#and like they did soften some edges... he said 'sorry to the dalish'

[wildfairies]

"solas is ooc" is this why i suddenly find him super hot?

[metalslimes]

Zevwarden week day 1: climate change

im the host of the damn week and im 2 days behind lmao

ao3 link

It was yet another bleak Fereldon night, and their journey to elusive Haven left most of the Wardens travelling companions shivering or complaining.  Most of all the Antivan elf who still sat with his teeth chattering despite being seated by the fire as soon as camp was set.  He tugged his cloak tighter around himself, cursing this country yet again as another breeze blew through the camp.  He had exchanged his preferred leathers and skirts for warmer clothes that still gave him adequate movement during battle, but he felt it did little to protect him from the snowy climate.

Zevran stared at the fire, thinking of the warm Antivan sun; of lounging on the beach and small stuffy apartments in the summer.  He was so lost in his reminiscent longing that he didn’t notice the leader of their group coming to him until a blanket was draped over his shoulders.  Arren sat next to Zevran, wearing his own wolf pelt cloak, though he had not been as quick as Zevran to give up his traditional Dalish armor.

“I don’t know how you do it, my Warden.” Zevran sighed, leaning against the warm body.  “As much as I enjoy staring at your thighs behind that skirt, I would certainly hate for them to freeze off.”  Arren just shrugged, scooting closer.

“I’m used to it.  Cold days and even colder nights outdoors is not uncommon for the Dalish.”

“In Antiva, it rarely gets colder than what your fellow Warden complained was a ‘heat wave’ weeks back.  I fear if he ever were to visit he would pass out from the heat.”

“Unfortunate indeed, seeing as I don’t believe you are strong enough to carry him somewhere cooler on your own.”  Normally Zevran would have a witty retort, dramatically claim offense to such low expectations.  Instead he just shrugged, earning a hum from the Warden.  “Here, hold this and let me see your face.”

From under his cloak Arren pulled a small steaming cup, handing it to Zevran’s gloved hands.  When Wynne had produced a pair of mittens, a scarf, and a warm hat for him, Zevran had practically wept in joy.  To show his gratitude he had lessened his comments about her bosom...for a day or so.  They now protected him from immediately burning his hands as they warmed quickly from the hot tea.  When he took a sip of it he sighed in relief, even if it did burn his tongue a little.

Doing as instructed, he turned towards the Warden, who was rubbing a white salve on his hands.  He cupped Zevran’s face, gently applying the ointment.  Zevran was quick to hide his surprise, instead focusing on the warmth of Arren’s hands, not just for the ice salve or body heat either.  There was something oddly intimate about being this close; about the way Arren slowly rubbed small circles on his cheeks; how he watched his thumb barely skim over the Antivan’s lips; how when he was done he met Zevran’s eye and smiled softly.

“It is not much, though I hope it helps some.”

“Ah, Warden, you know your touch could melt any frozen heart.  Just look at how you have weasled your way into the hearts of our dear Qunari and Witch of the Wilds!”

“Mmhm.  And how would you like to weasle your way into my tent when you are done with your tea?”  He held up a finger, stopping whatever comment Zevran was about to make, though his rare smile did not fade.  “It is far warmer to sleep alongside another, than in your own tent, yes?”

“Indeed!  In which case, I shall continue to be another game for your hunter eyes to catch, for I am not one to turn down sleeping with such a handsome man.  Even if it is for actual sleeping.”  Zevran laughed before taking another drink from his tea.  It was cooling down far too quickly for his liking.  While he finished his drink Arren rose and turned in for the night.  Zevran quickly drank the rest, letting it warm his throat, before he followed the Dalish.

Unfortunately he was not surprised to see the Wardens Mabari curled up in the tent for its own warmth.  Arren took off his cloak, draping it over the dog, then crawled under his blankets.  Fereldons and their dogs…

“Thank you for warming Zevran’s spot Falon’Din, now please scoot over.”  Obediently the dog shifted to have enough room between himself and the other elf for Zevran to lay in.

“You asked the dog to warm a spot for me?”  He put his extra blanket and his cloak on top of their pile for the night to add extra layers, then situated himself between the two.

“I did.  I also asked him to sleep on your other side, instead of at my feet, so you can have body heat on each sides.  What is that shemlen saying?  Like a sandwich?”  Zevran smiled fondly, turning to face Arren, watching the other get comfortable and close his eyes.

“Well thank you, dear Warden.  Your thought and care into making me comfortable is quite touching.”

“Do not let that sentence wander into what else you’d like me to touch.”

Zevran sighed dramatically.  “Only in my dreams then.”  Arren simply hummed in response, wrapping an arm around Zevran’s waist.  Behind him the Mabari exhaled heavily, snuggling closer and quickly falling asleep.  Even the assassin could not help but drift into a comfortable, warm, slumber; sandwiched between the loving touch of his Warden, and their dog.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arren had only been in Antiva for two weeks, but given the circumstances he had yet to be given a tour, or even adapt, and the Hero of Fereldon was not faring well.  Not that he would say so, he didn’t want his Bonded to worry.  Instead he watched Zevran from the shadows as he trained new Crow recruits.  Since becoming quite the menace to the Crow houses, Zevran had gained a decent sized following.  Though most were well trained on the field, some still needed help, and there was always something to learn from each other.

Arren had come to Antiva after clearing up things at Vigils Keep, eager to be by Zevran’s side again.  Now he followed the other elf’s lead and taught some of the ex-crows archery.  However, his heart wasn’t quite in it.  He wanted to help, truly, but he was having a hard time concentrating.  He felt foolish honestly, he was Dalish!  He should be used to working in difficult weather!  Plus Zevran had spent near two years in Fereldon, which was on the opposite end of the spectrum, and was still useful.  Yet here he was, hiding in the shadows, dreading having to step into the court to teach.

When he saw Zevran step inside to deal with some paperwork he sighed and stepped out, taking it as his cue to watch over the recruits.  He was politely greeted by most as he weaved through their skirmishes to those at the shooting range.  He supervised, occasionally looking over the rest of the court to take notes of anyone standing out for Zevran.  He was pulled away from his observations by one of the newer recruits, who had wanted to take up archery despite not having raised a bow before.

“Disculpe, señor, ¿Podría por favor volver a mostrarme?”  Arrens ear twitched, looking down at the...well child.  Zevran had taught him some Antivan over the years but…

“Niño más lento.  Dilo otra vez.”  Slower child.  Say it again.

“Lo siento.”  Sorry.  This time the girl pretended to draw back a bow, raising an eyebrow and speaking slowly. “¿Por favor, muéstrame?”  Please, show me?

“Ah.  Sí.”  He stepped forward, taking the bow off his back.  He walked her through the steps of proper stance and tips for aiming, though when he stared down the shaft of the arrow at his target he frowned.  He blinked hard several times, yet he still couldn’t seem to focus on it.  As his world continued to spin he noticed the weight of his bow making his hand shake, and the numbness in the fingers that drew the string.  Trying to take a deep breath he lowered his bow, stepping back.

“M-Muéstrame lo que haces primero.”  Show me what you do first.  She nodded and stepped up, raising the bow.  His head pounded as he watched her miss the first target and he gently instructed her on how to fix her stance.  He tried giving her tips for aiming but he kept stumbling over his words.  When he started swaying a little she stopped.

“¿Señor Héroe?  ¿Estas bien?”

“Yes- Sí…I just need...”  Arren was unable to finish his sentence however.  As he fell to the floor he heard her yelling for Zevran, then he blacked out.

He woke in a bed, and stared at the ceiling while he waited for his ability to focus and remember what just happened returned.  Said process was interrupted a minute later when someone walked in the room.

“The great Hero of Fereldon, slayer of Archdemons, bested by the Antivan sun.”  Arren lifted his head to glare at the blond elf in the doorway, before laying his head back down and closing his eyes with a heavy exhale.

“I hate you.”  He heard Zevran gasp and close the door as he came further in.

“You wound me, mi amor.  Such cruel things to say to the one who carried you out of harms way to our cool interior.”  Despite his teasing Zevran sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand lightly over Arren’s forehead.  In his warm smile Arren saw the concern he joked around, so he smiled back.

“Ma serannas, ma vhenen.  I’m ok now, though I think I will take the rest of the day off, if that’s alright?”

“Of course mi amor.  In the future do not hesitate to tell me if you need a break, and stay hydrated!  I will recruit someone to be your personal health watch if needed.  Follow you around and fan you, bring you water, a lounge chair in the shade.”  Opening one eye Arren could see the smirk back on his Bonded’s face.  He scowled.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”  Zevran winked, rising to his feet and to the door.  He paused, glancing back at the elf in bed, smile softening.  “Rest mi amor.  I will handle things from here.  And tomorrow, if you are feeling well enough, I will finally take you sightseeing.”  Arren hummed, eyeing Zevran.

“I believe I already am.”  All he got in response was a laugh as Zevran left, closing the door to let his Warden sleep.

[galadrieljones]

A fic commission for @laskulls​. 

Inquisitor Hal Lavellan has a strange dream, in which he is forced to come to some difficult realizations about his life, as well as his relationship with Solas. This takes place during the Inquisition, before What Pride had Wrought.

(Thank you so much, laskull, for giving me the opportunity to write such a glorious creature as Hal. It was a pleasure to work with you. <3 -gala)

Absinthe

Some rooms are fit for Chantry sisters, their golds enveloping and made for storybook days in which childhood is something to cherish. Holding candles among the women and the people who love you—no matter who they are, you are protected from the wilds, the masked evils, the witches who mourn the death of the simple days, when children came into their ovens on the promise of sweets, of their own volition. Some rooms are wintry and sweet, cozy with the scent of balsam. People come and they go, all a family, and even when one is not there, the others know that he will soon return. Everything seems to be made of heavy, soft fabrics, lush but uncomplicated in the way they wrap you tight.

This was a different kind of room, however. Here, there were wolves.

There was red smoke, high in the corners of the ceiling, as if filled with eyes, and it watched him enter. Hal thought he had invited only twenty, maybe thirty to the party, but at some point, the guest list must have gotten away from him, as this was a party of hundreds. Maybe thousands. The chateau was big, and the chandeliers were beautiful, so who knew? There were tables and chairs, all of a cold, steely wood painted blue or painted white. Huge cakes in the shapes of summer animals—a bear, a lion, a serpent. They smelled divine, but they were untouched, as the fountains of champagne and the grand silver bowls of yellow pills, and potions in the punch, spiky and sweet with remorse and seduction. 

Everything untouched and yet everyone around him seemed to be drunk, and getting drunker, and they embraced and hung off of one another like saplings. Some of the women seemed made of sunlight as they touched him. They were warm, and they whispered sweet, melancholy nothings with their breath that smelled of absinthe.

Hal had never tried absinthe. He liked alcohol in small quantities, though he found the effect dizzying. In this one simple sense, moderation suited him. But absinthe—was that an alcohol, or was that a drug? He couldn’t be sure. He knew people who’d had it before. It was a common drink in Orlais, and once he had been close to Solas who’d been sipping it out of a silver cap at the Winter Palace, and his breath smelled like black licorice after. Hal longed to taste it on his tongue. The effect put him into a daydream. But can you daydream past your regular dreaming? Nobody knows for sure, and so now he was looking around the party, looking for Solas. If this was his party, then Solas had to be there, somewhere. Didn’t he?

Their masks looked like their faces, but their faces looked like their masks. Cole had said something like this—once. Sometimes Hal got lost in the haves and have nots, that which was and that which he only imagined. He found himself at the center of a small circle of people—Orlesians. The word was thick and pink, and he could hear it best in Sera’s voice. These Fereldans and their crass accents, he thought. A man dressed as a fanged beast holding a heavy glass approached Hal then and put his mask back. He was handsome and flaxen, Orlesian and human. He was a great big man, even bigger than Hal, and he had to lean down a little to put his voice in Hal’s ear.

“There are women here, young Inquisitor. They will give you whatever you want.”

Hal blushed and tsk’ed the man. “You know better,” he said. But did he? The man seemed familiar somehow, like one of the noble shits who liked to strut around Val Royeaux, flashing his jewelry. Hal was enchanted, but Solas, he knew, was somewhere. “I must go.”

“Wait,” said the Orlesian. He held Hal by the wrist, gently, but sure. He handed him a glass of something very bright and green. “For you.”

“Is it absinthe?” said Hal.

The Orlesian smiled. His whole mouth seemed to turn up. His face was, at times, rocky. Other times, it was smooth and Hal longed to touch it though he could not locate the reason. “No, no,” said the Orlesian. No, no. “Nothing of the sort, Inquisitor. Look closer.” 

Hal peered deep into the glass. He felt his head fill with mystery. He squinted at the man. “What is it?”

“Chartreuse,” said the Orlesian. “Smell it. Like plants, no?”

Hal thought it smelled like metal. “It must be shit,” he said, and he smirked. “I smell blood.”

The man enjoyed this. The boy was catching on. “I have seen foxes run wild in all of Orlais, Inquisitor,” he said. “None run as wild as you.”

“Is that a theory? Is this your guesswork?”

“I do not wish to impose,” said the man, even as he did. He softened, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He was not a bad man, but he was…motivated. He drew closer, and his breath reeked of cold. “But it is a theory, indeed, one I would hasten to test.”

“In what context?” said Hal.

“This,” said the man.

The man leaned forward, and he kissed him. At first, Hal felt warmth. Invigorated, he let go, and the feeling was good. This was a feeling he could learn to recognize in the long chilly nights of Skyhold. Somebody to take him close? Remind him where he came from. Like a tree that grew up and up until it forgot its roots. They were down there, somewhere. Perhaps an anchor? Then he could go down and be reminded of what they looked like.

But then he heard the cooing of the women, and a strange noise from overhead, and he knew that it was a mistake. This was not right. Clouds gathered to the sound of crumpling paper. But wasn’t this indoors? He felt repulsed. He pushed the man away.

“I’m sorry,” said Hal. “I can’t.”

“Don’t go,” said the man.

But no matter how Hal looked, he couldn’t see the man’s face anymore. His back had turned. Every angle he approached, it was only the man’s back, and then he knew that it was wrong. All of it. This man did not want him. He wanted a fox. So Hal reached for a glass of champagne to dull the edges. A pretty girl had passed, a Dalish elf holding a silver tray, and she seemed nice and knowing toward him.

“Ser Solas waits,” she said, smiling. She was warm, like autumn, and beautiful and young. Just like him. Her smile was pink. “Do I know you?”

“I’m not sure,” said Hal. “You said he waits? Where?”

“Outside,” she said. “In the garden. Are you sure we don’t know each other?”

“Many people think they know me,” said Hal. “They assume.”

“I think I know you from childhood,” she said. She held out her hand. In it, she held a twig. “Mahalen. You used to light the barn on fire.”

This almost made him laugh as he took the twig. What was she talking about? He found his legs with her. She was familiar, in any case. A Dalish girl, but a servant? This did not make sense. She said her name was River.

“River?” he said. “That is your name?”

“Follow me,” she said.

She took his hand.

They went down a long corridor that he could not remember. Candelabras on all sides. This was a chateau he had purchased, with riches he had earned. He should have known this hallway. He should have decorated. There were cobwebs in the corner that disgusted him.

What the fuck was this reverie, anyway?  He longed to get out of there. He followed the girl with a feeling like she was his sister. He wanted her to stop and to give him something, like a hug, or perhaps a flower. They continued down the corridor until they found an old gate made of brass that stretched all the way up to the sky.

“Through there,” she said. And then she told him a secret. It was the secret of his whole life. He would wake up soon and never remember.

Beyond the gate, one after another after another, he saw butterflies. There were thousands. Like onlookers, and the sky was gray. It had begun to snow. Hal saw him.

He wore a strange mask—that of a raven, and he was very tall. And yet, somehow, Hal knew that it was Solas. Standing alone, leaning against the fountain, debonair in a silver tuxedo. Crushed with relief, Hal could feel his heart beating in his throat.

“Solas,” he said.

Hands in his pockets, Solas straightened up as Hal approached.

Hal, still holding that glass of champagne from the Dalish girl named River, glanced down at his shoes. He could feel Solas watching him, though the mask was deceiving. When he was right up close, Hal offered him the glass of champagne.

Solas lifted the mask, pushed it back so that Hal could see. It was him. Only taller, and more beautiful than before. Solas took the champagne and nodded in gratitude. Then, he sipped and surveyed the butterfly garden.

“I heard you had a run-in with a wolf,” he said, glancing. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” said Hal, breathless. “It was nothing. The man was caught over his head. I stopped him.”

Solas smirked into his champagne. “I see.”

“What are you doing out here all alone?” said Hal. “You should come inside.”

“Would you like me to come inside?”

“Certainly,” said Hal. “I don’t seem to know anybody else.”

“You seem to know the serving girl. She is Dalish, is she not?”

Hal glanced over his shoulder. She was nowhere to be seen. “Her name is River,” he said. “I think she might be from another time.”

“I prefer the garden,” said Solas, confident. “The butterflies flock to this place, as if in worship. Spring is near. I can sense your uneasiness, Mahalen. I wish you would tell me the truth.”

“The truth about what?”

“About the wolf inside.”

“Inside?”

“Inside the chateau.”

Hal swallowed some air. Solas was very cavalier and very upright, as a man. He had never been taller than Hal, not until this moment, and yet, for some reason, it seemed he had always been taller than Hal and suddenly, Hal found himself wondering once again at reality and everything that had been stolen from him. “I’m all right,” he said. “Though I could use some comfort, in any case.” He smiled. He tried to appear demure.

“Your drama suits the event,” said Solas, seeing right through him. “I missed you a great deal. The butterflies are pretty, but they are terrible with conversation.”

Hal laughed at this, low, and he blushed hard. The snow was gathering on his eyelashes, though he could barely feel the cold at all. He felt Solas’s hand instead, big and warm inside his own, and very sudden, but casual. When he looked down at their fingers, interlaced, Hal felt his heart grow and burst and the warmth of it catch in his throat. He looked up at Solas, and he said, “Is this on purpose?”

“Of course,” said Solas. Very cool, unconcerned. “I do very little that is not on purpose, Mahalen. Though I wish you would remove your mask.”

“I am not wearing a mask.”

“Not anymore,” said Solas.

Hal looked up at him then, and he felt protected. He did not need a mask here, and Solas lifted his chin to get a better look. Hal could feel his callused palms, wondered what he could have done to make them so rough like that. A mage with rough hands? Hal’s hands were soft. Hal’s hands were untouched until now.

“May I?” said Solas.

“May you what?”

“Kiss you,” he said. “Now that you have removed your mask. Of course, if the answer is no, please just say so. I take only that which is offered to me, and freely given.” He was so sure of himself. So strong, earnest in his request.

Hal shuddered, and his spine whispered away into the snowy landscape.

“Yes,” he said, a whisper.

His mouth was dry. Solas made a small smile, relieved, and then he leaned in and closed his eyes. It seemed to last forever, this moment in-between, but then their mouths touched in a quiet bit of undoing. It was everything, and it was all the world and time come to a halt for Hal. The snowflakes stood still in the air like exploding stars, and a red butterfly perched on Solas’s shoulder as if in possession. Hal felt the kiss deepen and then fade. They parted, slowly. Solas smiled down at him, satisfied and warm, tucking the hair behind Hal’s ear. The touch was slight, but Hal could feel it in his bones.

“It’s a beautiful day,” said Solas then as he glanced around, regarding the greenery where it pressed into the snow. His hand still lingered there, at the cut of Hal’s jaw, and he had tasted like black licorice, thought Hal. Black licorice. Absinthe. At last.

But the sky was coming down. Hal could hardly hear him now as the snow kicked up, or was it the butterflies? Maybe he’d never know, and in any case, he could feel the sunlight melting through the high windows, making a home in his bedsheets where he slept alone.

“When did we get home?” he said. “Solas?”

“Yes, vhenan?”

Awake.

Hal opened his eyes in the quiet of his Skyhold bedroom. It was past dawn, and the ice was melting off the windows like a prelude to summer. He touched his fingers to his mouth, waited for the reminder. Had it been the Fade?

No.

His heart sank. He knew in an instant that it had been simple dreaming, that the man Solas, who he loved desperately but with a kind of abandon that had begun to burn too bright into the void, was not here. Unrequited. Somebody was knocking on the door. This business of his, lurking in the shadows, beckoning him further and further away from the place he came from, it startled him back to reality.

It was Josephine, she said through the door, there to sketch out a social affair with some smug Comtesse from the Imperial Court. He was supposed to be excited, and so that is how he would force himself to appear, but in the space between the wolven specter of his dreams and a kiss from the lover who simply would not love him back, Hal had got lost. Could a dream be so telling, or the face of things to come? He hoped so, and yet he did not. Like all coins, this one had two sides. He pushed the hair off his face, rumpled the expensive cotton of the sheets. One thousand thread count, imported by his own personal request from Val Royeaux. Hal remembered the day they arrived in the mail, wrapped in brown paper and twine, and how he told Solas, all too excited. Solas, however, did not even glance up from his book.

Sheets, is it? he said. They’d been having coffee in the garden, were sitting at a little table with the Chantry sisters showing the children how to plant seeds in the soil.

Not just sheets, said Hal. One thousand threads.

I once slept on sheets spun by Antivan silk worms, he said, though he offered no context as he turned the page. Their threads are so small as to be innumerable. I itched by morning.

What does that mean? said Hal, growing impatient.

Spend your days counting thread, Mahalen, while the surgeons want for gauze in the sick bay. He glanced up. He smirked, but he was very serious. I think you hear me. Do you hear me, lethal’lin?

Lethal’lin. It would be a long time before Hal heard him. For now, Josephine had ceased her knocking and slipped a note under the door. Hal dug his fists into his eyes. Time to wake up. The Comtesse was expecting him at noon.

Proceeds for this commission will be donated to members of the fandom in need. Thank you so much, laskull, for your donation. <3 

Want me to write you something? For more details on commissions, just message me on tumblr, or email me at thegaladrieljones@gmail.com. <3

-gala 

[irlaimsaaralath]

@zanidragon  Thanks for the prompt, and I’m sorry it took so long!  I had to think about it. 

This is based off of Zani’s two prompts ( 2. “I swear it won’t happen again.” and/or 4. “You can’t keep doing this.” from the writing prompts ask) and inspired by a fluffy Inquisition comic with kittens I can no longer find.

Cheers.

Josephine sighed heavily as she leaned back in her chair and pinched the bridge of her nose, “Tell me again how much is missing?”  With the line of her brow drawn low, the cook held up her hand and began ticking items off on her fingers, “Two quarts of milk, a wedge of our best cheese, an almost full spool of butcher’s twine, an apple crate,” and she paused there as she tilted her head thoughtfully, “but the apples were left, and two of my aprons are missing.”  With that, she nodded once and planted her hands on her hips.  “Ambassador, really.  I can’t run a kitchen like this!  Things just go missing and I ne-,” the woman trailed off when Josephine raised a hand and offered an appeasing smile.  “I assure you that I will look into it.”  The cook offered a haughty hrmph and nodded before turning on her heel and departing.  The Antivan puffed out a big sigh as she sat up straighter and pulled a sheaf of parchment from one of the many piles on her desk.  Missing apple crates weren’t exactly at the top of her list of important matters to which she needed to attend.

*

Though the intrusion of sunlight had woken her an hour ago, Niyera was still snugly tucked in bed with Solas, though she was unable to find her way back to sleep.  There was so much to do today, and she wasn’t especially thrilled for any of it.  First thing, of course, there was the war room, then, afterwards, Josephine had arranged for a meeting with some noble patriarch from Orlais that was visiting Skyhold.  Once that was finished, she owed Cassandra some time to discuss the Seeker disappearances, and she had also sworn to Scout Harding that she would inspect some new recruits with her.  None of this taking into account the pile of paperwork languishing on her desk.  With a grumbling sigh, she pulled the covers up over her head and scooched back against Solas, who responded by draping an arm around her waist.  She had just begun to settle in when she felt an odd pressure shift the pillow near her head.  The surprise of it made her jerk, and a misplaced elbow into Solas’s stomach roused him from sleep with a mumble of accusation.  

She shushed him with a quiet shhhh, and suddenly the pressure moved, became four tiny points on her cheek.  A tiny mew found her ear, and in her unreasonable excitement to pull down the covers, she accidentally elbowed Solas again.  “Vhenan...what is so important tha-,” and his words were drowned out by the sudden cooing noises Niyera was making.  The elf abandoned any hope of more sleep and opened his eyes to find the Inquisitor cradling a small grey kitten in her hands.  “Solas,” she whispered with delight, “Look.”  She turned the creature to look at him, and one brow lifted when it mewed at him.  “I see.  Where did it come from?”  Depositing the creature on her chest, it sat for a moment as if confused, then toddled on wobbly feet over to Niyera’s face and head-butted her chin.  The smile that broke out onto her face told Solas all he needed to know; it didn’t matter where it came from.  It was staying where it was.  He shook his head and tried to suppress an indulgent smirk as he rested his head in one hand.  “Does it have a name?”  Around its neck was a small loop of twine with a torn corner of parchment attached to it.  Niyera read it, then tilted her face to Solas with a grin, “Fade.”

*

Cassandra slumped down onto the edge of her bed, dressed all but for her boots, and propped her elbows on her knees to rest her face in her hands.  She couldn’t make sense of the Seekers’ disappearance.  She couldn’t bear the thought that she might have failed them.  If she had stayed, would it have made a difference?  Could she have intervened in what has happened to them?  “Ugh,” she muttered into her hands before lifting her face.  Perhaps the Inquisitor would be willing to help her see this through.  She had to know.  

The Seeker was still deep in her thoughts as she reached for one of her boots, but stopped short when she saw the thing wiggle.  Just a bit.  Maker’s Grace, if that was a rat…  Cassandra sucked in a breath as she reached for the dagger on her hip.  She was just beginning to pull it free as she tugged on the mouth of the boot, when she heard a soft mewl.  She blinked, hard, and snatched up the boot.  Reaching down into the bottom, she snagged something small and warm and fuzzy, then tugged it out of the boot.  In her grasp, she held a small black and white kitten by the nape of its neck.  Four tiny paws patted the air, and it gave a tiny mew.  Every edge and line of the Seeker’s features softened, and she smiled as she pulled it to her chest.  There was a thin bit of twine about its neck with a scrap of parchment attached that read, “Donnen.”

*

It was late afternoon when Bull retired to the tavern for a bit of a refresher, and his bench gave a plaintive creak beneath his weight as he settled.  Always ready with a tankard for her favorite customer, the red-haired barmaid was quick to bring him a drink, and he accepted it with the same grace he always did, which is to say none at all as he winked and casually licked his lips at her.  Well-satisfied with himself as she walked away giggling, he kicked his feet up on a stool and relaxed.  Or, tried to relax, rather.  It was still weighing on his mind, this being Tal-Vashoth business.  Looking at Krem as he sat across from him now and Dalish as she was on her way back from the bar, he couldn’t imagine having made any other choice.  But, at the same time, he felt adrift, unsure, and those were two things The Iron Bull was not accustomed to feeling.  

All in one breath, he drained his tankard and waggled it in the air to catch the barmaid’s attention, before he rested his arm across his chest and thoughtfully stared into the empty mug.  The scuff of a chair across the floor broke his inspection, however, and he looked up reflexively.  Just a drunk standing to leave.  When Krem cleared his throat and said, “Uhm, chief?” Bull looked back to his companion.  The younger man jerked his chin toward the Qunari’s empty tankard, and Bull turned his eyes downward.  A small, fuzzy white face stared back at him, large blue eyes blinking unassumingly.  One corner of Bull’s mouth twitched upward as the kitten lost its grip on the edge of the tankard and fell into it.  When it mewed insistently, Bull plucked it out and sat it in one hand.  The kitten gave a fearsome hiss, and Bull smirked harder.  Around its neck was a bit of twine and a parchment scrap that read, “Charger.”

*

As the Inquisitor went about her day, Solas finished up a few things he was working on and eventually made his way over to the tavern.  In passing, Niyera had mentioned that Josephine had another complaint from the cook about missing supplies and food, and with the sudden introduction of kitten Fade this morning, he thought he had a decent idea who was to blame.  Solas was even more certain when he passed Cassandra in the courtyard with another of the furry creatures, then saw Bull teasing one with a bit of string as he walked up to the second level of the tavern.  With his hands clasped behind his back, he made his way over to Cole, who was sitting bent over the top of an apple crate.  As he neared, he could see two more kittens, a dish of milk, and a few cheese crumbles in the bottom of the crate atop what looked like a crumpled apron.  “You can’t keep doing this, Cole,” Solas began, but the spirit-boy interrupted as he peeked up from beneath the brim of his hat.  “I found them.  Water like ice, rolled and tumbled in a burlap trap.  Sinking, sinking, so very scared.”  Cole looked back into the crate and prodded a tabby kitten gently with a fingertip.  The ball of fuzz flopped over and attacked the finger with all four feet.  

“But, they’re happy now.  And, the others are happy, too.  Everyone was so tired and sad and unsure.  They made each other better.”  It was always hard to argue these points with Cole.  He was so well-meaning.  Solas leaned down and rested a hand on Cole’s shoulder, “Just stop by Josephine’s office and tell her that it won’t happen again.”  The spirit-boy tilted his head and began to protest, “But, I wi-,” and Solas cut him off with a gesture.  “I know, but it will make Josephine feel better,” he assured Cole, who responded with, “I...swear it won’t happen again,” then looked to the elf for approval.  Solas nodded as he straightened and clasped his hands behind his back again.  “Exactly thus.  And take her a kitten.  The tabby one.  That’ll help, too.”  Before he could turn to leave, Cole was gone, and he could practically hear the Ambassador’s excited squeals from here.

[peachhpunch-blog]

I Owe You Nothing

There she was and there he was and past him was an eluvian standing tall, slim, and shining. Surrounding them were broken stones and whispers of waterfalls, moss and grass and wind, and beyond that, down below in a shallow valley, was a massive fortress full of vines, columns, statues, buttresses, and trees pushing through white marble. Mountains pressed against them all, piercing the pink and orange sky and the ribbons of clouds passing overhead, but Salonna pushed the colors away, the images of a world she had never known. She ignored the dirt between her toes and the birds chirping in the distance because anger was a tunnel vision and all she saw was Solas.

Throughout her journey here, she had done nothing else but think of what she might say or do to him once they had finally met face to face. Would she let her rage get the better of her? Fill her magic into flames and ice until a shard pierced his heart like he had shattered hers? Would she scream and stomp with hot thick tears trailing down her red cheeks? Or would she stand in front of him and let him look at what had become of her, what state he had left her in?

Salonna blinked one eye, the other, an empty socket, hidden under a patch of black leather.

Look Solas. Look what Corypheus took from me.

But before she could say anything, the mark, sick and pulsing, flared against the skin of her hand. It spread wider, pressing against bone and muscle. Fire licked at her nerves all the way up her shoulder as she cried out and buckled under the violent pain. For a heartbeat, she saw nothing but white until, as suddenly as it had come, the pain eased away back down her shoulder into the palm of her hand.

“That should give us more time,” said Solas.

He looked down at her.

Her frown deepened. After all this time, he stilled looked down at her. Her people. Her vallaslin. Her culture. Had she not been so blinded by his strange charm and knowledge, maybe she would not have fallen for him so easily.

She hated it. She recruited and she judged and she ruled just as her advisors, as Cassandra and Dorian and Vivienne had taught her. Salonna was no longer the frightened, stuttering child she once was, the timid, spineless little girl who had let the Inquisition lead her and not the other way around. But now, she was the Inquisition. Salonna put a foot beneath her and stood.

“I suspect you have questions,” he said, and he had the nerve to look sympathetic.

Why, she almost asked, but she was pushed into memories she would rather forget:

Her, confused and shaken by Solas’ sudden anger.

“I begged you not to drink from the Well! Why could you not have listened?”

“W-W-Why are you an-angry, Solas?” she had asked in that soft voice she once had.

“You gave yourself into the service of an ancient elven god!” His nostrils had flared, the way they always had when emotion tried to push through composure.

“W-would you have liked Morr--igan to drink from it instead?”

His shoulders had slumped a fraction. “It would not have been much better that way. She cannot be trusted.”

“Th--en why, Solas?” she had asked again.

Why, why, why.

His expression had softened, lines disappearing between his brows and around his mouth. People yelling had made her nervous, and being nervous had made her stuttering worse. 

“Because then,” he had begun, taking her thin shoulders in his hands, “she would have been at Mythal’s every whim, and you would have been free.”

Her, standing in the middle of jagged walls of stone and stag statues a mile high, rushing water to her back and Solas in front of her. It had been the middle of the night then, fireflies dancing beneath the stars, the smell of spindleweed and dirt and the beginning of morning dew surrounding them, a place that felt like it had been lost in time.

Her skin had tingled when he had kissed her. He had pulled her close and she had hummed into his lips until he had tilted his head away. Eyes still closed, lips still buzzing -- she had wanted more.

“And I am sorry,” he had said. “I distracted you from your duty. It will never happen again.”

Her mind had, had trouble catching up. She had blinked once, twice, until she had fully understood his meaning.

Her voice had broke, heart throbbing in her throat. “Why?”

Other memories sailed before her eyes -- looking up at a sketch of a fresco smudged into the wall and asking why he had chosen yellow, offering him a sip of her tea and asking why he hated the stuff, laying her head in his lap with his fingers in her hair and breath at her ear and asking why she couldn’t stay in the Fade for the rest of her life.

Why, why, why.

So instead, she said, “You’re Fen’Harel. You’re the Dread Wolf.”

Solas nodded his head. “Well done.” He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped forward. Salonna took a step back. A frown twitched at the ends of his mouth, but he stayed put. “The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies... Not unlike Inquisitor I suppose.”

“I am nothing like you,” Salonna spat, throat tight and eye blazing. “Your pride has blinded you, Solas.”

His eyes narrowed, but somewhere deep she could see the pity there. “I am well aware... Well, now you know. What is the old Dalish curse? ‘May the Dread Wolf take you’?”

“Ma harel lasa!” she shouted, losing the little control she had. Anger bubbled in the pit of her stomach. She could feel her body trembling.

“Only by omission,” he tried to explain, tired.

This time, she as the one to step forward, close enough to smell the fur over his shoulder and the iron encasing him. “Ma lasa banal’ghilana! You used me!”

“I only used the Inquisition.”

“I AM THE INQUISITION.”

He flinched, but he tried to pretend like he hadn’t. Salonna had never raised her voice before. Not like this. “What would you have had me say? That I was the great adversary in your people’s mythology?”

“I would have had you trust me!” she practically snarled.

Now she tingled all over like ice melting on her skin. She saw the bend in Solas’s shoulders, how he leaned a fraction towards her, neck twisting around a swallow, and eyes darting around her face. He wanted to kiss her. It was all right there in his posture and expression, wanting to take something he could never have again. But Salonna would rather eat a corpse’s heart than let Solas touch her lips. She met his eyes.

Try it. See what happens.

“I sought to set me people free from slavery to would-be gods,” he said, walking away from her. “I broke the chains of all who wished to join me. The false gods called me Fen’Harel, and when they finally went too far, I formed the Veil and banished them forever. Thus I freed the elven people and, in so doing, destroyed their world.”

Salonna followed behind him, keeping several paces between them. Her eyes followed every movement, every step; she knew Solas could feel her glare on him. Her nails bit into the skin of her palms at the sight of his back to her.

Do not turn your back on me, she thought. Do not underestimate me. Not now when her fists twitched for ice from the Fade.

He stopped at the edge of a cliff where the world fell away into the shallow valley. The marble castle before them was all pointed arches and sharp towers. Some walls had crumbled throughout the ages. Windows had been shattered and stone steps led nowhere. Even surrounded by mountains, it was a ruin that demanded attention. Salonna wondered if it had once been his.

“How did the Veil destroy the world?” she asked.

Solas turned to her. “You saw the remains of Vir Dirthara. The Library was intrinsically tied to the Fade, and the Veil destroyed it.”

“You mean you destroyed it.”

For a heartbeat, something clouded his expression. “Yes.”

Tears burned the corners of her eyes, hot and swollen. But she would not let them fall. She would not let Solas see them. Instead, she reached behind her and gripped her staff tight in her hand. The wood squeaked in her fist. “You destroyed Vir Dirthara. You destroyed any hope for the Dalish to learn our heritage, where we came from. And yet you looked down on us! You scolded us, insulted us! And everything we got wrong was because of YOU!”

“Your legends are half-right. We were immortal. The vallaslin were meant to honor the gods. For everything that was lost to the elves, the Dalish have preserved far more than I could have imagined.”

Salonna spun around with staff in hand, her white blonde hair whipping against her cheek. The anger, again, boiled. Her vision swam with a pounding between her brows. She had to keep control. Her power was no match for the Dread Wolf, she knew, as she looked around at the garden of Qunari statues. The inquisitor took a deep breath. And then another... and then another. Her staff laid limp in her hands.

Finally, she turned to him and said, “So what about the future?”

Solas looked towards the eluvian, its surface swimming and glistening in the pink and orange dusk. “I lay in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages passed. I woke st--”

“Save me the poetics, Solas,” she interrupted with a sharp sweep of her hand. “Tell me your intentions.”

He faced her then, chin high and shoulders square. He was regal and perfect and dangerous, and at that moment, Salonna knew he must be destroyed. He looked down on her with narrow eyes and a hard frown. Something flipped in her stomach -- something frigid and bitter.

Fear. I’m afraid of him. Who wouldn’t be?

“I will save the elven people, even if it means this world must die.”

For some reason, Salonna was not surprised to hear him say this. “I will stop you.”

Solas paused. “I know you will try.”

Her gut turned a sharp cold like a shard of ice. “You underestimate me, Solas. You will not have this world. Not while I am alive. Not whi-”

The anchor flared again. She felt the Fade pull for it, raise her arm above her head and tug her up as her boots dragged against pebbles and moss. Her staff toppled to the ground with a thud. The world went white, then, suddenly, she was on the ground again. When had she fallen? The pain pushed her veins against her skin, searing her nerves, rattling her bones. She cried out, a wet noise that filled the space around them and echoed down the valley. Frightened birds took flight, the mark grew and the Fade jerked, her skin tingled. The Veil was thin and it wanted to devour her.

“The mark will eventually kill you,” said Solas. He was too calm, too polite. He knelt down beside her. “Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you... at least for now.”

Wrapping her hand around her swollen wrist, she could feel her pulse pounding against the pain. She grit her teeth, but she had to let him know. He had to know. “If... I live,” she grunted. “I’m going... to stop... you.”

The Dread Wolf stood up, swift and proud, then took her left hand and said, “I know.”

With a pull of his hand, he manipulated the Fade, yanked it from the mark. The pain subsided, reduce to a dull throb at the center of her palm. Air rushed into lungs as she gasped. Her fingers tips felt numb and green energy still swirled around her arm like wisps of lightening, but Solas had taken her pain away. After everything, he had still shown her the kindness she remembered in Haven, in Skyhold, in Halamshiral and the Dales.

His kindness had shown in the most unexpected ways. The way he had waited patiently for her to finish her broken stuttering sentences. How he had held her hand in caves when she felt suffocated. Giving her nods of encouragement when she had sat on her throne. Holding her tight when she had slept and whispering elven endearments in her ear. He had ushered her into his world with an outstretched hand and a tiny smile and she had been surrounded by everything him -- his spirits and his Fade and his frescos, his brushes and pelts, the tiny ideas scrawled in elvish at the side of his sketches. He had filled her life with him and she had let him, and it had never occurred to her, until just now, that even though she despised him, she was still letting the Dread Wolf control her world.

“I owe you nothing for this,” she hiss.

“And I ask for nothing,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and walking towards the Eluvian. “Live well, while the time remains.”

Solas disappeared into the rippling mirror, and Salonna was left alone with a boiling rage, a scream in her mouth, and one less arm.

[patheticnugbaby]

Change

Thought I was gonna write a sweet little three or five page drabble about their first kiss and I slammed out nine fucking pages AGAIN.

Solavellan first kiss because I wanted to. Have some fluffs.

Adahla opened the new door, finding a short little hall that opened into a wide, rounded room, well lit by evenly spaced torches and braziers along the wall of it. In the middle was a lone desk with a tall-backed chair. Even if it’d been only a few days since the Inquisition’s arrival to Skyhold it was already heaped with papers and books.

“Hello?” She called into the room from the hallway.

“Hello, Inquisitor.” She heard Solas’s voice and allowed herself a smile.

She clucked her tongue as she walked in, “Not used to that yet. I don’t think I like it. ‘Inquisitor Lavellan’ makes it sound like I interrogate people.”

“You will grew accustomed to it, in time.” He replied, just to the right of the door, hand on the stone wall before he turned back to her, “What can I do for you?”

“Well, if you had time I would like to talk for awhile,” She gestured to his desk, “but you look busy. Josephine says I have the rest of the evening to myself, though I’m to expect more work in the morning.” She smiled ruefully, turning to look around the room, “You’ve claimed this room, I’m told.”

“I have something in mind for it,” He said, walking up to her side, careful space between them, “and I do have some time, despite appearances. Was there something in particular you had in mind?”

“I was actually hoping to talk a little more about you, and your studies,” She hoped she hadn’t tacked the last part on too horribly.

Solas smiled in a way that made her think he noticed, “That is... Surprising, Inquisitor. Come, let us talk.” he lifted a hand like he was going to touch her arm but just hovered his hand a few inches away, gesturing to a sofa that was pressed against the wall.

Adahla sat before he did, folding her legs under herself and leaning on the armrest-

She was walking in the snow. It crunched pleasantly under her boots, like it had just barely frozen over the top. A pleasant, crisp wind tugged at her shirt collar, it made her want to unbind her hair. Adahla giggled softly and crouched down, gathering snow in her hands before throwing it out in front of her, turning to Solas with a sheepish little smile.

“Sorry. I’d never seen snow before I came this far south. I love it, even if it’s a little cold.” She wiped her hands dry on her coat.

“You don’t need to apologize, Inquisitor.” He smiled a little wider when she wrinkled her nose at the title, “Is it better or worse than ‘Herald of Andraste’?”

“A little better. At least with ‘Inquisitor’ I’m not directly tied to a human god, or whatever she’s supposed to be for them.” Her left ear twitched, then she squinted her eyes, “Are you avoiding talking about you?”

“You haven’t asked me a question yet, Inquisitor,” He almost smirked, walking a little ahead of her.

“You didn’t say much of where you grew up. Just that it’s a little village in the north.” She followed, running her fingertips along the rough bark of the trees, “Was there really nothing interesting about it?”

“Not really. I did not stay there long,” He paused, ears flicking a little, “Perhaps, had I stayed longer I may have found something valuable in it, but even if I had I would’ve left eventually. There were too many wonders to find.”

“Do you think it’d be possible to see all of them?”

He chuckled, “Not in one lifetime. Not in a thousand, I imagine.”

“Good,” Adahla smiled and took a few skipping steps ahead of him, “After all of this I think I’ll try to find some.”

“After this?”

“If I make half-baked plans for what happens after, should we do the impossible, should we somehow manage to right all the wrongs, stop a false god with an archdemon from the beginning of human chantry tales, it’ll keep me from remembering the very clear reality that all of this may just kill me before it’s over.” She stopped short, putting a hand to her heart, “It should’ve killed me already. Probably twice over.”

“Your heart still beats, lethallan, and this world is better for it.” He set a warm hand on her shoulder, she leaned a little into the comfort of it.

“Yes, I know. Without me you’d all be, oh what did Varric say? ‘Ass-deep in demons forever’?” She smiled a little sadly, looking at her left hand, the bright flash of green that was the Anchor, then shot him a sideways glance, “Or is it because you enjoy my company?”

“Both, actually,” He let go of her shoulder, “though I’m quite fond of your company.”

She blushed a little in the tips of her ears, flicking them a little, “Thank you. I am partial to yours too.”

“I had noticed,” He sounded almost like he wanted to laugh, but he only smiled, “you come by often, usually with an excuse.”

“I’ll have you know I don’t make excuses,” She sniffed with mock indignance, “I just happen to have reasons to see you.”

“Such as?”

“Wondering how you got that little scar on your forehead,” She tapped her own to indicate the spot, he lightly touched it, like he’d forgotten about it. “Your eyebrows tug on it when you frown. Which is a lot.”

His smile softened a little, “These are not happy times, Inquisitor, reasons for cheer are few and far between.”

“All the more reason to smile more, then, don’t you think?” She bent, gathering snow in her hands again, “The world is dark and huge and terrible. If I can make it a little brighter then I’d like to, even if it’s just by giggling at the snow.”

“You have a bright spirit, lethallan. I pray that never changes,” He shot her a wider smile, almost a grin, before turning away and walking up the hill.

Adahla’s lips curled mischievously as she started to ball the snow in her hands. She drew back as if to throw it, the trees seemed to part, revealing Haven, still in the quiet of early morning, the sun shattering through the Breach. She dropped the snowball.

“Haven,” She breathed, a sharp pang in her chest that she couldn’t place.

“This place will always be important to you,” He said, standing at the edge of the trees, waiting, “The beginning of everything.”

“I wish I remembered what happened before,” She admitted, coming up to stand next to him, perhaps a little closer than she should, “but I can’t. Every time I try it’s just me waking up in that cell, this burning pain in my hand.” Adahla held up her left hand, squinting in the light of it.

“Does it still pain you?” His face creased sadly, it made him look much, much older.

“Not often. It hurts when we’re near rifts, when it reacts,” She turned her hand, wiggling her cold fingers, “it stings a while after closing a rift, kind of like when you stub your toes.”

“I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. You didn’t do this.” She gave him a warm grin, lightly touching his shoulder with her fingertips. “I easily got hurt worse than that just being dalish. Getting my vallaslin hurt more than this does.”

He was a little quiet at that, ears twitching a little before he started to walk with her. They entered the hallway before her cell, it was exactly as she remembered it. Dark, dank, cold. Empty manacles in the center of the room. It smelled of mold and old blood and the yellow sourness of fear.

“I sat beside you while you slept. Studying the anchor.” His eyes were fixed on the manacles in the center of the room.

She chuckled, almost nervously, forcing down the memory of waking in this dismal little place, “Must’ve been quick. My hand’s a green torch now, excellent for night reading.”

“No,” He smiled, turning to look at her, “it wasn’t. A magical mark of unknown origin, tied to the Breach? I could’ve taken weeks, if we had the luxury.” He frowned a little, tugging on the scar, “I ran every test I could imagine, searched the fade, yet found nothing. Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn’t produce results.”

“Of course she did,” Adahla groaned a little, covering her face with her hands, “When I woke up she asked me why she shouldn’t kill me now. Honestly I never want to be on her bad side ever again. Do you know how threatening she looks in this light?”

He tilted his head back with another chuckle, almost a laugh, “Yes, I do,” Solas put a hand to her shoulder, leading her away from the little room. “You were never going to wake up,”

“I live to shock you, apparently.” She grinned, gently bumping him with her shoulder, he smiled and nudged her back.

“You did. By all reasoning you shouldn’t have woken up. A mortal sent physically through the fade?” He frowned again, ears pinned close to his head, “I was frustrated, frightened. The spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by the Breach.” He bowed his head a little, one ear flicked, “I wished to help, but I had no faith in Cassandra... Nor she in me. I was ready to flee.”

She chuckled almost derisively, “Where? The Breach threatened everything, everyone, everywhere.”

“Someplace far away where I might research a way to repair the Breach before it reached me,” He smiled, ears pricking forward, as he glanced down a little sheepishly “I never said it was a good plan.”

Solas stepped away, turning to the slow-turning maelstrom that was the Breach. She stepped behind him, nearly close enough to touch. He raised his hand towards the Breach, as though to touch it.

“I told myself: One more attempt to seal the rifts.” He took his hand down, stepping back to her side, still staring into the Breach “I tried and failed. No ordinary magic would affect them. I watched the rifts expand and grow, I resigned myself to flee, and then-”

Boiling green light. The stench of burned and festering flesh on the air. A hand grasped tightly around her left wrist and thrust her at the rift, the hissing of angry, roiling magic thrummed in her ears before it cracked like a whip, throwing her back.

“-It seems as though you hold the key to our salvation.” He had turned back to her now, warm, soft eyes and smile, butterflies in her chest. “You had sealed it with a gesture... And right then I felt the whole world change.”

Adahla blinked, unable to help the heat that crept up on her cheeks and her ears. A little smile, soft and hopeful curled her lips, she shifted her weight to her other foot, left hand on her cocked hip.

“Felt the whole world change?”

“A figure of speech,” He replied smoothly, his ears twitched a little.

“I’m aware of the metaphor,” She took a few small steps up to him, something hot and confident rising in her chest with the butterflies, “I’m more interested in the word ‘felt’.”

“You change... Everything.” He admitted, leaning back as though he was going to try and retreat, then took a small step forward, inches away.

“Sweet talker,” She looked away, a bashful little smile on her lips, butterflies swarming in her, she nearly felt a little nauseous.

Adahla idly noticed that her heart was pounding, it felt so loud she was surprised he didn’t hear. Her ears flicked wildly, she felt like her face was on fire and yet, that warm and powerful feeling washed over her again. She bit her lip, just for a moment before glancing at him. He had just started to look away.

She lunged at him, catching the edge of his jaw with the tips of her fingers and turning his face to plant a soft, hurried kiss on his lips. Adahla pulled away, her cheeks and ears blazing. Her heart thundered in her chest and she turned as if to run.

His hand caught her arm, turning her back to kiss her. She pressed her hands up against his back to press him close, then to hold herself up as his thigh pressed between her legs, prompting a soft mewling sound. She felt his tongue at her lips and she let him in, feeling his hands tighten at her waist and her back, nearly holding her up on his own. He pulled away all too quickly, wet lips and heated eyes. He gave a little shake of his head before he leaned in to kiss her again, her hand laid on his neck, a softer, sweeter kiss before he pulled away again.

“We shouldn’t. It isn’t right. Not even here.” He stepped back, his voice nearly trembling, softer than a whisper.

“What do you mean ‘even here’?” She wanted to reach for him again, hands slightly outstretched to him.

“Where did you think we were?” His smile turned sly as he tilted his head, eyes gleaming.

She took a slow look around, Haven, snow, the Breach, “I’m dreaming? Are you-?”

“I’m real,”

Adahla allowed herself a winsome little smirk, “Good, but this, this isn’t.” she gestured expansively at the town.

“That’s a matter of debate... Probably best discussed after you,” He leaned a little closer, then whispered: “Wake up.”

Adahla jolted awake, ears flicking wildly as she looked around. The round room, the torches and braziers having burned down, dimly bathing the room with an almost red light. She moved her legs, wincing as she felt the tingly not-quite pain of numbness shoot up them. Her eyes went wide, searching for him.

“Sleep well?” He stood up, he’d been in the chair, there was a warm smugness in his voice.

“I’ve never done anything like that before,” She paused, ears flicking, “on a number of levels...”

He chuckled, a warm, content sound before he cleared his throat, lacing his hands behind his back, “I apologize. The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered. I should not have encouraged it.”

Something sharp clenched in her chest and she stood, “Solas, I thought you were, interested in me,” she knit her fingers together nervously, “If I misread you, I apologize.”

“No, you have no need to apologize. I-” He stopped, like he wasn’t sure what to say, “It has been a long time, and things have always been... Easier for me in the fade.” Solas paused, looking down before meeting her eyes again, “I am not certain if this is the best idea. It could lead to trouble.”

Adahla took a moment, wringing her hands a little, “That doesn’t exactly sound like a ‘no’, Solas.”

“It isn’t. I-” He stopped again, ears flicking, “I am... Entirely too fond of you to refuse you outright.”

“Then,” She paused, standing up and walking up to him, keeping a respectable distance, as much as she’d like to close it, “I’m willing to take that chance, if you are.”

“I-” His voice caught, ears flicking forward, then pinned back, the tips tapping his head, “Maybe, yes. If I could take a little time to think. There are... Considerations.”

“Of course, take all the time you need,” She smiled, reaching out with her hands before she pulled back to allow him his space.

“Thank you. I am not often thrown by things which happen in dreams,” He paused, looking down before looking back up to her, “but I am reasonably certain we are awake now, and if you’d still like to talk, I would enjoy your company.”

“I’d like that,” She smiled, tilting her head a little, “you can start by explaining that little scar. You never did.”

“You’re right,” His smile was warm, mischievous, it made butterflies in her chest, “Would you like to sit?”

“Will I fall asleep again? She grinned, playfully nudging him.

He chuckled softly, nudging her back, “Not unless you’d like to.”

She laughed, moving around him to take a seat on the only cleared corner of his desk, “After you explain your scar, would you tell me a story, Hahren?”

“The scar is less interesting than my other stories,” He admitted, taking a seat in his chair, “Is there a story in particular you’d like to hear, lethallan?”

“One I haven’t heard before. One that’ll help me forget that I have to be Inquisitor Lavellan.” She said, turning towards him with a little smile, “Can you manage that, Solas?”

“Only if you promise not to interrupt,” He chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests, lacing his fingers together.

“I would never,” She grinned and leaned forward, lightly tapping the scar on his forehead, “now tell me.”

“Ma nuvenin, lethallan.”

[katalyna-rose]

Vhenan

I rewrote it. It’s so much better now... Read it please! Chapters go up as I finish their rewrites. The original version has been removed, not sorry.

Graphic Depictions of Violence

Solas/Female Lavellan, Fenris/Female Mage Hawke, Zevrain/Female Warden Mahariel

AKA: Lyna/Solas, Fenris/Alie, Zevran/Kahlia

Angst, Fluff, Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Mildly Conon-Divergent, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Minor Isablea/Merrill, Constructive Criticism Welcome

Summary: Solas, the Dread Wolf Fen'Harel, has left Lyna behind in an attempt to fix mistakes made thousands of years ago. Willing to destroy everything for his goals, he doesn't realize exactly how determined Lyna is to show him a better path. Both worlds could thrive, given the chance. Her world is real and valid and deserves a chance, but so does his. There must be a middle ground.

And there is another reason that Lyna must find Solas, a secret kept from the world that attempted to put her up on a pedestal. But how would Thedas react to such a secret, such undeniable proof that their Herald of Andraste is a person like any other? That she is someone who loves, someone who makes mistakes, who bleeds and cries. And is having the Dread Wolf's child.

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Chapter One: A Well of Hope

“I begged you not to drink from the Well!” Solas all but yelled, startlingly angry, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Why could you not have listened?”

“Solas…” Lyna said as calmly as she could manage, hoping to soothe him, though she’d never before been the subject of his wrath.

“You gave yourself into the service of an ancient elven god!” He paced before his latest mural, the blue pigment of the Well of Sorrows reflecting the light of the nearby torch.

She frowned, confused by his wording, wanting, as always, to understand. “What does that mean, exactly?” she asked softly.

He seemed to crumple, a deep sigh leaving him, his anger bleeding into resignation as he said, “You are Mythal’s creature now. Everything you do, whether you know it or not, will be for her.” He stopped and sighed again as he faced her, resignation blending into sorrow that she didn’t understand. “You have given up a part of yourself.”

Ridiculous. She scowled at him, feeling her own temper surge unexpectedly. “You don’t even believe in the ancient elven gods!” His lips thinned as his jaw clenched, anger resurfacing.

“I don’t believe they were gods, no, but I believe that they existed! Something existed to start the legends! If not gods then mages, or spirits, or something we’ve never seen.” He leaned forward aggressively, punctuating his words with a savage gesture. “And you are bound to one of them now.”

Solas stopped abruptly and looked away from her, breathing deeply in an attempt to reign in his temper. Lyna frowned, watching, concerned about him more than she was about herself; she’d never seen him this upset. Mostly, he held himself aloof, calmly observing the world around him without seeming to be a part of it. The little scar on his forehead was being pulled out of shape by his scowl, and she wanted nothing more than to smooth it out and kiss away his fears. But she knew he wouldn’t let her, that he’d pull away and become even more unreachable than before.

He took a deep breath before continuing. “I suppose it is better you have the power than Corypheus.” He met her eyes with an intensity she hadn’t seen before. “Which leads to the next logical question: What will you do with the power of the Well once Corypheus is dead?”

“The war proved that we can’t go back to the way things were,” she told him, thinking of the many dead bodies they’d seen, slain by mages or Templars or caught in between, those left homeless and hungry, those the Inquisition couldn’t save. She even mourned those who had gone rogue, the red Templars and the Venatori; surely somewhere in history if someone had made a different choice they wouldn’t have felt the need to commit the crimes they stood accused of. “I’ll try to help this world move forward,” she said with conviction. Surely something she knew or had seen or had learned from the Well of Sorrows could offer a solution, or part of one.

“You would risk everything you have in the hope that the future is better? What if it isn’t?” Solas asked, strangely intense, as if her answer meant more to him than the question implied. “What if you wake up to find the future you shaped is worse than what was?”

Lyna frowned, trying to read him, to figure him out, and, as ever, coming up empty. “I’ll take a breath, see where things went wrong, and then try again,” she told him.

“Just like that?” he asked, almost incredulous. She smiled a little.

“If we don’t keep trying, we’ll never get it right,” she reminded him.

He returned the smile, suddenly not nearly so upset. The stiff set of his shoulders softened. “You’re right. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You have not been what I expected, Inquisitor.” He paused at her sharp look and amended his statement with a purr, “Lyna. You have… impressed me,” he told her, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And she felt like all the breath had been knocked out of her lungs. She impressed him? She was just a Dalish girl, thrown into the middle of these events by chance. She wasn’t nearly as interesting or impressive as he was. Though he had praised her intelligence and willingness to learn on many occasions, calling it a rare gift, she had always thought she could never compare to the spirits of the Fade he’d introduced her to. It was surreal to hear that he thought so highly of her. She knew he loved her and respected her both as a woman and as Inquisitor, but she knew this was something else, knew the standard to which he compared the world. “You have offered hope,” he continued while she blinked at him, “that if one keeps trying, even if the consequences are grace, that someday things will be better.” He looked away again, though a small smile played on his lips. “Forgive my melancholy. Corypheus has cost us much. The Temple of Mythal did not deserve such a fate. The orb he carries, and its stolen power… That, at least, we may still recover. With luck, some of the past may yet survive.”

She decided it was time to jolt him out of this melancholy, as he put it. So she smiled slyly and said, “You’re being grim and fatalistic in hope of getting me into bed, aren’t you?”

His serious expression remained fixed, but his eyes danced. “I am grim and fatalistic,” he told her. Then his expression broke into a warm smile, eyes teasing. “Getting you into bed is just an enjoyable side benefit.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Just?” she asked, teasing. He chuckled, and held out his hand.

“Come with me, vhenan,” he said, suddenly eager. She took his hand with a smile and let him lead her out of the rotunda, then out of Skyhold altogether. He took her down a winding, narrow path she hadn’t traveled before. It wound down the mountain away from the enormous camp where most of the Inquisition’s people lived and worked and trained.

“Where are we going?” Lyna asked after a while, curious. Solas brought her hand, which he still held in his, to his lips and sent her pulse racing with a gentle kiss on her knuckles. He smiled, no doubt sensing the sudden heat he’d sent shooting through her body. Bastard.

“Trust me,” he murmured, his eyes gleaming with mischief. She swallowed hard, trying to shove down her arousal, and said nothing else as he led her down what she was becoming increasingly certain was a goat trail.

The pink and orange of sunset was fading when she spied a cave ahead. “I didn’t bring my bow,” she told him redundantly; he could obviously see that she was unarmed except for the small knife that never left her person. He chuckled.

“You won’t need it,” he assured her. “Nothing and no one comes this way except for the goats that made this path and the occasional rabbit.”

“And nothing hunts the goats?” she asked archly. He smiled.

“Nothing a little magic cannot scare away.” She sighed dramatically, and he raised a brow in challenge. She said nothing, keeping her chin high in mocking protest. She had no doubt he could keep them safe, but she still enjoyed needling him. He squeezed her hand, enjoying her efforts.

The cave they entered was very dark, but not dark enough that Solas felt he needed to cast light. Water cascaded down the walls with a musical sound, and instead of seeming creepy and ominous as caves frequently did to Lyna it cast an atmosphere of wonder and soft pleasure.

Solas laced his fingers with hers and bumped her shoulder lightly. She looked at him and he gestured ahead with his chin, so she looked. The cave opened just ahead on a moonlit glen. She gasped when she saw a pair of giant statues to Ghilan’nain facing each other on either side of a small pool fed by three narrow waterfalls, the harts’ antlers reaching up as if they would touch the sky. Elfroot grew at the statues’ feet and the water glittered in the moonlight. The area was walled off naturally by stone, the tops too rocky to allow spies or assassins to go unnoticed. The grass was soft beneath her feet, and the musical waterfalls made her want to dance. The flowers that grew here and there added a sweet scent to the strangely warm breeze. Solas squeezed her hand a little, and she squeezed back, smiling at him. A warm look flowed over his face, heating his gaze, and he led her into the glen. They walked slowly, their clasped hands swinging between them, until he stopped not far from the water’s edge.

“The Veil is thin here,” he said softly, touching her cheek gently and sending delicious shivers through her. Can you feel it on your skin, tingling?” He removed his hand, and warm tingles did indeed take its place. She touched her face, enjoying and unnerved by the unfamiliar sensations, then looked up at him. He was so close, the stars sparkling in his eyes. Just a little closer and she could take his lips before he even realized what she was doing. One corner of his mouth turned up a little, and she knew he saw exactly what she was thinking on her face. She was, after all, staring rather intently at his lips. She tilted her head a little to the exact angle that would be best for a kiss, all but begging him to take it.

Instead, he said, “I was trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me.” His thumb moved, caressing her wrist as he held her hand a little tighter, almost as if he were nervous. But that seemed silly; Solas was confident in nearly all he did.

Lyna gave him a small smile. “I’m listening,” she told him. “And I can offer a few suggestions.” She stared hard at his mouth again, taking a breath so that her breasts stretched the material of her shirt taught.

A slight blush delicately colored his cheeks, startling her; Solas never blushed. “I shall bear that in mind,” he said, smiling and refusing to show any sign of being flustered. “For now,” he continued as she smirked at him, “the best gift I can offer is… the truth.” He paused for a moment as if gathering his thoughts. “You are unique,” he told her softly, and it was her turn to blush. “In all Thedas, I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the Fade. You have become important to me, more important than I could have imagined.”

His words, spoken softly with an air of simple truth, as if these sentiments were simple facts of life that he could not and would not change, moved her greatly.

“As you are to me,” she told him when he paused, slightly surprised that her voice didn’t waver as her heart pounded in her chest. He smiled, just a little.

“Then what I must tell you… The truth…” he said, and a shadow passed behind his eyes for just a moment, gone almost as soon as it arrived. He paused, breath in his lungs and mouth open to continue, and she waited. When he seemed frozen, she squeezed his hand gently, encouraging him, and he blinked and then continued.

“Your face,” he said at last. “The Vallaslin.” Lyna resisted the urge to touch the slightly raised sacred tattoos on her face. She wore the symbols of Mythal, the Mother and Protector, and had ever since she had come of age. The dark purple lines depicted branches crisscrossing her forehead and cheekbones into her hairline with a line from her mouth spreading down her chin. “In my journeys in the Fade, I have seen things. I have discovered what those marks mean.”

“She frowned, confused. “They honor the elven gods,” she told him, as she had been told since she was old enough to ask.

“No,” Solas said softly, shaking his head. “They are slave markings. Or, at least, they were in the time of ancient Arlathan.”

Lyna took a half step back, her confusion blending into something approaching horror. “My clan’s Keeper said they honored the gods. These are their symbols.” Please be wrong, she thought desperately. Please let this be the one thing he has wrong.

“Yes,” he told her, soft and sad. “That’s right. A noble would mark his slaves to honor the god he worshipped. After Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot.”

She felt tears gathering and tried to step them. “So this is… what? Just one more thing the Dalish got wrong?” She had learned more about her people with Solas and the Inquisition than she had studying with her Keeper and hahren. She did not doubt his word, had learned long before that he would not say a thing he did not know, without a doubt, to be true, but it sent a knife of pain into her heart. Her people had ever refused to be slaves, to succumb to those who saw them as inferior. They were Dalish because, when the Dales fell, they refused to give in. But this was wrong. Her people should have known.

“I’m sorry,” Solas said, though Lyna wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for her pain, for telling her, or for how much her people were wrong about.

She took a deep, unsteady breath and looked away. “We try to preserve our culture,” she said haltingly, “and this is what we keep? Relics of a time when we were no better than Tevinter?”

With gentle fingers under her chin, he lifted her face so that she would look at him. “Don’t say that,” he told her softly. “For all the Dalish got wrong, they did one thing right.” He smiled, just a little, and it changed his sorrowful and almost guilty look to one of pride. “They made you.” She smiled and gave a watery half laugh. He was just trying to lessen the sting the truth; she knew he didn’t think much of her people and she knew he had just reasons for that. But she had worn slave markings with pride for half her life, had looked on with envy as her clan mates received theirs, and he knew this hurt her.

“I didn’t tell you this to hurt you,” he told her earnestly. She’d known that, of course, that he shared the knowledge simply so that she would know. But the truth was not always kind. “If you like, I know a spell.” Her eyes widened as she guessed where he was headed with this. “I can remove the Vallaslin.” She looked away, and his hand fell away from her face, reluctantly. She took a deep breath and thought about it.

“These marks have been a part of me for so long,” she said slowly. “I don’t know if…”

“I’m so sorry for causing you pain,” he said, and the small hitch in his voice revealed exactly how much her pain affected him. “It was selfish of me.” That got her to look at him. Selfish? He was many things, but selfish? “I look at you and I see what you truly are.” His hand lifted as if he wanted to touch her face again, but he lowered it before he did. She wished he hadn’t; she craved his touch almost like a drug. “And you deserve better than what those cruel marks represent.”

She looked into his eyes and saw with perfect clarity, for the first time, exactly what he felt for her. Though she had known that he cared for her, ar lath ma whispered in her ear on many occasions, the strength of love she saw there in those blue depths was enough to frighten her and make her want to hold him and never let go. His eyes shone with affection and tenderness, and suddenly she felt ridiculous for ever having thought that all his sweet words were not meant with perfect sincerity, with the same intensity that filled every word he said to her. But she was just a woman, Dalish, and her people had been unkind to him. She was only a hunter, her feet firmly in waking though she was slowly learning to shape her dreams. But he was a storyteller of incredible wisdom, and he wielded magic she’d never seen or heard of elsewhere. Coincidence had placed the Anchor on her hand, and necessity had driven her to use it to close the rifts they encountered. Her title of Inquisitor felt more honorary than true to her. She did little without the advice and consent of her advisors and there was so much she had no power to change.

And Solas… He was wise and worldly. He had seen things she could never have dreamed of, had walked the world and the Fade and learned so much more than she could imagine. He was strong and brave, fighting his enemies with a ferocity few could rival. And yet he was compassionate and understanding. He saw his enemies as living people, not merely as obstacles or abstract threats. He had played, and won, an entire game of chess with Iron Bull using neither board nor pieces, only the power of his incredible mind. What could one little Dalish girl be to a man like him?

And yet the truth shone in his eyes. Lyna could be many wonderful things to a man like him, it seemed. And suddenly, with an urgency that nearly staggered her, she wanted it all in a way she had never allowed herself before. She wanted this man before her. She wanted his love and to love him in return. She wanted a life with him. Could that even be possible?

But she had a choice to make, and she would always choose freedom. It was an ideal that was so much a part of her that she had fought against even being claimed by her former lovers, unwilling to tie herself to them. But Solas only ever sought to set her free, and she wanted this. She took a deep breath and said, “Then cast your spell. Take the Vallaslin away.” He smiled, and the love in his eyes shone even brighter, if possible.

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[kestrellavellan]

Time Past - Chapter 51

Rating: Explicit

I posted this on Wednesday for Dragon Age Day.  I hope you all enjoy!

Weekly updates going forward until the story is finished.  Find this fic in its entirety on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423880/chapters/51691594

He woke some time later, the shadows long on the far wall.  One glance to the window told Kestrel it was close to sunset.

Dalish remained snuggled close, soft, deep breaths signaling his sleep.

Sweat and smoke mingled together to create a not altogether pleasant smell from Dalish’s head, but Kestrel didn’t care.  He imagined he didn’t smell pleasant either. Their journey had been difficult and long, but they’d survived so far. Still, he should track down a bath in their near future.

Dorian loved his scented baths, the surface of the water shimmering with the iridescents of the musky oils.  The enticing, exotic scents always clung to his skin afterwards, making him more seductive than usual to Kestrel.  The desire to run his nose along his skin, kissing and nipping along the way, became too strong to resist. So many of their nights of love making had begun with Dorian’s bath.

Kestrel smiled with the memory until he remembered he’d never share such intimacy with Dorian again.

A light rapping on the door immediately raised his alarm, and he reached for his blade tucked under the pillow.

Dalish stirred within the cocoon of his arms.  “Mm...Kestrel? Is everything-?

Kestrel shook his head, silencing him.

Another knock, this time louder, echoed through the small room.

Kestrel climbed over Dalish and silently padded to the door.  Dagger ready, he asked, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Vin, mon ami.”

Kestrel waited for him to continue.

“So cautious.  I understand. I wanted to let you know there’s a hot bath downstairs with your name on it.  For both of you. And supper is just about ready. There’s a crowd in the tavern, so I can bring the food up, if you prefer.  But they’re a friendly bunch. There are no strangers tonight, just locals.”

Kestrel rested his head against the door with a soft groan, all other words ignored after “hot bath.”  Feelings of longing and depression washed over him.

“Are you alright?” Alvinius asked.

Kestrel realized he’d stopped talking too long ago.  “Sorry. It’s just, it’s been so long since I’ve had a hot bath.”

His words were met with an appreciative chuckle.  “Oh, how I understand that. I used to make my coin by hunting before I opened this tavern.  Weeks I’d spend in the woods with only a cold stream to rinse off in. I’ve grown quite fond of a hot bath myself.”

“Wait...you...this is your tavern?”

A healthy, vibrant laugh sounded through the door.  Nothing like Harrier’s cruel laughter. “Why don’t you join me for dinner, and then you can ask me all the questions you want?  I’m an open book. Promise.”

Dalish pushed past him, opening the door.  “Come on, Kestrel! I’m hungry!” he said, already hurrying down the hallway.

Kestrel tried to snag him but was too slow, leaving him alone with Alvinius grinning at him like he was the most amusing person he’d ever met.

“Don’t worry.  I’ll watch over the boy if you want to take a bit longer in the bath than he clearly wants to.”

Still skeptical of his intentions, Kestrel frowned.

Alvinius’ smile eased, gaze softening.  “Or...I can bring you your dinner in the bath, so he can eat near you.”

“Thank you,” Kestrel said, offering Alvinius an appreciative smile that was quickly returned.

***

Dalish squirmed in his grasp, eager to get the bath over with as Kestrel helped rinse the grime out of his hair.

“Mythal enaste,” he muttered under his breath.  “Dalish, I swear if you do not stay still long enough for me to get this dirt out of your hair…”

“But I want to get in the bath!”

“We’re both filthy and need to rinse off before climbing in the tub.  You know this, so stop being stubborn.”

Dalish crossed his arms over his chest, pouting.  At least it kept him still long enough to remove most of the dirt from his hair and clean off his back.

“Okay, okay.  You can get in,” Kestrel said, smiling to himself when the boy scrambled towards the tub and all but leapt in.  It was nice to see him acting like a boy of his age, instead of like the adult he pretended to be.

Kestrel quickly cleaned himself off, the task going much faster without managing a struggling kid.  He climbed in next to Dalish who was already busy soaping himself up.

A soft knock announced a visitor at the entrance of the small washroom.  “It’s me,” said Alvinius. “Is it okay if I enter? I have your food.”

“Yes.  Please,” Kestrel answered.

As Vin walked through the door with a tray full of food, Dalish’s eyes widened with delight before snapping shut, head plunged under water to rinse the soap out of his hair, splashing Kestrel.  He emerged looking a bit sheepish. “Sorry…may I…?”

“Go on,” Kestrel said with a lazy wave.  There was no use getting in the way of Dalish and his food.

Dalish sprang from the tub, threw a towel around his waist, and nearly plowed Alvinius over as he was setting the tray down on a side table.  He didn’t even sit down before he started shoveling food into his face.

Alvinius laughed.  “I remember that age where you’re growing.  You always feel hungry. There’s plenty more, mon cher .  Eat until you’re content.”

“Thank you,” Dalish managed around a stuffed mouth.

As Kestrel watched Alivinius watch Dalish, he noticed his happy smile sour.  Where those tears in his eyes?

Alivinius blinked and quickly wiped at his face, glancing at Kestrel.  “I’ll be back soon. I have some clothes for you to try on,” he said, embarrassment forcing the words out in a rush, before he hurried from the room.

“We’re not going to have to leave here for at least a few more days, right?” Dalish asked, looking at him over a half-eaten loaf of bread.

Kestrel glanced down the hallway, after their departing host.  “I hope not. But I need you ready to go at a moment’s notice, okay?  Eat what you can, da’len .”

Dalish nodded in agreement, returning to the food.

True to his word, Alvinius returned a little while later with an armful of clothes.  He knocked again to announce his presence and waiting for Kestrel to allow him entry.  As he waded into the room, he nearly tripped over Dalish who had created a make-shift bed out of towels and was passed out.  A hearty snore rose from the mass of towels and Alvinius delicately hopped over Dalish. He managed to avoid kicking the boy, and landed within a few feet of the tub.

Kestrel watched him, warm water soothing away the worries of their escape and reminding him of his former, more amiable ways.  “Thank you for your hospitality. It is...unexpected but appreciated.”

Alvinius placed the clothes on the bench, organizing them into two stacks with a big smile on his face.  “You’re welcome, mon ami .  Now, I have some extra clothes that I thought you and the boy could use.  They're nothing fancy, but it didn’t look like you brought much with you.”

Kestrel leaned on the edge of the wooden tub, chin resting on his arm as he continued to watch Alvinius.  A puzzled frown met Alvinius when he glanced back at Kestrel. “Why are you being so kind? You owe us nothing.”

Alvinius froze in his organizing of the clothes, back to Kestrel.  “I suppose that’s a fair question. You have no reason to trust me.”  Pushing the clothes over, he turned around and sat with a heavy sigh, a sad expression on his face.

Kestrel felt the silence was necessary while Alvinius collected his thoughts, so he waited.  The dripping of the water pump on the stone floor filled the room.

“You remind me of myself,” Alvinius finally said, words soft and heavy.  He reached for his sleeve, loosening the tie before rolling it up to his elbow.  Along his forearm was etched a familiar, yet faded marking.

Even though Kestrel didn’t know which House the horseshoe symbol belonged to, he recognized it clearly as a slave brand.  His eyes widened, but before he could speak, Alvinius continued.

“I have a similar tale to yours, although not so successful, I’m afraid.”  His eyes searched Kestrel’s, some internal debate raging on that Kestrel was not privy to.  With another soft sigh, he shut his eyes and started speaking. “My daughter and I managed to escape the family.  A pair of slave hunters followed us south as we ran. They almost caught us a few times. We made it outside of town when they finally reached us, except there was only one left.  I don’t know what happened to his friend, nor do I care. Anyway, he managed to catch us by surprise. He clubbed me over the head and grabbed my daughter. I guess he realized he wouldn’t make it back to Tevinter with both of us.  He left me for dead, but I managed to crawl to this town where the nice barkeep took me in, gave me a job, and left this place to me when she died.”

Kestrel had so many questions, but all he managed to say was, “What a horrible story.  Do you know what happened to your daughter?”

Alvinius opened his eyes finally, finding them full of unshed tears.  “No. I can only hope they didn’t punish her for my crimes,” he whispered.

His heart broke for the man.  To lose his daughter while gaining his own freedom must have been a complicated mess of emotions.

“Please, no pity.  I see it all over you face,” he continued as soon as Kestrel started to protest.  “That was nearly ten years ago. My girl, if she still lives, is no longer a girl.  I gave up hope of finding her long ago.” Forcing a smile, Alvinius slapped his thighs and rose to his feet.  He gathered up Dalish and Kestrel’s discarded rags. “I'll ...dispose of these. Try on the clothes if you like.  If they’re too big, I can have the tailor swing by for some quick adjustments. I’ll see you in the morning.” He didn’t rush out, but he quickly lowered his sleeve back into place before he left the room, the slumped set of his shoulders reflecting he wasn’t quite over the emotions his story had dredged up.

Still, it could be some sob story to draw him in, get him to lower his defenses, just in time to call the slave hunters on them.  They did pay heavily for those that turned in runaways.

“We can trust him, Kestrel.  I believe him, and his story,” Dalish said through a yawn.

Kestrel startled from his thoughts and jerked towards Dalish, not realizing he was awake.

Dalish rubbed an eye, muttering, “Are you getting out of the bath soon?  I’m sleepy.”

“Yes, of course.  Give me just a moment, okay?”

Nodding his head, Dalish started to drift off again.

Kestrel smiled at the sight as he climbed out of the tub.  He felt more at ease and more himself than he had in the past several months, even without Dorian by his side.  Especially without Dorian by his side. Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it around his waist before slipping on an oversized tunic left by Alivinius.  The fabric was inexpensive but soft and well cared for. These were more than just old hand-me-downs.

Leaving the ties loose, he walked over to Dalish and ran his fingers through the boy’s hair.  “Dalish, time for bed.”

“Mm…?” he responded, eyes struggling to open.

Kestrel knelt before him and the boy quickly wrapped his arms around his neck.  “Dalish, Dalish - you’re too big to carry.”

Dalish groaned and let go, stumbling to his feet.

Kestrel managed to maneuver him out the bath room and up the stairs to his room before he crashed again.  He wasn’t far behind, falling into a deep sleep next to the boy.

***

Another nightmare jolted Kestrel awake.  Although it quickly faded from his memory, the vision of a dragon tearing into his gut lingered in his mind, even as he carefully pulled loose from a slumbering Dalish.  He threw on a tunic over his leggings and paced around the room. The walls began to close in around him, but he fought back the feeling of claustrophobia knowing he shouldn’t leave Dalish alone.  Still, his eyes were drawn to the door more often than not on each pass.

With one last glance at Dalish, Kestrel pulled open the door and left the room, swearing he’d only be heading downstairs where he’d be able to keep an eye on the stairway, the only way to get upstairs.  He quietly padded down the hallway and down the stairs into the tavern area.

Vin was busy reorganizing some rare bottles of liquor behind the bar.  He was so focused on his task, he didn’t even notice Kestrel.

It gave Kestrel a chance to study him.  Alvinius’ fiery red hair was loose, cascading down his back in a mess of waves.  As Kestrel watched, he gathered it loosely in his hand, sweeping it off his neck and around the front of his shoulder.  The stretch of exposed skin was pale, much paler than his own. Muscles shifted as he craned his neck to the side, assessing the new organization.  Alvinius was really quite beautiful.

Immediately, Kestrel clamped down on that thought process.  He’d just left Dorian a few weeks back and here he was drooling over the next attractive male he saw.  Angry with himself, Kestrel yanked the barstool out, startling poor Alvinius with the sudden noise.

Alvinius fumbled with the bottle in hand until it slipped from his grasp and plummeted to the floor.  He hit the stone underfoot with a loud crash, shattering and spilling its ruddy contents.

Kestrel froze, feeling extremely guilty for what just occurred.

“You nearly scared the soul right out of my body!” Alvinius said as he spun around.

Kestrel expected to find him angry or upset when their gazes connected, but Alvinius’ face lit up upon seeing him.

“I’m sorry,” Kestrel said, embarrassed still, despite Alvinius’ lack of a negative response.

“Don’t be.  It was an old bottle of brandy, but hardly used.  No one around here drinks that stuff.”  

Alvinus bent down to start picking up the broken glass and Kestrel rushed to his side.  “At least let me help clean up the mess,” he offered, already reaching for a large shard.  The pervasive smell of brandy invaded his senses, filling his nose and leaving a familiar tang on his tongue without even having a drop.  How many times had he kissed Dorian to taste brandy?

“Kestrel…?”

Kestrel blinked hard.  Hearing his name pulled him back to the present.  All he could do was apologize again.

“Come, let’s leave this mess for later.  I have a new cask of spiced wine with our name on it,” Alvinius said with cheer, rising to his feet and offering a hand to Kestrel.

The puddle of brandy and the broken remains of its bottle were too on the mark.  Pulling his eyes away from the mess, he took Alvinius’ hand, finding it warm and rough with calluses, much like his own.  

The elf’s smile widened, fingers squeezing ever-so-lightly before letting go.  Alvinius grabbed a tinted glass bottle from the bar, snagged two wooden goblets to his other hand, and led them over to a table near the stairs.  Giving them both a generous pour, he said, “I’m going to tell you about myself in hopes that it bores you enough to go back to sleep. When you’re ready for me to stop, just hold up your hand.  Until then, I’ll keep talking, and if your glass goes empty, I’ll keep refilling, deal?”

Kestrel wasn’t sure what there was to agree to.  Typically a deal required an ask from both parties, but Alivinius made it clear he had no expectations of him.  He nodded his head, hesitant of a catch, but the elf launched into his tale, starting from as young as he could recall.

Alvinius’ voice was deep and surprisingly soothing.  About two cups later, as Alvinius described the pony his father gave him on his eighth name day, Kestrel’s eyes started to slip shut.  Rather than be rude, Kestrel held up a hand, and just like that, Alvinius stopped talking.

“I’m sorry,” Kestrel said through a yawn.

“It’s quite alright, mon ami .  I don’t sleep as much as I should, so the company was more than welcome.  If you ever need someone to drone on until you fall asleep, I’m your person.  Feel free to come down any night you’re having trouble sleeping.”

***

Kestrel took Alvinius up on his offer nearly every night after that when the nightmares became too much to sleep through.  They discussed all sorts of topics, but never Dorian. Kestrel knew Alvinius was aware of a gap in his past, but he never pressured him to speak about it.

The three of them fell into a comfortable pattern around the tavern, cleaning, cooking, and once word got out a healer was in town, caring for the wounded and sick.  Kestrel kept firm terms that those who needed healing were to come to the tavern, but into the third week, even that rule was loosened.  

News had reached them that there was an old woman who’d fallen and shattered her hip in a neighboring village.  Unable to move, she had no way to come to them. Dalish begged and pleaded while Alvinius remained, for once, quiet, as Kestrel thought about it.  There’d been no threats, no harassment in the town of Nessum, perhaps venturing out a bit further wouldn’t hurt. Besides, Dalish’s puppy-like expression was hard to refuse.

After going over the rules for their excursion, Dalish sprinted downstairs, eager to eat and be off.  Kestrel took a slower approach, making sure he was presentable to the town. He’d been forced naked for so long, it felt good to be able to dress himself even in a simple shirt with pants.  Still, one hand proved annoying when trying to roll-up and pin the flimsy material of his shirt around his missing arm.

“Almost ready?” Alvinius asked from the doorway.

Kestrel greeted him with a warm smile, having grown quite close after all their late-night talks and working days spent in close proximity.  The sleeve unspooled in his hand, and Kestrel was forced to redirect his attention back to it.

Alvinius entered the room.  “Let me help,” he said, stepping closer.

“I can do it,” Kestrel insisted, brow furrowed in concentration.

“I didn’t ask if you could or couldn’t, Inquisitor .  Only that you should let me help.”

“I didn’t tell you of my past so you could tease me with an old title,” he retorted with a playful grin.

“Actually, I have a confession to make. Dalish told me who you were a week before you spilled the beans.”  He grabbed the flailing sleeve and started to reroll it, Kestrel too surprised to protest.

“Dalish…” Kestrel groaned.

“ He’s quite proud of you, you know.  And already has the bar regaled with stories of ‘his friend,’ but I was close to figuring it out myself.  There’s only so many one-armed, attractive Dalish elves with the kind of presence you have, mon beau oiseau .”  Alvinius reached for the pin on the bed.  “Now, mind if I finish what I’ve already started?”  

Kestrel blushed and nodded his head.  There was no point in complaining now, the job was almost done.

“Such a stubborn man,” Alvinius said fondly.  “Glad I could convince you to see reason.” He pinned the sleeve in place.  “There we are.”

“Thank you.  Truly. It’s been a rough journey, but you’ve been so warm and welcoming.  I’ve forgotten what it’s like not to have to treat everyone with suspicion and have my blade always handy.”

Alvinius’ fingers gently grasped Kestrel’s arm, thumb brushing over clothed skin.  “Of course. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, mon beau oiseau .”  He offered a light peck to Kestrel’s cheek before stepping back.  “I’ll see you downstairs.”

Kestrel's heart stuttered with the small expression of affection.  Alvinius was quite fond of them, and each gentle touch calmed Kestrel's paranoid, damaged mind.  Every time a caress wasn't followed with a blow or an insult, Kestrel relaxed just a bit more in his presence.  Alvinius' tenderness was slowly healing Kestrel's mental wounds.  As proof, his nightmares had lessened over the last three weeks.  He'd only had one in the last several days.  So long as the topic of Dorian didn't arise, Kestrel felt more at peace than he had in a long time.  Alvinius was to thank.

And that new name from Alvinius?  It  sounded more intimate that his usual “ mon ami ”.   Mon beau oiseau ?   He’d have to find out what it meant.