trail of thoughts. Cassandra emerged from the canvas, yawning. She wore nothing but a linen gambeson; her armour still stashed carefully next to her pillow. She nodded in acknowledgement and headed towards the trees, flexing her fingers. 

Suddenly, she stopped and turned on her heels to look at Elluin. “Inquisitor, what are you doing up? This isn’t your watch but Solas',’” she turned her gaze to search for the elf, but she frowned as he was nowhere to be seen. “Where is Solas?”

Elluin shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” she shrieked, making her way back to Elluin. “Did you not meet with him when you woke up?”

“I did, I did. I told him he can go back to sleep since I was up, but he decided to go for a walk instead. He left an hour ago.”

“An hour ago?” Cassandra threw her hands in the air. “Anything could have happened to him in an hour. “

“Cass, Solas is a grown man,” she explained, rolling her eyes. “He travelled for years on his own. I’m sure he can take care of himself for an hour, in a forest.”

“I know, but sorrow can blind anyone. He has not been himself since he left Skyhold. I will go after him.”

“Wait, I’ll go after him,” she got up from the log she sat on. “You’re in your gambeson, and it will take you at least fifteen minutes to put your armour on. I can find him faster.”

“Are you certain about it, Inquisitor?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m in my armour already, and I can see and hear better in the forest than you. I’ll be fine,” she took a moment to stretch and yawned again. She had no idea how to find Solas, but the thought of a stroll in the forest, alone, brought a smile on her lips.

The twigs snapped under the pressure of her steps, the mix of rotten leaves and mud sticking on the soles of her shoes, hindering her movements, but she was in no hurry. Cassandra exaggerated in her worries, and she knew Solas was in no danger. He survived alone, as an elf and a mage, for more than forty years. She doubted this forest could offer any challenges to him.

The trees surrounded her, giants swaying under the gentle touch of the wind. She stared at them, muttering a small prayer for her ancestor buried under their roots. The soft whispering of the woods brought peace to her mind, all the nagging thoughts about the fate of the word forgotten for a few minutes. The music of a flowing river joined the symphony, its confident bubbling encouraging her to follow its path downstream. She walked next to it, skipping and jumping on the stones scattered on the river’s bank, allowing herself a few moments of playfulness. 

Soon, the river completed the trip, its waters feeding a small, almost oval lake. Rays of lights gleamed across the water, its surface mirroring the blue, cloudless sky. Wildflowers surrounded the lake, the diverse colours of their petals joining the green of the grass, their leaves resting under the warm touch of the sun. A sweet, floral smile tickled her nose, and she took a deep breath in, filling her lungs with their scent. Her muscles instantly relaxed, a wave of relief washing over her. 

She frowned. A crouched silhouette moved in the middle of the flower patch. Her fingers twitched, ready to release her fire magic at the smallest sight of violence. The figure rose from their position, and she sighed with relief as she recognised the person. Solas. She grinned at the image in front of her: his lean, tall figure, surrounded by multicoloured flowers, their leaves touching his legs. She made a mental note to capture the scene on paper. 

“Solas!” she shouted, her voice breaking the peace. “Over here!”

Solas jumped, turning on his heels to face her in a hurry,his face strained. He immediately relaxed at her sight. In his hand, he held a small flower bouquet, the rich colours of the wildflowers contrasting with his pale fingers. A little pang of jealousy crossed Elluin’s mind.

He made his way through the patch of flowers, his feet never stepping on them. A small smile tugged at his lips, his face relaxed and calm. Her heart skipped a beat, his beauty stopping her breath. She stared at him, hardly moving, unsure what to do next. 

“Inquisitor,” he greeted her as he eventually met her. “Did something happen?”

She shook her head to clear her mind. “No. The usual. Cassandra turned into the mother hen once more, and she sent me to search for you. She worried for your safety.” 

He chuckled. The melody of his laugh sent shudders down her spine. 

“Cassandra should not worry about my safety. I can take care of myself.”

Elluin rolled her eyes. “I told her that, but you know how she is.”

“Indeed.”

Silence shrouded them as they took in the beauty surrounding them. Elluin glanced at the flowers in his hands, curiosity nibbling at her mind. She knew he valued privacy, but she had to know who was the lucky soul to receive them. 

“I see you picked up some flowers. Who’s the lucky one?” she grinned in an attempt to ease the air between them and hoped Solas won’t notice her worry. 

He looked down at his hand, his eyebrows furrowed as if he forgot about the flowers’ existence. “Oh,” he acknowledged, raising the bouquet in front of his chest. “I gathered these for you.”

“For me?” she stuttered. “Really?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “You said you wished to make your own flower garden at Skyhold. If you cut their pods and the seed heads and let them dry on wax paper for a few weeks, you can plant them. I cannot guarantee you they will bloom, but you can give it a try.”

Elluin stared at him, a curious expression crossing her face. She opened her mouth to speak a few times, hesitating to find the right words to say. When she spoke again, amazement coloured her voice. “Solas, I talked about that once, with Blackwall, months ago. You didn’t even participate in the conversation. How did you remember it?”

He smiled. “Indeed, but I did overhear the conversation, and I have a good memory. When I stumbled upon this meadow, I imagined you would be happy to take a piece of its beauty back at Skyhold. I apologise if I made a mistake and—”

“No!” she cut him off quickly, stepping closer to him, closing the distance between them. “No, it’s not like that. I’m just surprised you remembered. I want that. I want to take them at Skyhold. Thank you,” she whispered her thanks, a faint blush spreading on her face. 

Her hands reached out to take the bouquet from his hands, their fingers brushing in the movement, but Solas hands still gripped the flower’s stems, his gaze fixed on her face. She looked back at him, forgetting how to breathe. 

“I am the one who should thank you. For your help and kindness.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Help?”

“Yes. You helped me when I needed it the most. When Wisdom was in danger.”

She sighed and looked down at her legs. “I don’t know how much I helped. I couldn’t save Wisdom. They died, and you suffered,” she laughed bitterly. “I wouldn’t call that helpful.”

His long finger gingerly touched her chin, lifting it to look in her eyes again. “Even if Wisdom died, your eagerness to help mattered more than you can imagine. I am in your debt.”

Her thumb softly stroked his knuckles. “Don’t be silly, Solas. I’m sure I’m not the only one who helped you when you need it.” 

His hand left her chin, and he shook his head. “You would be surprised. It has been so long since I could trust someone with my private matters.”

“I see,” she mumbled, unsure how to act next. This was the perfect time to let her heart confess how much he meant for her, but her legs trembled with fear. She gulped down the nod in her throat, but before she could say anything, Solas spoke again. 

“I also want to apologise to you, Inquisitor.”

His words snapped her out from her state. “Apologise? What for?”

“Varric told me how concerned you were for my safety. He said you hardly ate in those two weeks I have been away.”

Her gaze dropped to the flowers both of them held as embarrassment took over her mind. She cursed herself for allowing her feelings to become that obvious. But suddenly she frowned. No, she had every right to be worried.

“I thought you would never come back. I thought you abandoned us,” she whispered. “I thought you hated me for not saving Wisdom.”

“I thought about it,” he said, the words pushing Elluin to stare at him. It was his turn to look at the flowers they still held. “To never return to Skyhold. But then I realised you did everything you could to help, and I couldn’t abandon you right now,” he shifted his gaze back to her face. “I apologized for being away. I needed to find another reason to come back. Something to keep me steady on my feet.” 

His hands left the stems of the flowers to hover above hers, their skin barely touching. He swallowed hard and studied every line of her face as if to memorise them. 

“And?” she inquired, her voice quivering. “Did you find it?” 

Solas smiled and nodded. “I did.”

The answer brought every surrounding sound to a halt, the thudding of her heart against her chest the only noise she could hear. A faint dizziness took over her. Her instinct screamed to move, to say something, anything, but her body refused to listen. Seconds passed, but no words came to her. She saw Solas’ shoulders drop, the intense expression on his face slowly replaced with his usual, calm demeanour. His hands finally left hers and she understood the magic of the moment passed. He left her side, heading towards the forest. She slapped herself mentally for missing the perfect opportunity and the ideal location for a romantic confession. 

“We should get going, Inquisitor,” she heard Solas saying. “Before the Seeker sends a searching party to find us.”

She snorted, shaking her head, and slowly left the meadow, in no hurry to abandon its beauty. The wind caressed the colourful bouquet in her hands, and she smiled at it. She looked up to check if Solas watched her, but he slowly walked away, paying no attention to her. 

She buried her face in the bouquet, the pollen colouring the tip of her nose and her cheeks. Pure happiness took over her as she took a deep breath, the sweet, wild smell tickling her senses. It was the scent of love. The scent of his love. 

[dirthavarens]

more au solavellan thoughts

i really like the idea of solas being more open with mirani after he tells her the truth in crestwood. more open with his feelings, more open about the past, more open with his expressions and love. 

**

i imagine he steals her away from camp in the middle of the night in the exalted plains to climb some rock formation (because of course now he’s going to use his magic nearly to its fullest and bend the earth around him to essentially form a staircase). she giggles and marvels at his magic, wondering if she can do the same. that’s for later. 

for now he wishes to show her the sky as only he can see it. when blue and black meshed with soft wisps of emerald and gold. when the fade didn’t ooze like an infected wound, but coursed through reality like blood in her veins, air in her lungs. 

certainly they can do this at camp, but he likes the quiet and so does she. not to mention there would be the prying eyes of curious guards and scouts.

no, it’s best to do this away from others, where only they exist. they talk and study the sky, occasionally become distracted by one another, until she falls asleep on his chest. when she “wakes” it’s into the world as he knew it. even in dreams, the sweet song of magic is everywhere. it blooms around her, rippling like waves on a pond. in this version of the fade, they are free and her magic is boundless. 

**

cole always has more to say when mira knows the truth. he’s happier, freer than before. as a spirit of compassion it’s good to see his friend healing despite the hurt. scarring over despite the burning from within. she helps mend his heart, sooth his soul. fen’atisha, he calls her one day while they’re in the frostbacks. “the wolf’s peace” 

cassandra doesn’t understand, though she hardly ever questions cole after he becomes more of a spirit. solas tells him to dismiss the notion, but agrees in his subtle ways. mira takes a liking to the offhanded title. it gives her hope for the future and what is to pass. she tries not to think of his plans; focuses on corypheus and ameridan and the deep roads instead. 

**

their nights together at skyhold are passionate and tender. satisfied bodies lined in sweat with heavy breaths nestling close together under the covers as sweet nothings are whispered between humming lips. 

he always wakes first, a habit from many years in his life before the veil. he watches her as she sleeps, knowing that her dreams are pleasant by the soft smile she wears. in truth, solas could die a happy man if he were to stay there. but there is a burden on his shoulders he wishes to carry alone. he is the lone wolf, the trickster, the heretic. how can he have such an extraordinary spirit with him on such a dark journey? 

he knows he can leave, knows he can turn and run, but his pride won’t allow for such a cowardly move now. not when she’s all but sworn her life to him. hers was a life he would never take willingly, yet she gave it to him anyway. surely the monster he is to become will open her eyes. 

such thoughts plague his mind often, but not often enough for her kiss to taste bitter or her words to sound like sour notes. no, she’s his perfect song. she spins a tapestry of peace and serenity around him, hanging it in the great halls of his too heavy soul. she’s opened the doors and allowed fresh air into weary and ancient bones. a new hope. 

when he eases out of bed, she protests in her sleep, grumbling in elvish as she reaches for him. 

“hamin, vhenan. there is time in the day for us yet,” he’ll coo as sweetly as the doves that gather in the courtyard. she’s content to hear his voice and doesn’t stir further while he dresses. he conjures a fire in place of the ashes that settled earlier in the morning and sets off for the kitchen to gather her breakfast. 

the cook never bothers him as he’s content to stay out of her way as he gathers fruits and breads and cooks up eggs. solas wants to leave the tea out intentionally, but she delights in the abhorrent substance, so it comes along. 

of course there are dignitaries already about in the main hall, trying to gather fresh information about the inquisitor’s private life, but solas can’t be bothered to stop and answer questions or give their idle gossip any purchase. 

a knife-ear inquisitor would want a knife-ear lover, and they’re both mages. why wouldn’t they stay together? after all, birds of a feather. the words roll off of him like water off a duck’s back. 

she’s never woken up to such treatment before solas came about. breakfast in bed doesn’t happen often, but he’s at least certain to bring her a morning tea. he brings her a feast on this morning and she wakes when she hears the door close behind him. his footfalls are careful, practiced, graceful as he ascends the steps. 

“i hoped you still slept,” solas says when he sees her sitting up in bed. she doesn’t bother to cover her bare breasts in his company. unabashed, unashamed, free. 

“planning on eating all of that yourself, were you?” she quips back, not missing a beat even as she stretches. he watches a little too eagerly as her form peeks from beneath the sheets. 

“i thought i could wash it down with the tea once i had my fill.” sarcasm. 

he slides into bed next to her and they slip easily into comfortable silence as they eat. 

the plate and cup are set on the table to be taken downstairs. solas’ clothes again find their way to the floor and he into the bed. 

her giggles turn to soft breaths that turn to his name moaned in delicate reverence.

**

thanks i’m turning that last one into a fic now. tah darlings.

[pikapeppa]

Solavellan smut: Patience

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to @elbenherzart, my smutmate (i.e. smut soulmate)!!! In honour of my beloved friend’s existence, I have made her some PWP featuring voice kink and dom!Solas. 😍😍😍

This also coincidentally matches up with Day 14 of @scharoux​‘s @14daysofdalovers​ prompts:  NSFW. (OBVIOUSLY I was going to jump in on this one because I am garbage.)

Read here on AO3 instead. ~3100 words. OH, ALSO, THERE IS NSFW ART ON AO3 by Elbenherz. GO CHECK IT OUT.

*****************

“Be patient, Nare.”

“I’m trying,” she panted. 

Solas smiled faintly at her. Patience was hardly her strong suit. Which was, of course, why he was asking it of her.

In all fairness, Nare boasted a multitude of other strengths. She was decisive and firm when difficult choices needed to be made – necessary qualities in any good leader. Her mind was sharp and quick, and Solas often found himself simply watching her face while she was thinking, admiring the way her bright blue eyes darted from side to side as though they were tracing the shapes of her thoughts in the air. She was a quick student of magic, absorbing his teachings about the Fade and picking up the dirth’ena enasalin with a speed that would have made the ancient Sentinels proud. 

Yes, Nare was a woman of many fine qualities. But patience was not one of them. 

She was breathing hard through her parted lips, and her palms were flat on his abs: a way to brace herself as she ground herself against his lap. But as soon as her fingers started to slide down toward his unlaced breeches, Solas grabbed her hands. 

“Patience,” he said firmly.

“I-I’m trying,” she whimpered. She twined her fingers with his as she rolled her hips toward him, and Solas forced himself to take a slow and even breath. The silk of Nare’s smallclothes was visibly damp, rendering the slippery fabric even slicker still, and every time she bucked her hips, the feel of the silk sliding smoothly against his shaft was like a call for him to thrust toward her in turn.

With a great effort of will, he resisted the urge. He resisted the siren call of her body and the primal scent of the heat between her legs. Instead, he took slow and even breaths, and he relaxed into the couch and simply watched her as she rubbed herself against him in a rising storm of desperation. 

She bucked her hips again, rubbing her silk-covered cleft along the length of his shaft, and her breath left her lips on a shaky sigh. “Solas…”

“Be calm, Nare,” he told her. “Try to do as I told you. Settle your mind on the feeling. Breathe into it as you move.” 

“But I need more,” she gasped. “I – i-it – it feels…” She broke off with another shuddery breath.

“Go on,” he murmured. “Tell me how it feels.”

“It feels like I need you to fuck me,” she blurted. She bucked toward him again, sending a ripple of pleasure through his cock and down to his thighs.

He released a careful, even breath to calm himself. “That is insufficient, da’len,” he said. “Tell me more of what it is like. Tell me of the sensations that you feel.” 

“Like what?” she whined. “It feels… good. I feel good, but if you touch me, I’ll–”

He interrupted her. “Is it a buzzing sensation that you feel? A constant thrum of thwarted pleasure?”

She arched her spine and let out a shaky laugh. “Are you asking if there are bees in my breeches?” 

He huffed in amusement at her irreverent reference to Sera. When she rolled her pelvis toward him again, he tilted his hips away from her as a tiny punishment. 

She mewled and arched her back again. “Solas, please!” 

He ignored her plea. “Tell me, Nare. Is it a thrumming between your legs, like the beat of a second heart?”

She gasped shakily and nodded her head. “Yes.”

“Does it bear the likeness of a pulse, as though the wanting is swelling to life with every passing breath?” he asked.

“Yes, yes!” she whined.

He gave her a chiding look. “Do you truly feel this way, Nare? Or are you simply agreeing in the hopes of gaining my approval?”

A beautiful grin lit her face, and she broke into a breathy laugh. “No, I’m not! The – the heartbeat, the pulse, that’s…” She strained her hips towards him. “Gods, please, I need you…”

“Focus on that pulse, Nare,” he murmured. “Sink your mind into that sensation, and you will get there on your own.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “You really think I can come just from riding you and barely any touching?”

“I do not think you can,” he said. “I know it.”

She twisted her hips in frustration. “How can you know that?”

“I know your body, Nare,” he said softly. He released one of her hands and stroked her cheek. “More importantly, I know your mind. I know what you are capable of. It not unlike mustering the energy required to form your spirit blade.”

She released another slow breath and rubbed herself against his cock. “Talk me through it. Please,” she begged.

He swallowed hard against another surge of pleasure. “I would be happy to do so,” he said. He slipped his hand around to the back of her neck, then gently pulled her closer and lifted his lips to her ear. 

She was panting already, desperate already before he’d even said a word. Her breathing was a whimper of untamed lust, and the wanton rocking of her hips was fast and uncontrolled, and with every stroke of her silk-veiled cleft, the pulse in his cock was beating just as strongly as the thrum that she claimed was rising between her legs.

He forced himself to relax into the cushions of the couch. Patience, he thought. It may not be Nare’s strong suit, but it was his, and he was fully prepared to use it to his advantage for both their sakes.

He brushed his lips against her ear in a feather-light touch. “Focus on that pulse,” he instructed. “Find the rhythm of it. Move your hips in time with that rhythm.”

 She instantly slowed her frantic bucking to a slow and rhythmic grind, and in the matter of moments, her breathing was growing deeper and steadier too.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now imagine me touching you.”

She moaned and dug her nails into the back of his hand. Solas smirked and continued to guide her. “Imagine my fingers finding that pulse between your legs,” he suggested. “Imagine how it feels to have my tongue sweeping across that tender pulse.”

She dragged in a whimpering breath. “Please, please, I need that…”

He shook his head slightly. “You don’t need it, Nare. You simply want it. You will find your pleasure without my fingers and without my tongue.” 

She whined in frustration, but Solas continued to speak. “Focus on the promise in that pulse. That sharp and beating pulse will grow and blossom when your pleasure peaks. I am certain of this.”

She released a little laugh that was more moan than mirth. “Promises, promises,” she taunted.

He smiled at her sass. “This is an unequivocal promise,” he said. He released her hand and curved his palm over her hip.

Nare gasped loudly, and his cock jerked at the perfect sound. She was so wanton and willing, splayed across his lap wearing only her sodden smallclothes, and as was often the case when they moved together, he was struck by the odd and vertiginous novelty of being wanted this badly. Of being wanted at all, if truth be told. Of being seen not as a god or a monster or the wolf who broke the elvhen race, but as a simple man… 

A bitter twist of gratefulness and guilt squeezed his heart. He had much to appreciate about Nare, the least of it being the sheer unstoppable greed with which she savoured every moment of their sex, but this was no time to indulge in such melancholy. 

He gently tilted her hips toward his cock. “Feel the rhythm as you move, da’len,” he whispered. “Focus on that feeling, and imagine me bringing it forth with my mouth between your legs.”

She gasped and rocked her hips in time with his hand. “Y-yes…”

“You feel it, don’t you?” he asked.

She nodded erratically. “I… please, keep – don’t stop talking.”

He smiled faintly, then carefully slid the fingers of his other hand from her nape to the side of her neck. By the time his fingers were framing her throat in a gentle grip, she was gasping fitfully and grinding her hips toward him, even though his hand on her hip was stopping her from rubbing against his cock with more than a gentle brush of pressure.

He murmured to her again. “I know you can feel it growing stronger. I can hear it in your breath. Are you thinking of my lips between your legs?”

“Yes,” she panted.

“Are you imagining the caress of my tongue?” he asked.

She whimpered. “Yes, yes!”

“Can you imagine the way I will fill you when your pleasure has crested?” he whispered, and he gently squeezed her throat.

She gasped loudly. “Y-yes! Yes, I – fuck, ah!” She broke off with a wild cry, and a convulsive shudder rocked through her body as she came. She arched her spine and thrust her breasts toward him, and Solas shamelessly admired the peaks of her nipples as she twisted on his lap in the throes of the pleasure she’d procured through the power of her own focus. 

“Good,” he said approvingly. “That is very good, da’len.”

She sobbed and stroked his bare chest. “Solas, please…”

Without releasing her throat, he curved the tips of his fingers into the slick crotch of her smallclothes and brushed his knuckle over her swollen bud. 

She cried out again and bucked toward his hand, and Solas nodded. “This is excellent, Nare,” he said. He tugged gently at her smalls. “Take these off now.”

She immediately stood up and shed her smalls, then straddled his lap once more, and Solas watched avidly as she shoved away the fabric of his breeches to fully expose his cock. A heartbeat later, she was clasping his shoulders and spreading her creamy heat over the hardness of his shaft. 

He gasped, thrilled by the sudden blissful warmth. Before he could say anything more or give her any further instructions, she was rising on her knees and grasping his shaft and her hand was so smooth and warm, fenedhis–

She slid down onto his cock in one swift thrust, and he burst out a helpless groan. “Nare…”

“Yes!” she screamed, and a moment later, she was fucking him hard and fast. 

He gasped and lifted his hips, meeting her thrust for thrust for a shining blissful moment, then grabbed her hips and forced her to stop. 

She strained and dug her nails into his collarbones. “Solas, please!” she cried. “Please, please, let me fuck you, plea– Oh gods!” She gasped and shuddered once more, and for good reason: he was rubbing his knuckles softly over her clit. 

She shook her head and sobbed, even as she spread her legs wider to allow the gentle touch. “Please, I need you!” she begged. “Solas, let me fuck you, I can’t wait…”

“You can, Nare,” he replied. “You will come for me once more.” There was a guttural edge to his own voice, and he knew Nare could hear it too, for she strained and twisted even harder with another fitful sob. 

“I can’t wait!” she cried. “I can’t, I can’t, please...”

Her hips were moving still, taking him blissfully deeper with the tiny rocking motions that his grip on her hip would allow, but he forced himself to remain still. “Be patient,” he said – both for her benefit and his. 

“I can’t!” she sobbed. “I need you! I need you so much, Solas, I – I need this all the time, every day, all the time, I – I think about you fucking me and I can’t… I can’t do anything else, I…” 

He ran his knuckle softly over her slick and swollen center. “I know, da’len,” he told her. “In every spare moment, I too find myself thinking about this.” He gazed at the crux of her thighs, the shining evidence of her desire as it graced his body, then lifted his eyes back to her flushed and lovely face. 

“You are far more preoccupying than you have any right to be,” he said softly. 

A brilliant smile lifted her lips. “Sweet talker,” she teased.

He smiled back at her, then released her hip and took her chin in a gentle grip. “Not nearly as sweet as the way you taste,” he purred.

Her smile instantly fell into a desperate gasp. “Gods, fucking Fen’Harel take me,” she mewled. 

Not yet, he thought with a bittersweet pang. A few minutes more, minutes of Nare writhing on his lap and taking her pleasure from his teasing touch, and then she would have exactly what she was asking for, whether she knew it or not. 

He pulled her closer with his hand on her chin and brushed his lips to hers. “Focus and patience, da’len. Place your mind right here.” He stroked her clit in a soft and gentle rhythm.

She nodded furiously. Her breathing evened and slowed, matching the slow and careful slide of his fingers between her legs, and Solas watched carefully as the pleasure flickered across her face.

“Tell me what you need,” he said in a low and coaxing tone.

She drew a tremulous breath. “Ah… I…”

“Do you desire a firmer touch?” he asked.

She bit her lip. “Y-yes, a bit more…?” She broke off with a gasp as he rubbed her clit more firmly, and once again, he forced himself to breathe through the lustful clamour of his cock. 

He brushed his thumb over her lips. “Does this suit you better?”

She nodded again. “Yes, yes!”

“Good,” he murmured. “When you reach your heights, you can have what you want the most.”

She gasped again. “Tell me!”

He raised his eyebrows. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me what I want!” she burst out.

He smirked. “Do you not know?”

She let out a breathless little laugh. “I do, I do, I just – please, I want to hear you say it, please…”

He ran his thumb over her lower lip once more. “You want me to take you as deeply and roughly as the Waking Sea pounds the Storm Coast shore.”

Her lips dropped open on a shameless moan. “Fuck yes, I do,” she whined.

“Then find your pleasure, Nare,” he commanded. “A moment more of patience, and you will have what you want.”

This time, she didn’t reply. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her nails were a sharp bite in his shoulders, and Solas held his breath as he rubbed the delicious little nub between her legs–

She cried out in climax and arched her spine. “Please!” she wailed. “Please, Solas, fuck me!”

And so he did. He grabbed her hips and slammed himself deep, gasping loudly as his own thwarted rapture ratcheted toward him. An instant later, she was riding him with such a furious speed that he could barely catch his breath. 

He groaned. Patience, patience, he coached himself, but it was too late; he’d waited for long enough, holding back his own pleasure with the same force of mind that Nare had used to will her climax forth. At long last, he allowed himself to relax completely into the heated weight of her hips and the slick and heated pressure of her body embracing his eager cock.

She clasped his neck, thrusting toward him with such force that she made the couch creak, and all the while he was gasping, gasping in time with the rising pulse that was thrumming between his legs–

She dipped her head and kissed him hard. Her tongue slid into his mouth in sleek thrust, and Solas came. 

He dug his fingers into her hips and moaned shamelessly into her mouth, and her nails scored his shoulders as she fucked him through the pulsing roar of his climax. A few blinding, disorienting moments later, when his mind was no longer a senseless buzz of ecstasy, Nare peeled away from his lips and pressed her forehead to his. 

“I love you so much,” she panted.

He smiled at her. “Are you certain you are not blinded by your climax?” he teased.

She laughed and pinched his ear. “No! Of course not. I…” She nibbled her lip for a moment before speaking. “That thing you said before. That you know my… body and my mind?” 

He tilted his head quizzically, and she shyly ducked her head and tucked her russet hair behind her ear. “No one knows me like you do, Solas. No one has ever…” She swallowed hard, then lifted her eyes to his once more. “Thank you,” she said seriously. “For, um, taking the time.” 

He gazed at her with a suddenly aching heart. It is I who should be thanking you, he thought. The time that she had taken, time spent in the rotunda with him and walking side-by-side across the continent on their endless journeys, speaking with him despite their occasional disagreements and learning from him despite her long and arduous days dealing with Inquisition business… 

Nare knew him, too. She knew him as Solas, a patient and studious man who studied spirits and walked happily in the Fade. She knew him as Solas, the mild-mannered man who could strip her bare and give her the precise sort of pleasure that her body was starving for. And in moments like this, wrapped in her loving and sweat-laced embrace, he wished from the bottom of his breaking heart that Solas was all he was. 

He cradled her slender neck in his palms. “Ar lath ma, vhenan,” he whispered. “More than I can possibly say.”

She smiled slowly at him, like a sunrise of happiness bursting across her beautiful face, and Solas kissed her once more. He pulled gently at her lower lip with his own, savouring the plumpness of her lip and the needy little gasp that left her throat.   

“Please,” she breathed. “Fuck me again?”

He smiled, genuinely amused by her insatiability. He was still inside of her from the first time around. 

He smoothed his hands over the silken curves of her body until she arched into his hands. “Patience, Nare,” he said. “We have all night.” 

She nodded eagerly. “Yes,” she panted. 

He smiled more widely still, then tilted his chin up and kissed her once again. There would come a day when Solas would curse himself for letting her close, for permitting himself to dip so thoughtlessly into the blissful taste of everything she had to offer. But for now, he would savour her acceptance and her adoration. 

For now, Solas would content himself with teaching Nare a little patience. 

[modernagesomniari]

Fic - ‘That Ocean Carries Everyone’

So the absolutely lovely @siberianspring gave me a prompt for this title, based on the quote from Solas highlighted in the conversation below with Cole.  Babe, I have no idea whether this is what you had in mind, but it gripped me by the metaphorical balls and wouldn’t let me go until it happened.  Thank you, thank you for the prompt!

If you prefer AO3, you can read it here.

~3000 words

(background) Solavellan, Solaveli (My Eli x Solas - Yes, I’m giving them a name of their own I have no shame)

Includes elements of the future, so I guess kind of AU cos we have no idea.  More a ‘what if?’.

R (no particular warnings, but this is a bleak war)

That Ocean Carries Everyone

Cole: You are quiet, Solas.

Solas: Unless I have something to say, yes.

Cole: No, inside. I don't hear your hurt as much. Your song is softer, subtler, not silent but still.

Solas: How small the pain of one man seems when weighed against the endless depths of memory, of feeling, of existence. That ocean carries everyone. And those of us who learn to see its currents move through life with their fewer ripples.

Cole: There is pain though, still within you.

Solas: And I never said that there was not.

*******************************

He walked the Vir Dirthara.

The ancient library was as it ever had been since he had destroyed it; fragmented and heart breaking.  The Archivists that hung in the air taunted him with their ruin, their pitiful attempts to please, to be what they had always meant to be.

He deserved every twist of white-hot guilt that churned in his gut.  He walked this place to feel these things, to remind himself of what he had done, to remind himself of what he had to do.  How could he leave this place the way it was - broken pieces of masonry slavishly responding to whoever was lucky or foolish enough to come across how they were stitched together?  How could he not do everything in his power to heal it, no matter the cost?  Surely it was no greater than what had already had been paid.

As he walked a broken path between packed shelves of books that no longer held pages, he took a breath to steady himself.  He could not lie to himself, not now.  If he was to do what he had set out to do, he must do it with his mind and eyes open.  Do not shirk from the pain he will cause, do not close his eyes against the suffering of thousands for what he believed to be the right cause.  To do so would be to become what he had fought against for Ages.  He would not be so.

So he admitted to himself, as a shadow of a child laughed and scampered around a stack of historical tomes, that he came here for solace.  For reassurance.  If one tempered and honed the mind, one could experience the memories here like they were one’s own (and if he avoided those memories that the Archivists seemed to assume he wanted to see lately, in those places where he had spent the time to paint, to wallow and to agonise, he could not be to blame, not when he had now chosen his path, reaffirmed his purpose).  So, as he walked, he opened his heart, freed his soul from where he kept it tightly hidden from the people that followed him outside of the Crossroads.  He listened.  He needed it today, of all days.  The Anchor sat new and restless somewhere just below his breastbone.  Her screams still echoed in his ears.  At least they drowned out her words.

In front of this array of religious texts sat a scholar, feverishly writing.  Opening himself to the echo, Solas himself felt the kindling of the fire of curiosity at what he was discovering.  Digging further, he felt the barren ache in his own heart as he left his Bonded bed, his wife cold to his own touch even though he could all but feel the heat of another.  His own identity blurred now, he smiled slightly at the gentle warmth of this man’s child in his arms, the boy surprised by his father’s embrace.  Could feel, too, the steely core of determination behind this father’s delicate affection - he would not be to his son what his own father had been to him.  One life, among many.  Who could dare to judge it unimportant?

Around this corner, now sheer into the abyss with the destruction, a young woman.  Afraid and alone, but this determination tasted like sulphur and  lemons in his mouth - a bitter victory over a mistress who denied her everything.  He could reach in and sample from the first moment this girl felt her mother’s wet kiss on her brow, to the pain on her bottom from the last time her mistress had her brother beat her.  Another life to add to the weight pressed upon him.  Was he being dramatic, putting too much on himself?  Another memory, the same girl.  Fear, blistering and all-encompassing - the sky was falling in, she had only snuck out for a moment, no one would have noticed only the sky was falling in, this didn’t usually happen did it? Mistress would know what to do, where was she, where was anyone?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Please?

He stayed with this girl (Alleria, was her name) until he could feel the area settle, the Archivist beside him like a maternal parasite, soaking up the girl’s history until she became part of this mutated garden of knowledge.  Only when there was nothing left, when the last remaining life of this person was faded into his memory and the memory of the Vir Dirthara, did he move on.

He descended what had used to be a sweeping staircase and moved through an Eluvian to a Nexus.  The Librarian here was newly dead, and he had just enough time to marvel at who might have done it before another memory presented itself, one he hadn’t come across before.

It was a shemlen child, dark skinned with lush, black hair.  He was weeping, a broken apparatus of some sort in front of him and the dim echoes of quiet, disappointed words ringing around his ears.  Solas couldn’t quite tell what the words were saying, but he felt the sharp edge of them like a scalpel at his heart.  Another, later, this boy now a man joltingly familiar, raging at the owner of this voice like a tempest, another young man behind him, half-naked and shamefaced.  Solas felt his own cheeks heat with sympathetic embarrassment and the feeling was almost enough to replace the shock he felt to his bones at what, at who, he was seeing.  Another shift to overwhelming gratitude, as his new friend spoke a elvhen word for a relationship he hadn’t known existed before, another shift that stole his breath and tightened his balls in a rush as he felt silken rope against his wrists and a hot mouth on his chest.  Another memory, newer, his gut hardened into rage and fierce protection, fighting against a shapeless horror within this very library and shamelessly putting a face on it just so he could get it out of his system.  She needed him to be supportive, not vengeful.

The vision left him with chills spreading over his body from the base of his spine.

Dorian.

Of course he had been here.  She had known Solas for who he had been when she arrived, he knew she had been here.  So of course they would have been here, too.  It explained the dead Librarian - they were one of the few groups of people who would have had the power to defeat one.  But he had received the vision like he had received every other vision here.  He had seen punctuations in the life of a mere shadow in the same way that he had seen the life of a man who had lived the way this world had always intended to be.

As was his wont of late, a thought occurred just behind his consciousness.  A place where thoughts could come and stay without interfering with his own self.  A place where they were, if not safe, then contained.  He did not think.  But he did move.

As he walked to the bookshelves opposite where Dorian had forced an imprint of Solas’ own face on the now dead Librarian, the shelves in front of him melted away to reveal another Eluvian.  Finding these secret things was so easy now, the Archivists didn’t even try to stop him.  They hadn’t retained enough of themselves to.  As he walked, he turned his mind to all the memories he had seen just this one day - how many more were within this library, caught in the moment the Veil fell, beyond where the Veil fell?  This was the Vir Dirthara, he could find anyone here, if only their record had survived.  For whatever reason he was putting one foot in front of the other in this particular direction, regardless of the knot of ice in his gut and the blazing, barely contained roar of inferno in his heart, nothing could compare with all of these.  For whatever he felt now, they had felt.  And they were legion.

The place he came to broke his heart, just a little more.  It was humble; there were only the splintered remnants of plain wooden boards, the dust settling amongst the cracks. The musty thickness of air filled with too many books filled his lungs.  This was the most protected of all the Archives.  It was also why the Archivists were so revered and so venerated.

Every book on these shelves hummed.  He could hardly bear to see them, ruined as they were.  No one entered the library without giving of themselves to knowledge.  And Knowledge kept records.  If there were memories left in the library it was because they were caught in the liminal space between occurrence and classification.  Or they had bled out of the books cracked open like wounds, bleeding the life of whomever they belonged to onto the parched wood and through the fissures into the swirling air of the Vir Dirthara until they landed, to be scooped up by anyone who passed.  Row after row, column after column - even if they were damaged beyond repair, there were thousands.  He stood for a moment, breathed in dust and paper and life, let his nostrils fill with the stench of ruin, his gut broiling like he had breathed in the raw decay of a long dead corpse.

That place that had germinated the thought that brought him here stirred and no matter how desperately he tried, not even he could control his own senses.  Far down along the seemingly endless wall of books was a harsh end, a cut off from where he had severed all ties between this place and anything truly living.  Only, where there should be nothing but a tattered, frayed edge of reality, were four new books.  They pulsed with life, garish in their colouring, warped and different in shape and size from any of the others.  But they were there.

He was paralysed with indecision, caught with his mind pinned between what he must be and this place where the shadows of the last three years dwelt.  And howled.

If he turned his head he would see them fully.  If he saw them fully then he would have to see them within their context - as part of this library, broken as it was.  Their lives, their memories, their reality sitting nestled in amongst those that came before like they belonged there.  

But if they belonged there, if they were part of this ocean of life and love and pain, then that would mean things that he could not admit.  At least, not that he could admit and do what needed to be done.

On the other hand, if he didn’t turn his head, then he would not see them.  And if he decided he did not see them, then he was deciding to ignore reality in order to make his own selfish choices easier.  He had fought for so long, so very, very long…

He closed his eyes.  He breathed.  He squared his shoulders.

He turned away.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was Bull the next time.  A hard woman with a heart of wool, that picked up the blocks he had just knocked down, laughing in her joy and pride morphed into larger man, soft around his belly, but his words were like knives in his own mind, rummaging around and slicing at any soft tissue he found until there was nothing but purpose.  How ironic that the only man sitting alone at this bar was a Vint.  How soft his hands, hard like diamonds his words.  How fragile his heart.  Fuck but why did she have to be so damn tiny - hard as a rock in his britches as the dragon above him roared and he heard her yell right back, this could almost be better than sex.  Certainty, obvious enough to make him weep when the bitch offered him a choice, because time was relative here and Solas felt the bone-numbing realisation of parallel Bull had made between the two of them before the Vidassala had ever dared offer him the deal.  He shied away then and pretended he hadn’t.  Fled from the floating feeling of unwanted freedom as Bull and he watched the ship blow, heard the triumphant cries of the men that were only supposed to be his in name.  

The thought chased him through the library until he had stepped out of the Eluvian to the unsettlingly reverent gaze of his people.

Until those men had become more real than the ship.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Varric took him in the middle of watching a pair of scholars make their slow, tantalising way to a tryst between the stacks, fuelled by mutual academic passion.  One moment he was watching them dance shyly around each other and the next it was the woman from Kirkwall and the mage he didn’t like to think about too much for all that he had accidentally come too close to truths this world couldn’t uncover unless…unless…

Only then it was Fenris and Varric was helpless, watching this doomed triad stumble their way towards an inevitable messy end and hoping against hope that the lack of contact he’d had from them all recently meant they were somehow all right.  The weight of feeling in the man was almost too much to bear and yet, perhaps because the last few weeks had not been easy and he had not slept for days, he stood there and took it.  Perhaps, if he accepted enough pain from these shadows of shadows (the four new books lurked restlessly in the back of his mind) he wouldn’t see the fourth.  Let him not see the fourth.  Desperate as he was, he watched Varric bid farewell to his beloved again.  And again.  And again.  It became almost atavistic, he revelled in the echoed heartbreak until he felt dirty and petty.  Then he left.

He didn’t come back for a very, very long time.  He told himself it was because the war kept him too busy.  He certainly didn’t listen to the part of him that told him, brutal in its honesty, that his reluctance to come to this place now was the same reluctance that stopped him from wanting to sleep, to risk that brief couple of moments before oblivion where every ghost you had would come to haunt you.  As if she didn’t do that every turn he made, every manoeuvre he thought he’d used to outplay her.  Every dream he tried to pretend wasn’t real, until he had fallen asleep beside his lieutenant and woken to find her flattered and happy, rubbing up against him because she thought it was for her.

No, he had no intention of coming here again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The bare wood is harsh against his knees as he lets himself fall.  He is hollow, please let him be hollow.  The shadows have grown in their place beside his conscious thoughts, pressing against his mind like rabid dogs.

Children.  She had used children against him.  Seen that there was no chance of evacuation and used the time she’d had to go around every house and bring out the children to play on the green.  She’d stood, eyes frightened, fierce and unmoving as she looked straight at where she knew he and his men were preparing for the Fade-Pillar.  The Pillar that needed the weakening of the Veil under this village and which needed the bodies of the villagers to take what would come through.  He had tried to find another site for it, he had really truly tried.  She had raised her head as if she was looking straight at him.  And she had dared him to cut the children down as they played.

He doesn’t realize his face is in his hands until his fingers press hard enough into the softness of his eyelids he sees nauseating bursts of colour.  The books above him quiver, whatever life is in them shivering in the face of the torment he is confronting them with.  He is numb.  He must be numb.  Something tugs at his consciousness, almost inaudible through the chaos.  Even though it has been months, even though within those months has been enough story to fill a stack of its own, the place in his mind where the shadows dwell remembers.  He knows, without taking his palms from his face, that this place will have moved in response to his need.  Whatever he is trying to desperately to forget is no longer far away at the edge of the bookcase.  There are four of them and he knows if he looks up they will be in front of him on the shelf.  Within his grasp. It cannot not be his need to have them here.  It cannot.  

The fourth book had been the colour of moss in the deep of trees marked by time only in their greatness.  If the embossed gold intricacies of pattern looked like anything he’d recognised from Elvhenan, they had morphed in front of his eyes (that had not looked, had definitely, desperately not looked) into something quite unique.  Her very own.  He sees it in his mind now and he is too tired to make himself decide he hasn’t seen it.  His own voice is loud and unrecognisable in his ears.  Surely only animals make such a sound.

On the patchy grass of the village green, one of the smaller boys had tried to leap frog another and fallen.  An older girl, with dull hair and a gap in her teeth, had come over and taunted him into trying again, carrying him over and then pretending to the other children that he’d done it himself.  Solas had seen it so clearly, like an imprint of them on the world that could never be unseen by anyone who had witnessed it.  No one would write this moment, but it was etched into his gut deeper and more permanent than any ink.

The time for the Fade-Pillar to be brought down had come.  And then it had passed.

He knows he will see moss-green and gold before he looks up.  The four books are still acid-bright in their colour.  So very, very different from what he knows.

He reaches for them.

[himluv]

Transformation

Here’s another Solavellan oneshot, set a week or so after The Rumor. This one, for reasons I can’t really figure out, is very dear to me. I’m really proud of it and hope you all enjoy.

Cassandra was not what one would describe as observant. She was driven. Focused. Once presented with a goal she pursued it, relentlessly. And usually in the most efficient and effective way possible. The Seeker thought in straight lines, rarely pausing to consider more circuitous methods. It was why she was so terrible at the Grand Game.

But after months of traveling with the Inquisitor and Solas, even she had noticed the change in their relationship.

Riallan was not an unfriendly person; her smiles came often and were freely given. But she could be quiet, even seeming shy when meeting new people. She also was not one to touch. She kept her hands to herself even with those she seemed closest with. Dorian, who Cassandra believed to be the Inquisitor’s best friend, was rarely gifted with a hug or brush of her hand.

But with Solas her touches lingered. After a battle, when he’d taken a beating, her hand rested on his arm, her fingers wrapped tight around his bicep, as if with fear. Or perhaps relief. At dinner, when they settled around their campfire, Riallan always managed to find the seat nearest him, and more often than not they sat close enough for her knee to bump his.

These developments were not so startling unto themselves. The two elves had always been close, since Riallan first awoke in Haven a hero instead of a prisoner. What was startling was Solas’ reaction to her.

He smiled more. True smiles that glittered in his eyes and even showed his teeth. His deep chuckle frequently blossomed into full-blown laughter at something the Inquisitor said or did, and his typical stoicism seemed an afterthought whenever Riallan was around. In her presence, he was a man transformed. His intelligence had never been in question, but with the Inquisitor that intelligence sharpened into a wit Cassandra had not expected. His humor was understated, left to interpretation, but she couldn’t deny that, around Riallan, Solas was funny.

And of course there were the conversations that they seemed to think she couldn’t hear. Whispers and innuendo, lingering looks and flushed cheeks. The first time she’d heard such doublespeak between them, she admittedly did not understand. She assumed it was some inside joke, something she simply did not have the context for.

It turned out she was not entirely incorrect.

Now, as she looked back over the past few months, Cassandra’s jaw dropped. She had traveled with them this whole time, had shared a camp thinking nothing of the times the two shared a tent. She blinked, the firelight bright and warm on her cheeks, fighting off the desert’s nighttime chill.

“How long?” She asked.

Riallan looked up from the scroll she was reading and tilted her head. Beside her on the rock, Solas did not look away from his sketchbook. It was a typical evening in the field for them. Even Cole was nearby, murmuring to a nug he’d invited into the camp.

The Inquisitor gave her a confused look. “How long what, Cassandra?”

She blushed and stammered over her words. “How long have you…” She looked pointedly between Riallan and Solas.

Solas looked up then. “Ah.” The pair shared a glance, communicating without speaking, then Solas shrugged.

Riallan looked back to her. “Almost three months?” She looked to him for confirmation and he nodded. “Just after we returned from Dirthamen’s Temple,” she said.

Three months? Three months of travel, of meals and evenings shared, and she hadn’t noticed?

“I’m sorry, Cassandra,” Riallan said. “I thought you knew.”

“Looking back, I should have.” She sighed. “Does anyone else know?”

“I do,” Cole piped up from the edge of the camp.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Anyone besides Cole?”

Solas looked to Riallan, his head tilted and mirth glittering in his eyes. The Inquisitor blushed. “Well, Dorian was first,” she said. “Though I think Varric figured it out before him.”

Dread filled Cassandra’s chest, cold as Storm Coast rain. “Varric knows?”

“Presumably,” Solas said. “Though we have not told him, Varric is observant.” His tone made it clear that he didn’t find the trait endearing.

“Then there’s Josephine and Leliana.”

Cassandra’s eyes widened. “Leliana knows?”

Riallan shrugged. “I assume so. Nothing happens in Skyhold without her knowledge.”

Cassandra sighed. “Anyone else?”

The Inquisitor shook her head. “Not that I’ve told.” She glanced at Solas.

He chuckled. “I’ve told no one, vhenan.”

“You keep using that word,” Cassandra said. “What does it mean?”

Solas blushed, and Cassandra very nearly fell off her seat. He cleared his throat. “It is an elvhen term of endearment,” he said. He did not look at her.

Riallan laughed and rubbed a hand up and down his back. “It means ‘heart’,” she said. “Traditionally, when the Dalish call someone their vhenan, we are calling that person our heart, or the keeper of our heart.”

Solas’ voice was barely more than a whisper when he added, “where my heart resides.”

Riallan beamed at him, the faint pink of the sunburn on her cheeks vanishing into a crimson blush.

Cassandra smiled at the pair. She was happy for them, she realized. The Inquisitor deserved peace and happiness wherever she could find it. If Solas offered that, if he found it in her in return, then, well… That was beautiful.

She groaned with a sudden realization.

“What?” Riallan asked.

“You realize, if Varric knows about you two, he will write about it.”

Solas blanched while Riallan laughed, and as she watched the pair and thought of all their interactions over the past months, Cassandra thought she wouldn’t mind reading that book after all.

[an-egg-broke-my-heart]

Solavellan Hell Art Challenge Day #5: Skyhold

Rating: SFW

Summary: Nolanni deals with the emotional aftermath of Solas breaking up with her, with a little help from Cole and the best friend in all of Thedas, Dorian.

CW: Breakup, depression, panic attacks.

*****

It had been hours now. Hours of sitting on the cold, wet ground with nothing but her thoughts and the slight babbling of the pond behind her to keep her company, and she had no intention of moving anytime soon. 

She didn't understand him. Just hours ago she thought she did, or at least that she could. He had showed her worlds she would have never imagined exploring before she'd known him, taught her centuries worth of lore and history forgotten about her own culture, given body and mind to her again and again. He'd told her he loved her, called her Vhenan, my heart, and then let the sadness that was always in the back of his mind catch up to him. He couldn't tell her why, couldn't explain to her what was so fucking bad about loving her. 

He had given her her home, their home, Skyhold, and now she didn't want to go back. His gifts were nothing more than a tool in this ridiculous game of his, and he did not even bother to explain the rules to her. 

She touched her face, the vallaslin she had refused to let him remove, and wished to the gods that she had never been at the stupid conclave, never been cursed with this mark on her hand. Why couldn't they have given someone else this responsibility? Someone who's emotions didn't cause her to spiral every time a comrade was killed, a battle lost, or a love forsaken. Because here she was, spirling again. She was too trusting and too open, and it was only a matter of time before the Inquisition suffered for it.

No. Those feelings are what make you strong. An angry fist to the sun and a broken heart for the moons. That's what the Inquisition needs, a hand that cares.

She heard Cole's words ringing in her head and looked up, but the spirit was nowhere to be seen. 

"Cole?" She whispered, pleading for his kind soul to appear before her. He could make her forget, make her forget all of it, all of him. 

You do not want to forget, pain makes you stronger. And he is a part of you now.

"Help me forget, Cole!" Nolanni cried. She knew she wasn't thinking clearly, knew she was taking this too far, but she didn't care.

You think its you but it's not. You're so beautiful he says, he hurts an old pain. It's not your fault, it's his.

"Cole!" She stood as she cried out again. He couldn't possibly think that this would make her feel better, quoting Solas' pain as if that would make this any easier for her. She didn't want him to hurt. She still loved him. This thought quenched her anger, a small bucket of water thrown over a large, raging fire, but still offering a bit of calm. Somewhere inside of him, at some point over the past year, Solas had loved her back.

"I need a friend, Cole." She said into the empty cave, hoping he would appear to her. "Not more magic."

A beat.

Your friend will be here soon. I'm sorry, I don't know how else to help.

A whooshing sound signaled Cole's departure and Nolanni fell back to her knees. He'd meant the best, she knew, but his words would not heal her the way he wanted them to. She knew him too well. 

She heard footsteps entering the clearing and looked up, expecting Cole to walk in with something new to say, but it was Dorian. He looked frantic, as if he'd run all the way from camp. 

"There you are!" He exclaimed and he came closer. "Cole said you were hurt, I've been looking all over-" His words cut off as he got close enough to see her red skin, puffy eyes, damp and dirty body. "Maker, what happened?"

Dorian kneeled down beside her and cupped her head in his hands. "It's Solas, isn't it?" His question was gentle, and the scrunching of her face as she tried to hold back more tears was all the answer he needed. 

He sat on the ground and pulled Nolanni into his arms, she buried her face in his chest as he stroked her hair. 

"You just say the word, and I'll kill the bastard." Dorian's tone was reassuring and kind, but she knew there was a truth in his words. 

"No." She whispered back finally, choking on her words as the tears kept rolling down her face. "He left me, Dorian. He has that right." She was starting to sound like herself again. 

"He doesn't deserve you." Anger seeped into Dorian's reassurances this time. "You are the most incredible woman I have ever met, and if he can't see that, then you deserve better." 

He kissed her forehead and held her tighter, a half hour passing before either of them spoke again. 

"I don't want to go back to Skyhold, Dorian. Not right away." Nolanni broke the silence, her tears having ended twenty minutes ago. His comfort and protection had given her time to think, to settle, to rationalize. She would go back to pretending that nothing had happened with Solas. She'd given him space before, and now it was her turn to demand he leave her be. If she was nothing but the Inquisitor to him, it would not be a hard ask.

"No Skyhold then." Dorian declared. "Shall we see where else we can cause mischief?"

She left the cavern holding hands with a different man than she'd entered with, but this one was transparent. This one didnt run from emotions. This one was permanent.

[elfrootaddict]

Now You Know - Chapter 1/8

DESCRIPTION: Experience (my first) Lavellan’s thoughts and feelings during the final cut scene of the Trespasser DLC. Including her experience when she loses the Anchor.

Chapter 1 ¦ Chapter 2 ¦ Chapter 3 ¦ Chapter 4 ¦ Chapter 5 ¦ Chapter 6 ¦ Chapter 7 ¦ Chapter 8

***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***

To all those in Solavellan Hell, 

I have written this to not only express my emotions but to hopefully capture some of yours, too. 

After completing Trespasser, and going through the hell that is the final cut scene, I had to do something. So, to help myself work through it, I’ve written (my first) Lavellan’s thoughts and experiences down during the DLC’s final cut scene.

This is my very first FanFic, so I hope it doesn’t turn out completely terrible. *fingers crossed*

Happy Dragon 4ge Day!

WARNING: Chapter 6 contains a moment of distress and gore. Read with sensitivity and discretion. 

***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***

CHAPTER 1

Lavellan is so close to losing everything.

The Inquisition, her companions and even her own life. But especially…him.

This time, the fight with the Saarath is almost too much for her to deal with. The Anchor constantly needing to be released is distraction enough, nevermind the fact that she keeps asking herself…

Where is he?!

She had enough of this. She needs to get to him before the Viddasala.

Okay. Concentrate. You need to end this and find him.

With all the energy left within her, she breaks the Seerath’s shield using Rift magic. The Seerath is not prepared to counter such magic as it is new and unknown to him - it’s one of Lavellan’s advantages. 

With his shield obliterated, she needs to release enough built up magic onto him which would annihilate him completely. 

Taking too long however would not only kill the Saarath, but it would kill her and her companions as well. Precision and timing is everything here. There would be no second chance.

The energy building up within the Anchor is too much for her. It has never been like this. She is used to the electric shocks when closing a rift, followed buy an unusual warmth and sensitivity at the tips of her fingers. But this time, it was different. 

And it is terrifying.

For the first time since receiving the mark, Lavellan is afraid of her own hand. Her own hand could be what kills her. 

Every cell and nerve feels like they are on fire. While simultaneously being electrocuted. As the pressure begins to rise, her hand starts to expand and swell. It feels like it’s being crushed under immense pressure. Ready to explode. Blowing her all the way to Falon’Din.

“Boss! He’s down!” shouts The Iron Bull from across the way. 

Not yet. I need to be sure this will work.

Lavellan has only enough in her for the basic elemental spells. She traps the Saarath in a dome of electricity shortly followed by a ball of fire. A basic attack but enough to keep him down a little while longer. 

“Inquisitor! Quickly!” cries Dorian while healing Varric from what appears to be a profusely bleeding head wound.

Almost.

Without warning, the Saarath levitates off the ground with arms stretched out, back arched and head tilted. He appears to be in control but also looks like a prisoner in his own lyrium riddled body. As if the lyrium is fighting back for him. He’s entire body lights up and creates a kind of barrier. 

“We can’t touch this guy! Use your mark!” barks Iron Bull.

Now! And then go to him!

Lavellan starts screaming as she sprints towards the Saarath. Their eyes meet. Falling to her knees and using her right hand, she clutches onto her left forearm for support and expels the built up magic inside her. 

It is in this moment when time stands still. While the Saarath is disintegrating right in front of her eyes, she can only hear his voice, “It was not supposed to happen this way. No matter what comes, I want you to know that what we had was real.”

Then everything goes dark and quiet. 

Coming in and out of consciousness, Lavellan finds herself several meters away from where she once was. 

Is it done? Please let it be done. 

Several footsteps come running towards her.

“Inquisitor! Are you alright?” cries Dorian while rushing to her side.

“Boss! Did you see what your mark did? You really kicked that guys ass! Boom!” shouts Iron Bull and proceeds to wipe away at his arms and shoulders. “I might still have some of him on me though.” And promptly cleans his hands onto Dorian. 

“Wha-,” protests Dorian. “Do you mind?!” giving Bull a look that Lavellan has seen him make all too often. 

Leaning down towards the Inquisitor, Varric hands her what is left of his last health potion, “Here, take this.”

Lavellan downs the potion like it is one of Bull’s maraas-lok drinks and takes Varric’s hand. He helps her up while Iron Bull and Dorian exchange a few more innocent, playful insults towards each other. 

Once standing and realising she is alive, she clears her throat and says, “I...I have to go.” 

And without bothering to hear what anyone else has to say about her decision, she pushes through her friends and runs straight towards the eluvian.

Dorian proceeds to run after her but Bull puts his arm out in front of him and says, “Let her go.”

Finding herself in front of this eluvian makes her pause. She needs only a moment. She closes her eyes and can only hear her heart pounding inside her chest. It is beating so fast and her breathing so stressed. The Anchor starts to build up yet again. She is running out of time.

She has made bigger decisions than this. The safety of Thedas has been resting on her shoulders since the Conclave - how could she not walk through this eluvian now? It is so simple. 

And yet, it feels like it is the hardest decision she will ever have to make in her entire life. 

What if she did not like what she finds on the other side? What if his reason for leaving the way he did was in fact, the right thing for him to have done? What if after all this time, she finds herself left with more questions than answers? 

She is so desperate for answers. 

And if he does tell her everything, would he still be the same in her eyes? Would she still be the same in his? 

By the Dread Wolf! Just walk through it!

It has been two years since she heard his golden voice. His eyes. His touch. That damn smile. She would give anything to hear him call her vhenan once more. Just one more time. If that is all she is allowed to have, it is worth risking it all.

I know he will explain. I would walk to the end of the world for him. Var lath vir suledin, vhenan.

Lavellan extends her right hand in front of her and into the eluvian. Breaking through the magical mirror, she steps forward and disappears to the otherside.

[auds-art]

Solavellan AU- Rated E for eventual shenanigans

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xxx

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

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